Page 146 of That Last Summer

When Marcos told me he was marrying Alicia, the first thing I thought of was Priscila. I hadn’t heard anything about her other than what the newspaper revealed: that she was doing well with her comic strips and, judging by the picture her column showed, she still wore the smile she gave to everyone.

I didn’t want to think about how I would act when I met her face to face, because I didn’t want to see her. But at the same time, I did want to. I longed for her to realize what I’d become, to realize that I was a grown man, but then I thought that I really wasn’t, and I had nothing to prove to her because she was nobody. And something inside me was telling me that seeing her would be a mistake. Because distance helps to heal wounds, and mine had healed because I didn’t see her, but if I saw her again... I didn’t want to know what could happen.

There are wounds that heal and wounds that don’t. Wounds that leave scars, like the one on my fucking eyebrow, and others that don’t. The one that Priscila made never healed. It didn’t let me get on with my life. I can never forgive her for that.

And now, I want the divorce.

The wedding of the year

The mirror in my bedroom closet gives back my own image as I put on my pearl and diamond earrings. It reflects the sadness, the anguish, the heartbreak. In a few hours, my brother Marcos is marrying Alicia. The day has come. This wedding is the reason I came back to my hometown, and here we are.

The last two weeks have been unbearable—painful, like stabbing a red-hot iron into my heart. And the worst part is that I impaled myself on it. I did it four years ago, without knowing it, and now it burns like hell.

Mom’s grip on my shoulder keeps me from shedding the tears welling up in my eyes. I meet her gaze and her smile in the mirror. I don’t know what would have become of me without the support of my family. I don’t even want to think about it.

When I left Alex’s house—sixteen days ago now—I cried all the way here. I was devastated. I ran into Hugo the second I walked through the door, a sobbing mess. I told him everything.

“What have I done, Hugo?”

“What happened?”

“It’s Alex. What happened to Alex was my fault. I left for no reason.”

“Okay, okay. Let it all out.”

“He didn’t do anything; it was all me. All this time... and I’m the one to blame.”

“Shh, calm down. Everything will be fine. Easy now.”

He held me up and gave me strength, even without understanding what I was saying. It was a long time before I could talk about it. From there, I told my whole family. Mom, Dad, River, Hugo, Marcos. They were all sitting on the couch, listening to me. Adrián and Jaime, too. I don’t know what I would’ve done these past days without Jaime, really. Our failures in love have united us more than ever.

I told them what happened four years ago and the tremendous mistake I made. Adrián looked quite affected; I suppose that, in a way, he blames himself for not having handled it better. For not having persuaded me, or not having investigated what happened better. He’d believed my story as if it were law.

I return to the present. My mother rearranges my braid—I went to the town’s hairdresser this morning—and helps me with my makeup.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You look beautiful, darling,” she says, gesturing to my golden dress, with its draped neckline and bare back.

“You too. You’re going to be the most beautiful matron of honor ever.”

Mom smiles again and I force myself to smile back. Today is my brother’s wedding day. I have to cheer up. For him. I already managed it a few days ago, at Alicia’s bachelorette party, and again later, when I met my brothers as they entered the house at the same time as me. They’d come from Marcos’ bachelor party—incredibly, despite the simultaneous celebrations, we hadn’t crossed paths all night.

“Where’s Marcos?” I ask. I need to give him a hug before all the fuss starts.

“He left a while ago,” Mom says.

“Where did he go?”

“The church.”

“This early?”

“Yes, he said he’d wait for us there. He’s nervous.”

The sound of the phone ringing interrupts our conversation. My mother leaves the room and I’m left alone, looking at myself in the mirror one more time.

“Priscila!” she yells.