Page 64 of That Last Summer

2007

Summer of 2007 was the first summer in their lives that didn’t surprise them—or rather, it didn’t surprise them separately. Because this time, there was no loss of contact. It wasn’t anything significant; they were not a couple or, at least, Priscila didn’t think they were. And Alex was sure they were not. He liked spending time with her—indeed, he liked her a lot—but from there to labeling it, to considering it something serious ... No, that was too far. He didn’t want that, or so he told himself. Reality was very different; it had been for a long time now.

Besides, he spent his weeks traveling—trips organized by the Spanish Swimming Federation, national competitions, training here and there. His life was swimming; there was no room for anything else but... he liked being with Priscila. He loved it.

Alex had saved her phone number as “Queen of the Desert”; he couldn’t help it. She saved his as “The Pretty-boy Neighbor,” and autumn, winter and spring went by between texts and calls.

Alex slept with a few girls when he was in Madrid, but something was missing. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it—he did—but...

He had kissed his neighbor a million times already but there came a moment—an exact and precise moment—when he decided he didn’t want anyone else’s kisses. They made hers fade. They clouded his memories of her.

When they were both in town, Alex and Priscila would sometimes run into each other, but never on their own; Priscila was always accompanied by one of her siblings—sometimes all of them, or her parents—so they couldn’t exchange more than a few words here and there. Later, on the phone, they would recall their encounter in the solitude of their bedrooms, each lying on their bed looking up at the ceiling all dreamy, laughing their heads off.

Then summer came once again. Alex had had a great year, achieving another success at the World Championships in Melbourne several months earlier.

And on Priscila’s first day of vacation, as if it was an unwritten rule, Alex was waiting for her outside her house. But, this time, he’d texted her beforehand to arrange it—that day, they were going to Jellyfish Cove. It was time for a swim.

The next day, cycling.

The next, the beach.

The next, skateboarding at the skating rinks. Priscila threw herself down the slopes, dodging obstacles, while Alex watched her with amusement and took pictures. He couldn’t join in; he couldn’t risk an injury. Beijing Olympics were coming up and he was determined to come home with a medal.

And all to the soundtrack of Mika’s “Grace Kelly,” Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars,” “Calle la Pantomima” by Melendi or “Monsoon” by Tokio Hotel—the hits of that summer—monopolizing the radio stations and clubs and while Adrián painted Priscila’s bedroom walls with the things she loved most.

He drew in their neighbor, of course.

* * *

Every night, before they said their goodbyes, Alex and Priscila would go to the swimming pool and swim together. Priscila was improving every day, able to endure more and more lengths swimming next to a tireless Alex, who corrected her movements every now and then. Afterwards, when they parted ways to go home, they’d do it with huge smiles on their faces—smiles they didn’t yet understand.

They had a kind of routine, even if it wasn’t formally established. But spontaneous ideas arose from time to time too—like one early morning in July, when Alex suggested they go up to the Rock together.

They woke at six in the morning—they didn’t want to go up in the mid-morning heat, that would make it so much harder—made some ham sandwiches to eat at the top, put on sneakers and comfortable clothes, and off they went.

The Rock is a gigantic, imposing crag next to the sea, more than a thousand feet high. Both Alex and Priscila had climbed it before, but each with their respective family; the girl many times, the boy: four.

The first stretch of the climb—the easy part—didn’t tax them too much. They chatted animatedly as they walked up or climbed the steps in their path, stopping from time to time to admire the views, which were, to describe them in a way that didn’t even begin to do them justice, mind-blowing. Seeing the whole town and the blue, green, and black of the sea from the rocks—from this high—was something they would never tire of.

In one of their stops, Priscila happened to look at her cellphone. She instantly regretted it. Someone was calling her from home—one of her brothers, she guessed. She couldn’t ignore it.

The girl was being teased mercilessly about her relationship with Alex. Her brothers taunted her on a daily basis, and that day was no exception. Not one but all of them called her at the same time. Adrián took the long-wired telephone in the kitchen; Marcos, the one in their parents’ bedroom; Hugo, the one in the living room; and River, the one he had in his own room—the perks of being the eldest son.

An exact reproduction of the call would be this:

Priscila: Yes?

Adrián: Where are you?

River: Are you with St. Claire?

Adrián: With that kid again?

River: Kid? The neighbor is older than you.

Hugo: He’d be no match for you, Adri.

Marcos: And where are you spending all this time together?