Page 43 of We Shouldn’t Do This Again

I know perfectly well that I have no right to feel jealous. None at all. But that doesn’t make the feeling disappear. If anything, the more I try to ignore it, the more it grows. I tighten my grip on the fork until my knuckles turn white and press it lightly against the plate.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised; it’s always been this way…” I whisper to myself, my voice heavy with resignation and something dangerously close to pain. “Alex and Lidia. Lidia and Alex. Always so close, so in sync, so damn perfect for each other…”

When I first met Alex, I felt out of place, as though I were the one who didn’t belong in their story. I remember perfectly how it made me feel at the beginning of our relationship: that insecurity I refused to admit even to myself, that constant feeling of competing with a friendship that seemed stronger than many couples I knew.

“Is it possible…?” the question forms in my mind. “…that they’re really together? That what we experienced last night was nothing more than a mistake?”

“Wasn’t it, Barbara?”

“No,” I whisper, trying to convince myself. “It doesn’t make sense. Lidia isn’t like that. Besides, what happened last night was…”

But the doubt remains there, persistent and gnawing, lodged in my chest like a thorn I can’t pull out. I watch as Lidia runs a hand through her hair with that slow, distracted gesture, how she smiles again, how she lowers her voice as though what she’s saying is important, intimate, something you only share with someone you truly care about. And it hurts. It hurts far more than I can rationally justify.

Because the truth is clear and cruel: she has her life, just as I have mine. I have Ingrid. I have a job waiting for me in London. I have a stability that…

“…I just put at risk because of one reckless night…”

The truth hits me coldly. I can’t pretend what happened last night was some isolated mistake or harmless slip. Because it wasn’t. It was as though time itself had been waiting for the perfect moment to remind us of what we once were. As though fate had planned all of this just to force our eyes open.

My appetite is gone, and I set my utensils down beside the plate with an exhausted gesture.

“What do you really want, Barbara?” I ask myself quietly, staring blankly at the tablecloth. “Because you can’t keep going like this…”

The question lingers in the air, suspended between the murmur of the restaurant and the distant sound of the sea. Do I want Lidia back? Do I want us to try again despite everything—despite Ingrid, despite the distance, despite the mistakes we made in the past? Or is this just the place, these islands, the memory of who we used to be, and the chemistry that never truly faded and still pulses between us every time we look at each other?

I close my eyes for a moment and try to be honest with myself, truly honest, without excuses or comforting lies. But it isn’t easy. When I think about Ingrid, guilt twists in my stomach, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, and makes me question who I really am. But when I think about Lidia… I feel something much more primal, more visceral, more real. Something that races beneath my skin, quickens my pulse, steals my breath, something that tells me that no matter how hard I try to deny it, she’s still a part of me.

I open my eyes again and see her once more. She’s still there in the gardens, talking, smiling, alive in a way that almost hurts me, as though light itself were shining from inside her. And something inside me tightens painfully. Because I no longer know where I belong. Or who it is that I truly love. Or what kind of life I really want to live. And that fills me with a fear so cold it freezes my blood, a fear tangled with desire and nostalgia, leaving me sitting alone at this table wondering how the hell I’m supposed to get out of this mess without breaking myself and without losing everything.

CHAPTER 23

BEFORE WE BREAK UP

Lidia

There are days when you think you’ve finally learned how to dodge what really hurts. That it’s enough to fill the hours, to keep your hands busy with any task, and to distract your mind enough so certain thoughts can’t find a single corner to settle in. Over the last few days, I’ve almost managed it. Almost.

The resort has turned into a chessboard where I calculate every step I take down to the millimeter. Avoiding Barbara has become a routine I need. Because every time my mind relaxes for even a second, I go back to that night, to the memory of her hands tracing my skin, to her ragged breath against my neck, to the way, for a few hours, everything seemed to fall into place, as if the whole world had conspired to make sure the two of us were exactly there, with no past or future, in a timeless bubble.

“Lidia, which ones do you like better, the white ones or the yellow ones?” Miriam asks me, pointing to the bouquets the florist sent her. The room where the pre-wedding dinner will be held is almost decorated.

I blink, snapping back to the present, as if I’d been woken from a deep sleep.

“Hmm…” I hesitate for a few seconds, then run my fingertips over one of the petals. I look around, scanning the room with my eyes: the fabrics gently billowing in the breeze coming through the open windows, the nautical motifs lovingly placed in certain areas, that simple yet affectionate atmosphere Miriam wants for her wedding. Everything makes sense here. Everything follows a logical, serene order that calms me. “I think the white ones are perfect.”

“Yes. They’re my favorites.”

“And they’ll look beautiful,” I say, giving her a smile, trying to make my voice sound normal.

“Thank you,” she says with a warm smile that lights up her whole face. “I couldn’t have gotten this far without you, really. You’ve been a ray of sunshine these past few days.”

“You’re exaggerating,” I reply, waving it off with a gesture of my hand. “Anyone would have done the same.”

“No.” She shakes her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve gone above and beyond. You’ve taken care of everything, and I don’t know how to thank you.”

I shrug, trying to downplay the whole thing. It isn’t generosity driving me. It’s pure survival disguised as help, a way to keep myself busy so I don’t have to think about Barbara.

“When my father told me you two were getting married, the first thing I thought was that I had to come here and help you,” I explain calmly, running my fingers over the fabric of the tablecloth covering one of the tables. “I couldn’t just sit around in Valencia with my arms crossed while you and he organized everything on your own.” Besides, I like having things to do. That way I don’t have time to think too much about other things that… well, that aren’t good for me right now.