Page 26 of That Last Summer

An hour later, exhausted and on the verge of passing out, Jaime and I arrive at my parents’ house. A house where everyone—everyone—is in the kitchen, sitting at the table, having dessert. Sisters-in-law included. My gaze slides in slow motion over my brothers, my parents... and no, it doesn’t look like they’ve moved from here in hours.

“Where were you?” my mother asks us reprovingly. “We’ve been waiting for you for hours. You weren’t answering your phone so we started with lunch.”

“The neighbor is a son of a bitch!” Jaime blurts out without any kind of censorship.

“I’m going to kill him,” I say, turning and leaving the kitchen while swearing in eight different languages.

“Pris? Where are you going?”

“Priscila!”

I go out, not without slamming the door behind me. Rage and helplessness are dominating every cell of my being right now; I’ve never wanted to get to this point with Alex, but he started it. He crossed the line.

Making the most of the courage the martinis are giving me, I open the wooden garden door—which I know is always open—and enter his property. I pick up a pile of pebbles from the driveway and crunch them in my fist, striding over to stand under Alex’s bedroom window. Then I start throwing them, carelessly, three at a time. Some just fall back to the ground again, but others reach the facade.

“I know you’re there, Alexander St. Claire! And you’re an asshole!”

As soon as my hands are empty, I bend down to pick up more stones and I hurl them all at once. Yep. I go wild at it.

“Are you looking for trouble? I’ll give you trouble! And the divorce!” That last word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. And I feel some kind of push in my heart. I came in peace, but Alex isn’t making it easy. “Here I am, show your face!”

“Priscila?”

Startled, I turn my head toward the voice to find Alex’s parents in front of me. I close my eyes, hoping they’re nothing more than a nasty drunken apparition. But no. There they are, in the flesh. Great.

“Hello,” I greet them, still with a handful of pebbles. No way I’m dropping them now.

Then a fifty-something woman I’ve never seen before rushes out of their house and approaches us, cloth in hand. “Mrs. and Mr. St. Claire, this girl is throwing stones at John’s window. I was vacuuming down the hall and I heard them against the glass. I was about to call the police when I saw you coming home so I ran down, but A—”

“What?” I exclaim, outraged, interrupting her. “That’s not true! I was throwing them at Alex’s window!”

Is it really possible that not a single one of my throws hit the target? With that much difference? I mean, John’s window is quite a distance from Alex’s, four meters to the left or so. Four meters!

“Don’t worry, Remedios,” says my father-in-law, addressing the woman in a conciliatory tone. “She’s Alex’s wife. We have this under control.”

“She is not my wife!” someone yells from inside the house.

“Aha!” I shout, out of my wits, looking at the front door that has been left open. “I knew you were there! Asshole! Pair of... one!”

“Priscila!”

Mom’s yell makes me turn around to find my whole family looking at me in shock. They’re forming a perfectly straight line, except for Jaime and Adrián; they’re off one end of the row, smiling and beaming with pride.

Jaime is also whispering something into Hugo’s ear. They’re very close to each other. Hugo raises an eyebrow in response; I’m sure Jaime is apologizing on my behalf.

Catalina, standing on the other side of Hugo, watches me with a critical stare and shakes her head. River’s forehead is wrinkled, although I’m not sure if it’s because of me, or his wife.

Alicia looks astonished, as if she can’t believe it’s me.

Marcos aims his cell phone at me.

And it’s then that I realize what I’ve done. I bow my head, join my hands in front, and go directly to Marcos, who is next to my parents at the other end of the line, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“Cuff me,” I say regretfully, “I’ve been throwing stones at our neighbor’s window.”

“First of all, put down the ones you’re still carrying,” Marcos says with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on my fist.

“Priscila!” That’s Mom again.