Page 4 of That Last Summer

“But...” He pauses, thinking. “You came to Boston that year. October 2012.”

“Late September, to be more specific.” I sit on my hands, feigning indifference. I’m going to need it if we’re talking about this. Otherwise, I’ll break down.

“Wait a minute... You haven’t come back here since I’ve known you, so that means... you haven’t seen each other for four years!” When I nod, he asks, “Are you not divorced?”

“Umm... I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Well, when... that thing happened I was so upset I was in no state of mind for bureaucracy; my heart had been ripped out of my chest in the worst possible way and...” I sigh. “Anyway, time went by, he did nothing, neither did I... and here we are now.”

“And what was thatthing that happened?"

“We’d better save that for another time. We just got here. Give me a break, okay?” I give him an imploring look, begging him not to insist.

“Okay,” he agrees. “What about your parents? And your brothers? What do they think?”

“It’s... a tricky subject to discuss with my family. A delicate matter, you know. I shut down when I left and I’ve refused to talk about it since then, despite my parents and brothers’ insistence.”

“Are they still in touch with him?”

“To be honest? I have no idea, but I guess they’re not. When I said tricky subject, I meant it. I forbade them to mention him in my presence. The only one who ignores that and asks me about him from time to time is my father—as you just saw—but I immediately make a face, slam the door, or hang up the phone. Maturity is my middle name.”

“What’s his name?”

“Whose?” I ask, feigning cluelessness. I don’t want to hear his name, not even inside my head.

Jaime arches an eyebrow. Ugh, fine! “Alexander.”

“Alexander?”

“Well, yeah. Alex. Everyone calls him Alex.”

“Okay. Alex...?”

“St. Claire. Alex St. Claire.”

There. I said it. Alex St. Claire. The same Alex St. Claire who has been making my heart bump since I was a little girl. And even now I don’t get it; I don’t understand those early reactions to him, but that’s how it happened. I don’t know why Alex was so mesmerizing to me from the beginning. Maybe it was his pretty face—his gorgeous face—or maybe there was some other reason. I don’t know. I just know my heart has always bumped in his presence and, despite the fact that he was quite dismissive, mysterious, and arrogant—yes, let’s lay it on the line—I felt restless at his side: a whirlwind of feelings ran through my body and everything inside me throbbed. Everything. I remember that feeling as something... beautiful. I loved the sensation. I loved how he made me feel, how my whole body screamed there’s the neighbor! Every time I saw him.

“St. Claire? I’ve heard that name before... Where’s he from?”

I close the gate to Memory Lane. I have no doubt why Alex’s name sounds familiar to Jaime. Alex had his moment of glory and for years he appeared in almost every newspaper around the world. But I don’t tell him that. I don’t want to delve so deeply into the past. Certainly not today, my first day at home.

“He’s from Spain. Well, no, he’s not. He was born in London—his father is British—but his mother is Spanish and they came to live here like a thousand years ago.”

“So you’re Mrs. St. Claire. Priscila St. Claire. Fuck, it sounds awful!”

“We don’t use that anymore. I am and always will be Priscila Cabana.”

“And you know what else you are? An adulteress. Well, I guess you both are. I doubt the guy has gone four years without fucking.”

No, I don’t think so either. Even less considering he didn’t stop fucking others when we got married. I try to ignore the dagger stabbing me in the heart right now. It shouldn’t be there. I got over it. Alexander St. Claire is my ex. Period. I don’t hate him anymore. I don’t love him anymore. I don’t feel anything anymore, because I’ve been dulling those feelings for four years. All of them: the good ones, because I refused to forget them completely, and the bad ones because they were the ones refusing to let go of me. And that’s how it has to be.

“Fuck, I had sex with a married woman!”

“Shhh!” I stand up and hush him, covering his mouth with both my hands. “Shut up, you nut! I don’t want my family to know you and I had sex on our couch in Boston. Also, it was only once.”

“Twice. And thank you so much for the clarification about the couch, I don’t know what I’d have done without that vital data,” he says, mocking me.