Page 72 of That Last Summer

What’s the color of goodbyes? The beautiful ones? The ones that speak of meeting again, of collecting experiences? Priscila saw that goodbye in red and white, like the whole summer, like the corkboards in the swimming pools. And she saw it every time she sat on the couch with her family to watch Alex swim—and win—on television.

The Cabana’s living room had two big sofas, one with a chaise longue—where the siblings huddled on top of each other—and the other, smaller one (so to speak since it was quite big too) for their parents. The eight family members—we can’t forget the cat—sat together and filled the room with food, drink, cheers, stifled groans and the occasional swearword. It was also filled with displays of affection, like Adrián holding his sister’s hand in the tensest moments, when Alex seemed to fall behind. But then he would recover, he always did. He was a great swimmer. The best.

They all supported their neighbor, cheered him on without reserve, and they did it to the beat of Kate Ryan’s “Ella Elle L’A,” Duffy’s “Merci,” or Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music.” And everyone stood up and hugged the little girl of the family when her boyfriend won the coveted Olympic medal and she broke down in tears. Tears of happiness.

Like two magnets, attracting and repelling each other

Iknow something’s wrong with Jaime as soon as I walk into the kitchen. He’s having breakfast alone, half lying on the table with his head in one hand; his posture, his worried face... I know him too well. I’ve been living with him and only with him for four years; sharing my life with him and only him. Something tricky is going on.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

“What? Nothing.”

“You don’t fool me. Something’s wrong.”

“What about you? What’s the matter with you?”

I’m aware he’s changing the subject but I know that, right now, I’m not going to get anything out of him. That’s okay. I have plenty to say anyway.

“Not much. Only that I slept with Alex.”

“Fuck!” He chokes on the cookie he was eating and takes a sip of water. “Warn a guy before you say these things, would you? Damn, what a way to start the week.”

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It was you who threw me into his arms.”

I sit down beside him and take a sip of his coffee. And what he has left of his orange juice.

“Fuck, Pris, you never listen to me. And definitely not that fast. I didn’t think you’d jump into his arms five minutes after we talked about it.”

“It wasn’t me who jumped.” I explain. “It was him.”

“Fuck, really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fuck... I don’t get it. This St. Claire is worthy of analysis. I never thought he’d sleep with you on his own initiative.”

“Why did you tell me to go for it then?”

“Fuck, Pris, it’s one thing if you throw yourself at him and he doesn’t reject you. Let’s face it, guys don’t reject an easy fuck, or not usually at least. It’s like a physical need or something. But it’s a whole different thing for him to throw himself at you. I’m fucking confused here. So, what happened this morning then? Where is he? I’ve been here for a while now and I haven’t seen him leave. Is he still in your bed? You wore him out, did you? It must be a hell of a mission to get that jackass to shut up, get him down to just moans and gasps.”

Worn out. Yeah... I don’t think so. I’m not even sure I got him to shut up and just moan. I sigh in sheer frustration.

“Nothing happened this morning because he hasn’t been here this morning. He got up as soon as we were done, looked at my room as if it were Satan’s nest and I was one of his minions, and told me it had been a mistake. He regretted it instantly.”

“Fuck. Okay. But you’ve had sex with him now. You can move on. Are you all right?”

Am I? I’m making a superhuman effort to handle this situation in the most dignified way I can, pretending the rejection—Alex’s coldness after we slept together—matters less to me than it actually does. On top of that I’m trying to deal with the state of my body and mind after being with him again. It’s been so long. It’s like tasting forbidden fruit. Alex is the forbidden fruit. He is my downfall.

So, no. I’m not all right. And no matter how much I keep telling myself that sex is just sex... It’s never been like that for me. Especially not with him.

“I’m not going anywhere near him ever again,” I say, trying to convince myself more than Jaime. “From now on I’m going to stay fifty feet away from him at least.”

“Fuck, Pris. Okay.”

“It’s a promise. Look. Look here, right in my eyes,” I say, turning his face to me, just a few inches from mine. “There’s only determination in here.”

“Fuck. Okay.”