Running from Trouble

Running from Trouble
Júlia

It had to be some kind of cruel joke from fate — the man I met in Brotas turning out to be Ricardo Alcântara, Henrique’s cousin.

Going to Henrique’s birthday party hadn’t been in my plans, and honestly, I had no desire to go. But Angel, with her sweet persistence and convincing words, finally got me to agree. I promised myself I wouldn’t stay long.

I went with Cecília and her fiancé, Jaime. Despite my initial reluctance, I had to admit—it felt good to be there, surrounded by friends. Even Henrique, with his usual flirtatious and flashy demeanor, seemed more composed that night, making an effort to be polite.

“Did something happen while we were in the bathroom, Júlia?” Cecília asked, noticing my discomfort.
She knew me better than anyone. But I couldn’t tell her anything just then.
“Nothing,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Henrique was actually polite tonight. No cheesy pickup lines, no drama.”
“Did he mention the job offer?” Jaime asked, catching me off guard.
“What could he possibly say about that?” I replied, raising an eyebrow.

Even from the back seat, I could see the look Cecília gave him — a silent warning.
“If the offer’s still open…” he continued, ignoring it.
“There’s nothing to discuss. I already made it clear I’m not accepting,” I said, my tone sharp.
“I’m sure if you change your mind, he’ll still give you the chance,” Jaime countered.
“Jaime!” Cecília snapped, this time out loud, visibly irritated.
“What’s wrong with telling the truth?” he shot back, frustrated.
“Stop the car. Now,” she demanded, firm.

He didn’t reply, just kept driving in tense silence. When he finally parked in front of our building, he turned to her and said seriously,
“I’d never leave you two on the street. I’m not that kind of guy.”

I got out quickly, not looking back. I didn’t want to make things worse between them.

When I stepped inside the apartment, I felt completely drained. My head was spinning. Everything seemed to be happening all at once. Before meeting the real jerk of my story, my life had been on track. But one choice—one night—was enough to make everything fall apart.

The memory of that night still haunted me. The man I’d danced and drunk with all night had seemed charming. Maxwell Miller. We lived in the same building, and somehow that made me lower my guard. I accepted his invitation to go up to his apartment, believing in the chemistry, the charm, the supposed honesty.

A few days later, I noticed strange looks from the neighbors. The building manager, a kind old man, called me in for a talk and told me what was being said: that I’d slept with a married man—and everyone knew it.

The shame was suffocating. Maxwell was the adulterer, but I was the one taking the blame. The whispers in the hallways grew louder, and even Cecília started talking about moving out.

But what’s worse than making a mistake is repeating it. When Maxwell showed up again claiming he was separated, I wanted to believe him. We went out “to talk,” and I woke up in a motel room, with no memory of what had happened.

Cecília insisted he must have slipped something into my drink, and although I didn’t want to believe it, everything made far too much sense.

Weeks later, I found out I was pregnant. Desperate, I went looking for Maxwell. He offered what he called a “solution”: an abortion. When I refused, he vanished — changed his address, blocked my number, erased me like I was an inconvenience.

Not long after, I fainted at work, fell… and lost the baby.

Cecília was my anchor through it all. But something inside me broke for good. Since then, I’d become colder, cautious, unable to trust any man again.
At least, that’s what I thought. Until Brotas.

Ricardo’s face filled my mind.
Another Alcântara in my life? No—Henrique didn’t count. He wasn’t part of anything I wanted to keep around.
But Ricardo… he was part of something I wanted to forget, even if I couldn’t.

One night. That’s all it took, and yet he lingered in my mind, in my dreams, under my skin.

I got up and went to the bathroom for a cold shower. I couldn’t let myself get caught up in a man like Ricardo. From the way he was drinking that night, he practically had the word Problem written in bold across his forehead.
And I already had enough of those on my own.



I woke up the next morning in pieces.
The night hadn’t just been sleepless—it had been torture. I hadn’t closed my eyes for a second, my mind running wild the entire time.

Cecília hadn’t come home, which probably meant things were fine between her and Jaime again. Even though I was still upset about what he’d said, I didn’t want them fighting because of me.

After washing up, I changed out of my pajamas into a pair of short denim shorts and a bubblegum-pink crop top. It was Sunday, and I was sure Cecília wouldn’t show up today. Another lonely Sunday… and I felt even lonelier.

I rolled my eyes, resigned, and twisted my hair into a messy bun before heading to the tiny kitchen to fix something to eat. The fridge and pantry were nearly empty, which reminded me of another problem—I’d have to go grocery shopping.
But asking Cecília, who was already covering rent by herself, was out of the question.

I sighed. I’d have to dip into what little money I still had left, which only made the knot in my chest tighten.

I was running out of options. Maybe it was time to swallow my pride and accept Henrique’s job offer, like Jaime suggested. Even though working with him sounded like a terrible idea—given how obvious his interest in me was—it was still better than staying adrift.

I was so lost in thought that it took me a moment to notice the doorbell ringing. By the third chime, the sharp sound snapped me out of it.

Who could that be? Cecília had her own key, and we never got unannounced visitors. The doorman rarely buzzed anyone up, which meant whoever it was… was already standing right at my door.

I walked to the entrance and peeked through the peephole. For a second, I thought I was dreaming again.

Ricardo.

Right there. In the flesh… and dangerously good-looking.

Light-wash jeans, a plain black T-shirt, sporty sunglasses — the kind of simple outfit that only made everything worse. Or better.

I felt my face heat up and seriously considered grabbing a magazine to fan myself.

I was in trouble.