Page 82 of We Shouldn’t Do This Again

Lidia

The restaurant feels like a different place, as if someone had suddenly turned off the magic and only the echo of what it once was remains.

Just an hour ago, the tables were adorned with flowers that perfumed the air, candles that lent a sense of warmth to the conversations, and glasses that clinked merrily during toasts and shared laughter. The music flowed as the golden lights suspended among the palm trees turned the night into something like a dream from which no one wants to wake up. But now, even though all of that is still there, it feels like an empty stage set after a play that ended badly, with the chairs in disarray and the void left by people when they disappear.

The candles remain lit, though some have burned down enough for the wax to drip down the sides in thick, white tears. There are napkins folded halfway on the tablecloths, forgotten glasses with traces of wine, and plates half-cleared away. The constant murmur of the sea comes from the shore, indifferent to my pain, as if life were going on as normal while the air has been ripped from my lungs and I’ve been left drowning in silence.

I am sitting in a wooden chair, curled up in a ball, with my father’s strong arms wrapped around my shoulders, offering me a protective embrace, and Miriam’s hand tenderly stroking my hair.

I’ve cried so much that my throat hurts, as if every sob were scraping me from the inside. I’ve cried with sobs, with rage, and with a shame that has made me want to vanish from the world. I’ve cried because I feel as though someone has ripped open my chest with their hands and left my heart exposed, still beating, broken into a thousand pieces, and ridiculous for having given itself away again without reserve.

I couldn’t stop no matter how hard I tried. I don’t know how long I’ve been like this; maybe ten minutes or a whole lifetime, I don’t know, because time, ever since I saw Ingrid burst into the middle of the restaurant, has ceased to exist. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m still trembling, as if the cold had seeped into my bones and was determined never to leave me.

My father pulls me a little closer to him, just as he used to do when I was a child and woke up from a nightmare with my heart racing.

“It’s over, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice breaking with emotion, almost without strength. “It’s over.”

But it isn’t. It isn’t over at all. Because pain doesn’t understand hugs or clichés.

I close my eyes tightly, but it only makes it worse, because the memory of that moment comes flooding back into my mind. I remember Barbara’s hands resting on my waist, her lips brushing against mine, her eyes looking at me as if I were the only thing that mattered in the world. I hear her say that she loves me, that she wants to fight for us, that she doesn’t want to lose me again after all this time. And then Ingrid appears; her name burns inside me, even though I barely know her.

I let out a sob so loud that I double over, almost out of breath.

“I shouldn’t have invited her to the wedding,” my father says suddenly. I know he feels guilty about all this, and it hurts me that he’s taking responsibility for something he couldn’t have prevented. “Damn… I shouldn’t have let her back into your life like that.”

I lift my head and look at him through my tears. His eyes are shining, full of sadness. My father has never been able to pretend when something truly hurts him, and right now it hurts him to see me in such a mess.

Miriam slowly shakes her head. The warm light from the lamps caresses her face and makes her look even more serene, like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm.

“That doesn’t matter anymore, Pablo,” she says with that calmness of hers that never feels cold, but rather firm and comforting. “What’s done is done, and it can’t be undone. Even though I told you back then that you were playing with fire.”

“I know, but…” he replies, angry with himself, his voice tense. “I thought this could be nice, that maybe we could have a second chance.”

I don’t let him finish his sentence, because the words are choking me.

“No, Dad,” I manage to say, my voice breaking, almost choked up. “Don’t blame yourself, please. Don’t do that.”

I can barely even speak. My throat feels raw, as if I’d swallowed sand and now it’s scraping against me with every word. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand, though the tears keep falling, constant and treacherous.

“The only one who’s made a mistake here is me.”

“Don’t say that, Lidia. It’s not fair.”

But it is, and I feel it with every heartbeat. Because I’m the one who kissed Barbara again as if time could be undone with a stroke of a pen and erase all the damage. I was the one who confused desire with redemption, the one who wanted to believe with all her soul that this island could erase the years of open wounds, of silences that hurt, of reproaches that separated us, and of entire nights crying alone in Valencia, asking myself over and over again why my love had never been enough for her to stay.

I press my fingers against the tablecloth to keep from falling apart, to anchor myself to something solid, and I sit up straight.

“The only one who took her back into my heart was me,” I say, and the confession comes out in fits and starts, raw, full of rage. “I’m the idiot. The naive one. The fool who believed this was a real second chance, that this time everything would be different.”

My voice cracks at the end, like a glass falling and shattering into pieces. Miriam leans toward me and takes my hand gently. Her gesture is soft, warm, maternal, as if she wanted to offer me some warmth in the midst of so much coldness.

“Don’t talk to yourself like that, sweetheart,” she says tenderly, looking me in the eyes. “You don’t deserve to be so hard on yourself.”

I let out a bitter laugh that isn’t a laugh at all, just emptiness.

“And how do you want me to talk to myself?” I ask, my voice trembling. “Like someone intelligent? Like someone prudent who learns from their mistakes? I’ve fallen back into the exact same place it took me years to climb out of, and this time it hurts more because I knew what was waiting for me in that pit.”

“It’s not the same,” Miriam insists, squeezing my hand gently.