Page 32 of We Shouldn’t Do This Again

“Lidia, sweetheart…” my father says gently.

“It’s okay,” I interrupt him this time, less sharply, almost wearily. “Really. I just needed to say it out loud.”

I look at Barbara one last time, and that feeling returns—that confusing mix of what we were, of what still beats beneath the skin, and of what will never, ever be again.

“Enjoy your dessert,” I say, standing up. “I… need some fresh air.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I don’t want to hear it, either. I don’t want to stay another second at that table where everything seems normal on the outside while on the inside I’m falling apart.

I walk without looking back, feeling each step grow heavier, as if the ground were pulling me down, eager to swallow me whole and make me disappear.

The sound of the sea crashes back into my ears, mingling with the frantic beating of my heart and enveloping me completely.

I step out of the restaurant and the salty breeze hits my face. I take a deep breath. Once. And then again. But it’s not enough. Because there are things that don’t fade away with fresh air or the sound of the waves. Things that stay with you. That repeat themselves over and over, like a broken record.

I rest my hands on my knees, lean forward, and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Always the same…” I whisper to myself.

The same old mistake: feeling too much, expecting too much, and ending up heartbroken over someone who, at some point, decided her path lay in another direction, far from me.

I try to hold back the tears threatening to spill over, though some slide down my cheeks, and in the middle of this hurricane of emotions, I realize that, although the easy thing would be to get on the ferry and go back home—to Jota, to Alex, to my things and my life—I don’t want to do it because I’m tired of running away, of shutting myself off, of pretending I’ve moved on when it isn’t true.

Before me lies the sea, as vast as ever, unchanging, indifferent to everything happening to me as if none of this mattered, as if my emotions were just an insignificant drop of water in all that blue expanse. And maybe they are. But at this very moment, they fill my entire chest, my every breath. And I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to hold them back before they break me completely.

CHAPTER 17

INSIGNIFICANT LIES

Barbara

The sky over Ukulhas is gradually turning a wavering, purplish gray, as if it still doesn’t know whether to burst into a storm or settle for threatening one for hours on end. The air feels heavier than usual, charged with electricity, with that sticky sensation that signals something is about to break… or perhaps truly begin. I don’t know if the change comes from the weather or if it’s me projecting everything onto the landscape. It’s probably me. I’ve always been good at carrying the weight of things on my own.

I walk slowly along the white sand path that connects the bungalows, feeling the fine grains slip between my toes and cling to my skin, damp from the heat. To my left, the sea has already lost that crystalline, cheerful blue from early morning; now it’s darker, deeper, with an almost defiant character, as if it too were keeping secrets it doesn’t dare reveal. The ocean and I understand each other all too well these days.

Exactly two days have passed since that trip to the reefs. Two days since Lidia fixed her eyes on mine and, without needing to raise her voice much, opened a wound I thought had closed and that now bleeds again. Since then, silence has returned. Not a greeting, not a glance; we haven’t even crossed paths in the restaurant or at the bar. Nothing. It’s strange how two people can share the same space at all hours and yet, at the same time, stop existing for each other. Or try to, at least.

Although pretending she doesn’t exist doesn’t work for me. Not entirely. Every time I push open the door to my bungalow in the morning, my body tenses automatically, expecting to find her on the other side of the walkway connecting them. I’ve forced myself to walk the same paths she takes, just in case we happened to run into each other and that might prompt us to talk. But nothing. I’ve forced myself to distract myself by going on bike rides, swimming, even taking absurd detours in this suffocating heat. But no matter how hard I try, everything ends up bringing me back to her.

I take a deep breath and stop in front of the sea, my hands resting on the hot wooden railing.

“Ridiculous,” I whisper to myself, almost angrily. “You’re completely ridiculous, Barbara.”

I am. I’ve spent years building an orderly life, with fixed schedules, new people, and routines that protect me from this kind of collapse. But all it takes is for her to appear before me again for this whole house of cards to tremble as if it had never been solid.

My phone vibrates against my palm and pulls me out of the whirlwind of thoughts. I look at the screen. Ingrid’s name glows like a constant reminder of that life I chose and that, supposedly, makes me happy.

I swipe to answer and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hello,” I say, trying to make my voice sound steady.

“Hello, you’ve been MIA,” she replies instantly, with that warmth of hers that always envelops me and anchors me to the present. “I was starting to think the Indian Ocean had swallowed you whole and I’d never hear from you again.”

I can’t help but smile, though it comes out a little crooked.

“Never,” I reply, and I mean it.

“You better not, because if you leave me hanging, I’ll hunt you down even in hell,” she jokes, but there’s something underneath it, that tone she uses when she’s genuinely worried. “Come on, tell me. How are things in paradise? Is it treating you well, or are you already sick of all the beach? How’s it going with…?”