Page 130 of That Last Summer

“Okay.” Priscila couldn’t think of anything else to say to that.

Although Priscila had already seen it, Jamie showed them the apartment—living room-kitchen-dining room, two bedrooms and a shared bathroom—and helped his new tenant with her... backpack. The more he talked—too much, in Adrián’s opinion—the more certain the Cabanas became that he wasn’t American. His accent gave him away. They had studied at the English School since they were two years old and had a good ear.

“Are you from Spain?” Adrián asked him in Spanish as he inspected the bathroom.

“Holy shit!” Jamie exclaimed, also in Spanish. “Great catch.”

“Is your name really Jamie?”

“It’s Jaime, actually.”

“Cool. I’m going to stay here with you for a few days,” Adrián explained, “a week at the most. I’ll sleep in my sister’s bed.”

It was clear to Jaime that there was no room for debate about that matter. Look at the blondie, what a temper!

The week went by at a blistering pace. The newspaper called Priscila to tell her that she’d been accepted into their internship program starting on January 8th, and Adrián bought a plane ticket back to Spain.

The goodbye was hard.

“Pris, I can stay another month if you need me to.”

“No, go back home. I’ll be fine. You have to go on with your life, go back to your paintings.”

“I’ll take care of her,” her new flatmate said.

That didn’t inspire any confidence in Adrián, but he told himself that if he detected the slightest problem between those two, he could just come back.

The siblings merged in such a hug that even Jaime felt the emotion.

Priscila seemed like a strong young woman, but when the door closed after her brother, she burst into tears.

“Hey, hey, calm down. You’re going to be fine,” Jaime comforted her, drawing her into a hug. “I’m not stupid, I’ve realized you’re not homeless; something must have happened to you. I can only tell you that time heals everything. That, and a cut and color. Californian highlights, anyone?”

So, they got to December, a super blonde-haired Priscila and a fascinated Jaime, getting to know each other. And Jaime was fascinated. Because despite all the sadness she carried, Priscila was kind and witty; she made you want to hug her. She was also contradictory, and that was what fascinated him the most. He became aware of it one night, watching her as she sat on the living room floor. She did that often. He’d discovered it when he got up in the middle of the night once, unable to sleep, and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. And from that night on, he just sensed her.

Priscila would get up around four in the morning and sit cross-legged on the floor—right above the heating pipe, the warmest spot in their living room. She’d stay there for a little while, alone in the dark. Sometimes she would hold her knees and cry.

And nobody knew that on the other side of the world, Alex St. Claire was doing the same thing.

Jaime leaned in the doorway and watched her. Physically, Priscila Cabana was like a doll, precious and small, a princess from a fairytale. Her personality fit that too: she was kind, delicate, sweet. But that was just the surface. The real Priscila was more of a badass than a princess. She drove like a punk—he’d experienced it one day when she said she missed driving and he let her drive his car to the supermarket. She thought like a man too, or at least the way Jaime understood men’s thinking: simple, spontaneous, no half measures. She was very direct, to the point—she called a spade a spade.

Christmas was hard—it was the first Priscila had spent without her family, far from home. But she wanted it that way. Jaime was going to Spain, so she was left alone. And alone she spent her birthday, the last day of the year. Perhaps that—loneliness, nostalgia—was what made her pick up her cell phone and look at her inbox. She’d deleted every single email Alex had sent her, tons of them; if she hadn’t, she would have read them, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. She missed him so much. She was doing well, in Boston, but she missed Alex terribly—her friend, her love, her life partner. She was afraid of giving up.

There was a new message. It was from the day before. She wasn’t going to open it, but then she read the subject: “I think I hate you.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She stopped breathing. She couldn’t help but click on the message and read it. Three times.

From: St. Claire, Alexander

To: [emailprotected]

Date: December 30, 2012, 18:08

Subject: I think I hate you

I guess you’re not reading my messages; if you had, you’d have come home by now, or at least shown signs of life. Or maybe not. Who cares anymore, my conclusion is the same. I think I hate you. I think you are an immature brat, a disappointment, and the biggest mistake I ever made. Now I understand so many things. I understand why our families didn’t want us to get married, I understand their reluctance. Marriage was too much for you, more than you could handle, Queen of the Desert. And life too. Since I’m in a good mood (oh, the irony), I’m going to give you some advice for the future: running away is never the solution. Never.

She was about to read it for the fourth time, although tears barely allowed her to make out the screen, when her phone rang. She’d been in contact with her family throughout the day, which is why the call shocked her so much. It was Adrián. Again. Priscila hesitated before she answered. She was afraid. Her brother never called her so late. Marcos and River did, it went with their irrepressible sense of humor, but Adrián or Hugo? No. So she answered, hesitantly, still crying.