Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (top novels of all time txt) 📗

But Shiloh’s mouth was a taut line, and Isa, who was glaring at Charlotte like she’d just tossed her books in a bonfire, said nothing. Then Charlotte slammed the cupboard door closed and stormed off. And I stood there fighting back tears as I wondered if my daughters had already picked up on what I was just now opening my eyes to.

You’ve never seen four people eat a meal faster than we scarfed down dinner. The twins were probably right about needing alone time, I thought as everyone scattered to different corners of the apartment. And maybe Shiloh and I did, too. After all, there was a good reason that the adage wasn’t “Being under the same roof makes the heart grow fonder.”

Still—the thought of putting more distance between us gave me a terrible pang, because I couldn’t see how that could possibly be an improvement. Our ill-fated date aside, when was the last time we really connected? Not binge-watching British TV shows before bed together. Not folding laundry side by side as we discussed Isa’s preference for the fictional world and Charlotte’s annoyance with our monitoring her health. Real. Quality. Time.

Blame my sex-starved state, but every time I tried to recall some point in recent history that we’d really enjoyed each other’s company, I wound up remembering our whirlwind romance in Vieques.

After the one-two punch of my cancer diagnosis and Tom’s marriage-decimating confession, I’d intended to head to Mexico to live out my final days. But when my father told me that my mother had loved Vieques, I’d abruptly changed my plans. I met Shiloh on the flight to the island, and though I’d initially found his pithy humor and hands-off approach grating, his quick thinking had allowed him to safely land our plane after a run-in with a bird destroyed its engine. And minutes later, he talked me down from the panic attack I’d suffered after realizing that whether from cancer or a crash, I was about to exit life stage left. Before I knew it, we were spending time together in the way that only two naked people can.

Though I’d decided to forgo treatment, Shiloh confessed that he’d had cancer himself in his twenties. It took some doing, but he eventually convinced me to give survival—and yes, love—another shot. Still, neither of us had expected our fling to go the distance. But once we were apart, it had been impossible to stay that way, and he’d moved from Puerto Rico to the East Coast. Despite being told I was infertile, I’d gotten pregnant with the girls; Shiloh and I married a few months before they were born. What had started out as the most disastrous time in my life soon became the most magical.

Thinking about Vieques made me think of Milagros, too, which was infinitely more pleasant than wondering why my present relationship bore so little resemblance to its past. Milagros had been my landlord during the month I’d spent there, and in spite of our four-decade age difference, we’d hit it off. I’d only seen her a few times since then. But we’d stayed in close contact over the past thirteen years, and she’d become a dear friend. A mentor, even. As I’d learned after my mother died, the desire to be comforted by your parents never really went away, even when you had children yourself. But at least Milagros was still there when I, say, wasn’t sure what to do after I’d stuck my foot in my mouth with a neighbor. Or when I just wanted to chat.

I was about to start scouring the pots and pans when it hit me that she was exactly who could pull me out of my doldrums. I abandoned the dishes, grabbed my phone, and went out to the patio to call her.

She picked up right away. “Libby?” she said, half laughing my name. “So happy to hear from you.” We usually spoke every week or two, but I’d stopped calling as frequently since . . . well, around the time my dad died, to be honest, even if it hadn’t been intentional.

“Hi, Milagros,” I said. And then I burst into tears.

“Oh, mija. ¿Qué es?” she said, meaning, “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, still crying. “It’s just been a rough day and I needed to talk to someone.”

“Don’t apologize—I’m glad you called me! I’ve got nothing but time,” she said, and although I knew she was trying to reassure me, hearing her say this made me cry even harder because that’s probably what my father, who’d been seventy-four when he’d passed, had thought, too. While Milagros was in great health for a woman in her eighties, time was arguably not on her side. “Now, what’s going on?”

I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes. “I don’t even know,” I said, my voice quavering. “I went to the doctor the other day, and I thought I had cancer again. But I don’t. In fact, next month is my ten-year anniversary. And even though I know that’s the best possible news a person could wish for, I feel . . . well, not like myself,” I confessed, and even just saying this was like having a boulder lifted off my chest.

“Oh Libby,” she said kindly. Some tropical bird cawed in the background, and I could just picture her sitting on her palm tree–canopied patio, which was right beyond the guesthouse in her backyard. As much as I liked my own patio, I would have given a pinkie toe to be there next to her, listening to the waves hit the shore and feeling like everything was right with the world. “You don’t have to feel good all the time, tú sabes.”

“I know.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the double doors to the apartment were still closed. “But I don’t like feeling like this.”

“Lo sé,” she soothed, but then I heard a man calling her in the background.

“Who’s that?” I said.

“My lover, Hector,” she