Page 133 of That Last Summer

“More comfortable than my sofa and me?” he asks, placing short, soft kisses on my nose and cheekbones.

“Well, if you include yourself in the lot, there might be a tie.”

“A tie?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let me convince you, then.”

Without warning and without any further warm-up, he pulls his sweatpants down in one quick move, leaving the waistband just below his ass. He brushes my panties aside and thrusts himself inside me.

At first, the film’s credits echo in the background, but as the seconds go by, even though the sex is calm and unhurried, our moans overshadow every other sound in the room.

We move very slowly, without kissing, looking in each other’s eyes. I notice the two scars above his right eyebrow—the one he got in school when we were kids and the other one, the one I don’t recognize.

“What happened?” I ask, brushing the new scar gently with my fingertips.

“Nothing.” He brushes my hand away and turns his head. I’m surprised by his reaction, but I don’t say anything, I just pull a face.

Suddenly his thrusts become faster, more violent, as if he wants to finish already when a few seconds ago it was quite the opposite—like he wanted to prolong this for the rest of our lives.

Of course, in our case, we may not have “the rest of our lives.” Unless I do something about it. Sometimes you organize, plan, look for the right moment to do something, but then everything goes to hell for one reason or another. Reasons beyond your control. But other times, like this precise moment, it just comes out. “Alex.”

“What?”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Fuck, now?” He keeps moving.

“Yes.”

“No, not now.”

“Yes, now.”

He kisses me to shut me up. And it works. At least, it works until we come soon after, drinking each other down. Because once we’re done, sweaty and exhausted as we are, I frame his face with my hands and kiss him lightly on the lips, then tell him. “I love you, Alex.”

He slumps down the back of the sofa, still holding me, but just for one more second; then he moves his arms away from my body as if it burned him, as if my touch hurts him, or repulses him.

“I don’t care if you don’t say it back,” I whisper. “I’ll wait for you to feel it again. I think... I think I’m not going back to Boston.”

“Excuse me, what did you just say?” His eyes are dark, fierce.

“I can’t go back, Alex. I can’t. I can’t leave you.”

Alex laughs, but it’s not pretty. It’s ugly. Insulting. I’ve always thought that very few things leave a more pleasant aftertaste than laughter, but I was wrong. A laugh has never made me feel so miserable.

“Don’t make me laugh, Priscila. Of course you’re going back,” he says. He removes me from his lap and gets up from the couch, pulling up his pants.

I feel cold, icy cold, in the emptiness that distance has created. And I think the worst is yet to come, I’ve seen it in his eyes. The hatred of those first days after my return. The resentment. The disdain. What just happened? Five minutes ago, we were sharing the most intimate act two people can share, and now... Now we’re back at the beginning. At that first meeting in Jellyfish Cove.

Is it possible I’ve imagined it all? That he doesn’t love me at all? Is this thing we have just sex and nothing else? Was I so wrong, or did I read Alex’s feelings so wrong? Maybe I don’t know him the way I thought I did. Maybe it was only me who felt what we just shared? No, that’s impossible. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. Alex loves me. He loves me again.

“No, I’m not going back,” I say, determined.

“Oh, of course you will.”

I get up too, adjusting my underwear. I stand in front of him and grab his arm.