Page 47 of That Last Summer

Alex studied the damaged area very carefully.

“I’m looking for any remaining tentacles stuck to the injury,” he explained.

Except for that careful evaluation of her wound, they never lost eye contact.

A few minutes later, when the worst had passed, Alex was applauded by half the beach. And he’d have sworn he heard “I Will Survive” in the background...

That same night, Saint John’s Eve, Priscila kissed her neighbor at the beach bonfires. She dressed it as thanks for what he’d done for her a few hours before, but in reality she did it because she wanted to, and they both knew it.

They didn’t meet the next month—July—since Alex was participating in the Montreal World Cup in the second week. He returned with another gold medal. A national hero. But they kept running into each other the rest of the summer.

And kissing, too. Like that time at the town festival, hidden behind a palm tree on the beach; or the night they met at the only teen nightclub for miles.

Priscila would remember that summer as bright black, splattered with brown flecks, the color of her neighbor’s eyes. And as the summer she kissed Alex, four times.

Today is rescue day

First Sunday in July, I go downstairs for breakfast and find Marcos, Hugo and Adrián in the kitchen. Hugo doesn’t live at my parents’ anymore, but he comes often to have breakfast with us, at least since I’ve returned. I don’t think he came as much before, but since I’m here... I guess I have the power of assembly. He must have missed me a lot.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, thinking about the events of the last few days.

A week has passed since Marcos and Alicia’s party and I think I’ve already run into every person I know in town. Even my brother-in-law, John, having a drink on a crowded terrace.

I thought that encounter would be more fraught, to be honest, but no. It’s not that we merged into a big hug or anything; in fact, there was only a slight recognition, a chin lift. He’s always been cold and distant, so it didn’t surprise me too much. I guess he just doesn’t hate me like his brother does. Which has led me to think about this town—in general I mean, but also about its residents. The warm welcome they’ve given me.

“What do people think of me here?” I ask the air.

“Think about what?” all three query simultaneously.

“About when I left four years ago. Leaving my family and my husband behind. Come on, guys. This is a small town. Everything gets talked about. What do they think of me?”

“They think what we want them to think,” says Adrián. That’s so... Adrián.

“And may I know what you wanted them to think?”

“We gave them the version that suited our interests,” Hugo explains. “That you had a great job opportunity in Boston, one that was impossible to refuse. You were young—both of you—so you and Alex decided by mutual agreement that you would go to the States. A hiatus in your relationship. But you keep in touch and get along wonderfully because, before anything else, you’re very good friends.”

“And Alex was okay with that version?”

Considering our relationship at the moment, I find it odd that he accepted that... sugarcoated version of events. My three brothers share a knowing look.

“What?” I ask them.

“Pris,” Marcos says, “Alex was a wreck back then; he didn’t know his ass from his elbow. And afterwards, it was too late to fix it.”

“I’m not talking about the accident, I’m talking about before. When I left.”

“So am I.”

I shake my head. I don’t get it. Like, at all. But at least now I know why this town has given me such a warm, kind reception. I still don’t understand Alex’s hatred; it’s so visceral, so intense... as if I had committed a crime against him. It just wasn’t like that.

“Good morning, Cabanas.”

We all turn to the door to see Jaime walking into the kitchen, arms raised as he stretches and yawns, showing us his waxed chest. I could say he’s all abs, the classic six-pack, but I’d be lying. Jaime isn’t fat, but he isn’t muscular either. He’s a regular guy, with big eyes that take your breath away, that must be said, but otherwise pretty normal.

After scratching his thick dark hair and massaging his private parts, he sits down at the table. The same every morning. I’m used to it. He looks rested. Lucky him, being able to sleep soundly.

I haven’t slept well these past few nights. I have to admit the jellyfish thing got out of hand. I’m more scared now than I was while it was happening. I remember lying in my bed a few nights after, staring at the ceiling and thinking how badly things could have gone. A chill went through my body and I had to force myself to think about something else, something beautiful, to replace that memory. But every time I drop my guard a bit, the jellyfish incident comes back to my mind. Takes over.