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She didn’t meet Alex alone again, so there was no more kissing, no more touching, but that summer—a summer colored by disco ball light—was a turning point for Alex and Priscila. Even if they didn’t know that yet.
This is the only pub in town
Alex
At nine o’clock in the evening I walk into the pub—I’m meeting Marc and Ali there, they’re having some kind of formal delivery of the wedding invitations today—and the first thing I see? Her. Fuck, always her.
Priscila.
I could say it’s because of the absurd red shoes she wears—giant pompoms included. They make her immediately visible. But I stopped lying to myself a long time ago. Priscila Cabana will always be the first thing my eyes go to when she’s within a ten-meter radius of me. Not because I hate her less. No. It’s just a fact.
Even from a distance I can discern the damage the jellyfish did to her neck a couple of days ago. A shudder runs through my body as I remember what happened that morning on the beach. It’s been a while since I felt such ungovernable fear, and that makes me consider things I don’t fucking want to consider. My rational side tells me it was perfectly natural to be scared. Years ago, Priscila had been my driving force, the person I loved and adored the most, my wife; it was to be expected that my heart burst inside my chest when I saw she was in danger. My irrational side has nothing to add.
That day, I was talking calmly to River on the shore—in fact, we were talking about tonight’s party. I’d been reluctant to attend. I’m not the sociable type; I didn’t feel like it. But River dismantled every single one of my arguments with little effort. Marcos Cabana’s not just my brother-in-law; he’s my best friend. The three of them are: River, Marcos and Hugo. But Marcos is closest. He’s that special person we all deserve to have in our lives, outside the romantic realm. He was the one who managed to keep me from breaking down four years ago.
The thing is, from where I was standing, I could see Priscila perfectly. She was about thirty feet away, lying on a towel, but I still knew it was her; I’d seen her arrive. I watched, distracted at first, as she got up half asleep and dived into the water. I didn’t like it, not a single bit. As River continued with his tortuous and interminable speech, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, less distracted now somehow. I barely listened to what my brother-in-law was telling me, I just nodded from time to time, pretending I was playing along. Priscila’s head kept getting smaller and smaller, but I didn’t lose sight of it, and every so often I used the binoculars to see her better. River probably thought I was just doing my job.
I don’t know what gave me the warning—maybe the jet skis getting closer to her, maybe something else—but I knew something was going to happen before it happened, and instinctively I ran into the water.
I swam fucking fast, I could see the precise moment Priscila sank into the depths; I still had a few meters to get to her but it felt like the water was engulfing me. I dived and in less than five seconds I had her in my arms. When I realized she’d lost consciousness my mind instantly filled up with details from all the textbooks I’ve read and studied throughout my life: how many seconds the drowning phase lasts, maximum minutes in which first aid must be applied...
I’d barely started swimming back to the shore when two of my co-workers arrived with the powerboat we keep for emergencies. We got Priscila onto it and I immediately started with the assisting breathing. I had to keep a cool head, forget who was lying unconscious in the boat. I had to forget, for so many reasons.
Once on solid ground, Priscila took a few seconds to react. And that’s when I lost my shit. All the training I received when I decided to work as a lifeguard on how to calm a victim went to hell. That easy.
I have to admit, I behaved so badly then. The way I treated her, when she’d nearly drowned and was still in shock, was fucking atrocious. And she was the one who apologized. It should have been me. I should apologize now. But something is stopping me.
I was—and I am—pissed off. Period. It’s true that this rage is not something new, it comes from afar. As far as four long years can be.
The first months after our separation, and after what came next, I dreamed about her a lot. I imagined her falling. I never knew where she was falling to, I only saw her holding out her hand for me to save her, but I... I always let her fall. That’s how I survived all that time: hurting her. I hated myself too. And, honestly, I’m glad to know that I don’t hate her to the point of not instinctively helping her in a real risk situation. Maybe I’m not going straight to hell. Maybe my soul is not entirely lost.
Two days have passed since then. I know River took her to the medical center. I know she’s fine.
I enter the darkness of the pub and take my eyes off her and that friend of hers—whoever the hell he is, because I don’t know. I just know he looks like an asshole.
I go to the bar and order a non-alcoholic beer. I’m not in a party mood, and I have to drive anyway. I lean against the closest wall I can find and—as fate would have it—Priscila and the asshole come out of the toilets at exactly that moment. Yes, they even go to the restroom together. They haven’t seen me, focused as they are on their conversation, but I can hear what they’re saying.
“Cabana, there’s the redhead from the Underworld.”
I snort at what he called her. Cabana. I don’t like it.
Priscila tilts her head to one side, in a gesture that strikes me as too familiar, listening to what this amusing guy has to say.
“Yeah, I saw her already,” she replies. “And the other redhead from the Underworld next to her? She’s her little sister. Well, she’s everything but little with those kilometric legs and her five foot seven. They look like twins. Twins from the eternal and evil flame.”
I don’t understand why they’re talking in code right now—it’s Eggy Peggy, Priscila and Adrián used it all the time when we were kids, at school and whenever they didn’t want the grown-ups to understand; it basically consists of inserting the word “egg” before every vowel—but that catches my attention even more. I follow her gaze; they’re talking about Carolina—my brother’s ex-girlfriend—and Carmen, her sister. They’re the redheads from the Underworld?
Then I get it: they think if they use another language, with such strong accent, no-one will pick up on their bitching. But I understand them effortlessly. And they still haven’t noticed me; I’m like the fucking invisible man.
“Let’s call her Ariel,” the guy suggests.
“Which one?”
“Redhead Number One. So we can talk freely about her.”
“Like Ariel the Little Mermaid?”
“Yeah, she’s a redhead too.”
