Page 31 of That Last Summer

“I’m sorry,” I say absently to Alex’s mother as I turn my back on them both. I fill a glass of water at the sink; my throat and mouth are dry.

“You’re sorry,” she repeats tonelessly.

“Yes, I am.”

“What exactly are you apologizing for, Priscila? Throwing stones at John’s window?”

I wasn’t aiming at John’s window!

It’s a good thing I’m able to hold my tongue before I say it out loud. Well, that or the fact that I’m drinking and I can’t answer right away. I put the glass on the counter and clear my throat. I close my eyes for a moment and open them before turning around.

“No,” I say.

“So why are you sorry then?”

Why am I sorry? I’m sorry for so many things that I don’t even know where to start. I’m sorry I left town the way I did, and I’m sorry for what happened to the St. Claire family afterward. I’m sorry about what happened to Alex. Because no matter how bad he behaved with me, he didn’t deserve that. No, never that. He really loved swimming; he loved it with his whole heart. Fate is cruel. Either that, or we had the worst cards in the deck.

They say time heals everything, but heck, sometimes it’s so hard... It’s true though. It really cures everything. Or almost everything.

Once I was in Boston, as the months went by, the pain I felt for what had happened started to subside. At first, I thought it would destroy me, that I would never recover, never smile again, that I would never stop thinking about it. But that didn’t happen. The unease in my body, that longing for death—literally wanting to die—disappeared bit by bit. It was very gradual, but it really was disappearing.

You may not heal completely; it’s like when you hurt your knee, a very deep wound in your knee. Platelets come to assist you and do their job, but sometimes a small scar remains; it depends on how deep the wound has been, how long it took you to take care of it. But still, your life goes on. You keep running, you keep using your knee, you keep living your everyday life; it’s just a wound. And that’s what happened to me: I healed—with scars, but I healed.

I’m satisfied with my life these days. I’m happy. It’s a different kind of happiness, not the kind I felt with Alex—it’s a whole different life—but different doesn’t mean bad or worse, nor good or better either, it only means that: different. There are so many ways to achieve happiness, a million ways to live your life, and the way you choose doesn’t make it more or less happy by itself. Yes, the degree of happiness can be measured, but the important thing is to achieve it, no matter to what extent.

True, I don’t feel complete—I know my life is lacking something—but there are so many things going well for me too: I love my job, my friends, my family. I’m ok with myself—on the inside, and the outside. And all this makes me a satisfied woman.

So, yes, I’ve been able to rebuild my life and, although I’m not as happy as I was when I shared it with Alex, I do have a life.

“I’m sorry about everything,” I say, looking at her—looking at her for real, into those eyes that are exactly like her young son’s.

She just nods and gives me a half smile. She takes one of the bows from the table and invites me to sit with them. I excuse myself, telling them I need to shower, and I rush out of the kitchen looking for air. I bump straight into Adrián.

“Good morning! How’s that hangover going?” he asks me smugly, as fresh as a lettuce.

“My mother-in-law is in the kitchen. With Mom,” I say, ignoring his question and pulling him away.

“Ah. Yeah, she does that sometimes.”

“Yeah, she does that sometimes?” I repeat, my tone demanding an explanation. I start up the stairs on my way to my bedroom and urge my brother to follow.

“When Alex had the accident our families did some bonding. Mom and Dad were very supportive of the St. Claires. They like Alex very much. I even dare to say they love him.”

“And when exactly were you going to tell me?”

“I don’t want to hear anything about the St. Claires ever again,” he says, mimicking my voice and doing a very poor job, if you ask me.

“Touché. And what about not telling me that our brothers were Alex’s closest friends?”

“I don’t want to hear anything about the St. Claires ever again,” he repeats in the same tone.

“Okay, okay!” I accept defeat. “You win! Did you know about the dog?”

“What dog?” he asks, surprised.

“My dog!”

“Dark?”