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“Hugo!”
“What’s wrong, you nutter?” her brother asked.
“Could you have a look at him?”
“Who?”
Alex showed him the poor creature trembling in his arms.
“Where did you find him?” Hugo asked, concerned.
“Abandoned,” Alex replied.
“Let me see.”
The whole family moved into the living room and watched as Hugo examined the animal. When he was done, there was no doubt that the little thing was staying, but where? With the Cabanas? Or the St. Claires?
They proposed a compromise: they would share him. And that’s what they did—the dog lived between the two families, going from one house to the other. Both sets of parents agreed to it; the only one who was a bit concerned was the cat.
Alex and Priscila spent the entire summer doing the train thing—except for the second half of July, when Alex had to travel to Rome for the World Cup. They went to many places, all of them new and unknown, and in each one they found something different. And listened to something different: Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face”; Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling”; “Estoy enfermo,” by Pignoise.
The last stop was a town sixty miles from their own—they saw the lake from the train window and couldn’t resist. They rented a small boat—so small it was a raft, nothing more than a few joined logs—and they sailed around. Both had grown up by the sea; they were good on a boat. They rowed in perfect sync until they stopped in the middle of nowhere to sunbathe and relax with the gentle swaying of the waves. Dog included. They called him Dark, because of a black spot surrounding his honey-colored eye.
They almost always brought him with them on their little trips. They used a carrier that Hugo had lent them, but sometimes Dark didn’t want to travel in it, so they would hide him under their feet until the train personnel discovered him and the three of them got booted off.
That summer was honey-colored, the same color as their new family member’s eyes.
Truce on the high seas
“Happy birthday, Papá!”
From the last of the stairs, I throw myself into my dad’s arms and wrap him in a bear hug.
It’s his birthday today—his sixtieth—but it’s also an excuse to express my feelings, and feel protected at the same time. Since I came back, I haven’t shown myself as I am or expressed myself freely. And, yes, I’m talking about Alex. Because eleven days ago—eleven days in which I haven’t seen him at all—when we had our “last time,” I’d have liked to hug him more, kiss him everywhere, but I couldn’t. That’s something I’ve come to realize over these last eleven days.
Am I going crazy? Is that it?
Going crazy for wanting Alex, as if nothing had happened between us? As if he hadn’t broken my heart four years ago, shattered my life? Why, when I think about it now, is it like all that happened in the past has lost its value? How is it possible that something so critical, something that decided my destiny years ago, now seems less... vital, less important? Even... forgivable? Is it because I’m no longer twenty-two? Because I’m more mature? Or do wrecking balls turn into grains of sand over time?
And the question that scares me more than anything—the one I want answered the most—is why do I have this deep need for Alex to love me? Love me as I know he did in the past? Although... do I know? Did he love me? My heart says he did, that it’s impossible to fake a love like that, but then... what happened? Did he get tired of me? Did his love run out? Was I not enough for him? Too immature? Is that why he did what he did?
I shake my head and release myself from my dad’s arms. I also make myself a promise: I will not think about Alex today.
Every year for Dad’s birthday, we borrow an old family friend’s yacht and spend the entire day sailing. It’s a Cabana tradition; I’ve missed and longed for those days at sea with my parents and my brothers. My dad has always taken his birthday off work, and this time will be no different. We’ve all taken this Friday off.
“Are we ready?” Mom asks.
I do a quick count: Mom, Dad, Adrián, Marcos, Jaime.
“River and Hugo? Alicia?” I omit the name of my other sister-in-law, the lovely one, although I know she’ll undoubtedly come. She’s never missed one of my dad’s birthdays. I don’t know why, but it’s one of the few days she’s in a good mood. Her relationship with my parents is good and sincere, I’ve never understood how or why.
“We’re meeting them at the port,” my dad explains.
“Okay, let’s go then.” Marcos is already on his way to the front door.
“I haven’t had breakfast,” I protest. I’d got up early, showered, put on a bikini and a bright green top over it and raced downstairs, ready and willing.
“You can have breakfast there,” my mom says.
