Page 100 of That Last Summer

“To my house.”

I nod and head for the window, ready to climb back down the rope, but Alex immediately intercepts me. He grabs my arm and shakes his head. “For the umpteenth time, not through the window.”

“But...” I’m ready to defend the rope ladder that has taken me to his room so many times, but Alex interrupts and stops me.

“Pris, stairs.” He takes my hand, and we go down.

“I don’t want to run into your mother, she must be thinking I’m crazy.”

“You’re wrong, she’s worried. She called your name, Pris. When she came to my room and found you there, she tried to get your attention, but you were crying and didn’t even hear her. She called me right away. And I came.”

I nod once more and, not letting go of each other’s hands, we go downstairs. From the corner of my eye, I see my mother-in-law in the kitchen, but she doesn’t say anything and neither do we. We leave the house without even saying goodbye.

Alex’s car is parked on the curb in front of his parents’ house; we get in and drive off down the hill, passing near the beach since there’s no other way. The speakers are blaring Ace of Base’s “All That She Wants” and the song echoes in every corner of town. It’s funny how these open-air dances are always filled with last-century hits. And since the car windows are down—Alex doesn’t like air conditioning so he always drives this way—the music echoes inside too.

I contemplate the landscape, lost in my world, until I notice Alex rummaging through the glove compartment. When he finds what he’s looking for—a CD—he pops it into the car’s player and ABBA’s “Our Last Summer” starts to play. Alex may have disappointed me in the past, he may even have stopped loving me at some point during our marriage, but what I can’t deny is that he knows me well. He knows just what I need.

We arrive at his house a few minutes later; the gate opens and we go straight into the small garage. When Alex turns the key to turn off the engine, “Our Last Summer” isn’t over yet.

“Can I stay a little longer?” I ask him without lifting my face from the window.

“Sure. I’ll be inside, lock the car when you’re done.”

“Okay.”

After the song’s last line—Living for the day, worries far away—I take the keys out of the ignition and get out of the car. I enter the house with Dark in my arms—he was waiting for me at the car door—and stand in the middle of the huge living room, not knowing what to do. Even though I lived here, years ago, the house feels strange now. Everything’s changed... I remember when I first started decorating it. My touch all over the house. But there’s nothing of me left. Absolutely nothing.

How is that possible? It’s the same—the gigantic pearl-colored leather sofa, the minimalist white furniture, the floor to ceiling bookshelf that Alex and I assembled hand in hand, the fireplace... But everything looks so different.

My books have disappeared from the bookshelf. The handmade cushions I embroidered, from the sofa. The pictures I was in don’t rest on the mantelpiece anymore. My mandalas are no longer scattered in every corner of the house. How I loved coloring them. I don’t do that anymore.

“If you want to make yourself comfortable,” Alex says, looking at my shorts and T-shirt outfit, “I think you have some clothes under the bed.”

“What bed?” I ask quizzically.

“Ours.”

Full of curiosity, I go upstairs. Dark is on my heels, wagging his tail in pure bliss, as I enter Alex’s room. Our room. I walk over to the bed and kneel at one side. I stay in that position for a few seconds because I have no idea what I’m going to find under there. When I finally pluck up the courage, I lift the aquamarine bedspread and look.

It’s packed with boxes, there’s not a single free space. I start to take them out one by one and open them. They’re all... mine. Full of my things: my clothes, my shoes, my mandalas, my handmade cushions, my music, my bikinis, my books, my photos... it’s all here.

“You’ve found the hidden treasure,” a voice says from the threshold.

“There’s more than just some of my clothes here,” I repeat his words, not taking my eyes off the boxes.

“Yeah, all your things are there. I kept them in case you came looking someday.”

I pick up a T-shirt and hold it to my nose. I inhale its scent.

“It smells kind of... bad.”

I look at him, still holding the T-shirt, and we laugh in unison.

“You can always take it all out and put it in the washing machine.”

“They’re old-fashioned.”

“Since when do you care about being fashionable, Priscila? You don’t care if we’re in the nineties, in 2016 or in 2040, you’d wear those giant bows of yours anyways.”