Page 44 of We Shouldn’t Do This Again

Miriam watches me for a few seconds. Her eyes linger on my face as if she’s trying to read something I don’t want her to read. But in the end, she says nothing. And I thank her silently, because if she started asking questions, I don’t know if I could keep pretending everything is fine.

“Well, that’s it, then. We’d better get going or we’ll be late. And you know how your father gets about being late.”

This morning, while we were having breakfast on the terrace, it got into his head that we should celebrate the fact that everything was going smoothly. A peaceful boat ride, something relaxed, no drama. Just sun, sea, and good company. It took a lot of effort not to laugh when he said “no drama.” But I agreed because refusing would raise suspicions and because, deep down, a part of me wanted to test something.

The sea is calmer than last time, and I’m grateful for that. Though I’m sure Barbara is much more grateful than I am. The sky is completely clear, and the air feels lighter, as if everything had aligned to make this a simple, uncomplicated day. For the first few hours, it is. We talk about silly things, laugh easily, and share trivial comments about the scenery, about the turquoise color of the water, about anything that doesn’t involve stirring up everything we’re feeling inside.

Barbara and I act as if nothing had happened. As if we were two people who know each other only from a distance. We smile at each other when appropriate, comment when something catches our attention, and avoid brushing against each other, even by accident. And it works. Or so I want to believe, at least until it stops working.

I don’t know exactly when it happens. Maybe when Miriam decides to stay in the water a little longer with my father, laughing and splashing each other like two children without a care in the world. Maybe when I get out of the sea first and climb onto the boat to dry off, feeling the warm sun on my wet skin. Or maybe it was simply fate deciding it was time to stop pretending.

The fact is, when I realize it, the two of us are alone on the deck.

The sound of the water gently lapping against the boat’s hull fills the silence that has settled between us. The sun beats down on the wood, warming it beneath my bare feet. I sit down on one of the benches and wrap myself in the towel without looking directly at her. But I sense her. My body has a special radar for her—for her presence, her scent, and her warmth.

“Everything went better than last time…” Barbara says, gently breaking the silence.

I nod without taking my eyes off the horizon where the sea meets the sky.

“Yeah, honestly…”

A brief pause settles between us, so charged with tension that my heart races.

“It’s better this way, isn’t it?” I add, trying to keep my tone light.

“Yes,” she repeats, and her voice sounds a little closer.

Another pause. And then, as if neither of us could stand that superficial conversation any longer—the one slowly suffocating us—something changes.

“I missed this…” she confesses with a sincerity that catches me off guard and makes me turn my head toward her.

I frown slightly and look her in the eyes.

“What exactly?”

She hesitates for a second, as if searching for the exact words so as not to ruin everything.

“Talking to you and feeling like we’re walking through a minefield the whole time. Weighing every word and being afraid that one wrong phrase will break everything again.”

I let out a small, dry laugh, more nervous than amused, as I adjust the towel around my body.

“Our relationship ended up being exactly that, Barbara,” I reply, resting my elbows on my knees. “Weighing, calculating, avoiding…”

“Yeah…” she admits with a long sigh, looking out at the water. “You’re right. But I’ve asked myself so many times if it was worth living like that, with so much fear. Instead of trying to get back what we had before…”

The silence that follows is sincere. And that’s precisely why it’s dangerous, because it opens those doors I decided to close again after what happened the other night. When I told Alex about it—because yes, I did—the first thing she said was, “I knew you liked taking risks, but not that much.” And she was right.

“Before…” I repeat, almost to myself, and the words seem to come out on their own, without me being able to stop them. “Before, everything was easier. We’d laugh at the silliest things, touch each other without thinking twice about the consequences, and the world seemed like a much simpler place when we were together.”

“Yes,” she replies, looking into my eyes with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “Everything was too easy. So easy that we didn’t realize how fragile it was until it broke.”

I look at her more closely then. And there’s something in her expression that pierces straight through the center of my chest and leaves me breathless.

“We had nothing to lose,” I say, my voice lower now, almost a whisper.

“We,” she corrects me in an even softer whisper. “We had each other. And that was all we needed.”

The blow is gentle, but precise. I look out toward the sea, trying to pull myself together while my heart pounds.