Page 97 of That Last Summer

Priscila’s mouth dropped open. Alex took her by the elbow and showed her the way to the front door. They passed along a narrow stone path next to an empty swimming pool with peeling paint. The tall grass surrounding it looked messy and unkempt. You could see various colors on the facade, and judging by the paint marks around them, the windows and doors were brand new. It was so... perfect. Was it theirs? Really? She couldn’t quite believe it.

Alex fixed his gaze on her; he didn’t want to miss a second of her reaction. The house was ramshackle, though not as run-down as it had been a few months earlier when he’d first decided to buy it, investing most of his savings. His new brothers-in-law had helped him with the doors and windows, replacing them and the fence; they’d helped also with some repairs inside to make it habitable since, from this day on, Alex and Priscila would live there.

As husband and wife.

His brothers-in-law were nicer than he’d thought. He’d connected with Marcos instantly; not much later he fitted with Hugo and River, and with Adrián... he was starting to get along. And his beautiful wife had no idea about any of it. It was a secret.

He’d told Priscila that after the wedding they would live in a rented apartment he had his eye on. It was a diversionary tactic, of course, and judging by the look of surprise on her face it had worked. Priceless. Alex had only seen that gleam in her eyes in bed, when she was about to climax, so you could say she was having an orgasmic reaction.

“It needs a lot of remodeling yet,” he explained happily. “But it’s ours.”

“I love it. How did you do it?”

“I had help. Let’s go in.”

They were so desperate for each other, they barely saw inside. They went straight up the wooden stairs to the bedroom, which—along with the bathroom and kitchen—was one of the few livable rooms in the house. It had attic ceilings with a large dormer window in the roof and another smaller window in the exposed brick wall opposite. In the middle of the room there was a huge white bed, onto which they fell, naked, a minute later to spend the most incredible night of their lives so far.

When she woke the next day, Priscila put on Alex’s white shirt and went to the bathroom, where the light was still on. When she returned, she woke her husband by jumping on the bed, as if she was a kid—which, indeed, she was. She was beaming happiness and Alex, now awake, couldn’t resisting jumping right along with her. Living the moment. That summer was white, like Priscila’s wedding dress, like the sheets on their double bed, like Alex’s shirt.

Sex with strings and sex without

Irun aimlessly, no destination in mind, blind to my surroundings. I hear words in the background but they’re incoherent; I’m barely able to discern them.

“Alex, stop her!”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Just stop her!”

I run down the stairs so fast I don’t know how I don’t fall. I hear voices calling me, different voices; I know one is Alex’s, another is Adrián’s... the last one, that third voice... it must be hers. I’d forgotten how it sounded. But it’s the same voice that said those painful words to me so many years ago. Words that turned my life.

I need to hide.

I walk out the door, sensing hurried footsteps behind me. The first thing I see is the rope hanging from Alex’s window; I look back but there’s still no sign of him, or of Adrián.

I cross the street and hide behind the tree in front of Alex’s parents’ door. He’s outside now, his voice sounds closer. But then he must move away, no doubt to search elsewhere. Adrián comes out almost on Alex’s heels, but he goes the opposite way. I don’t plan to stay here and watch her leave.

I need to be in the last place they’d look... but where?

The rope to Alex’s bedroom looks at me as if in invitation. The window is open. It’s perfect. No one will think to look in Alex’s old room.

I shimmy up the rope and in, then curl up on the bed, against the wall, and let out the sobs that have been waiting for an outlet for so long.

Memories weigh heavily, like a huge waterfall crashing over me, but the incomprehension—not understanding my brother’s behavior—weighs much more.

That girl hurt me. So much. She was cruel. Inhuman. And that’s something I’ve been thinking about over these four years. The passage of time, the natural maturing process, makes us capable of seeing human actions differently. Things we don’t understand at one point in our lives—either because we’re still newbies, apprentices in the game of life, or because our head isn’t where it should be—suddenly make perfect sense. Suddenly we can see the evil implicit in them. And maybe I’m silly for thinking this way but someone who does evil things, someone who abuses someone else’s vulnerabilities, is not a good person. I don’t need to know anything else.

And Adrián has just slept with her. Of all the women in the world, he had to choose her.

Why do memories have to hurt so much? Why do they keep haunting me? Why is the line between past and present blurring like this? I close my eyes tight and curl up a little more.

A while later, I don’t know how long, I hear a throat clearing behind me. Startled, I raise my head and find Alex leaning against the door frame, arms and legs crossed, watching me intently. He’s trying to get inside my mind, I know him; he’s trying to understand what’s going on in my head. He looks torn, between concern and curiosity.

“What is it?” he asks me without further ado.

I turn again, run a hand over my tear-soaked face, and continue my staring at the wall. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve counted two hundred little raised drops on the stippled surface.

“How long have you been there?” I whisper, my voice still a little strangled from crying.