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

immediately. My father had always said that the faster you apologized, the faster you moved on. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s already been a long day, and I just wanted you to pay attention and look at the horses.”

But as I pointed out the window, the only horse left to look at was a foal’s backside, disappearing into the wooded area on the other side of the road.

“We’ll see more,” Shiloh assured me, but before I could respond, raindrops started to ping the Jeep.

Behind me, Charlotte sighed deeply. “So much for the horses.”

“And so much for the beach,” muttered Isa.

“It’ll pass,” I said, trying to make up for having spewed acid all over everyone’s mood. “Storms never last long in Puerto Rico.”

But as we drove south to Milagros’, the rain grew heavier and heavier until the windshield wipers could barely keep up. I wish I could say that’s why we drove straight past Calle Rosa, the dirt road Milagros’ house was off of. The truth was, we were looking for a picturesque dirt road with a handmade wooden sign—and it never appeared. It was only after we rerouted using our GPS that we realized the road had been coated with asphalt, and the cute sign was now a standard metal plaque. If he noticed it, Shiloh didn’t say as much, so I decided not to share that I sure hoped it was the only thing that had gotten a charmless makeover.

I sighed with relief as we pulled into the driveway. We were finally here.

Milagros’ house was still the same shade of pale pink, and her yard was dotted with the plastic flamingos that had been there on our last several visits. Except she wasn’t waiting for us on the porch, as I guess I’d been expecting her to. In fact, only a rooster seemed to notice our arrival as the four of us clambered out of the Jeep and ran through the rain.

Shiloh knocked once, twice, and then a third time. I was just pulling out my phone to call her when a man appeared in the doorway.

He had deeply tanned skin and a gleaming white smile; if I had to guess, he couldn’t have had more than five years on Shiloh. His guayabera was starched, and his slacks were pressed. He smelled of cologne. Milagros didn’t have children, but maybe this was a nephew or some other relative who’d come in from the big island to visit.

“You must be Shiloh and Libby,” he said in a booming voice. “Mucho gusto.”

“Mucho gusto,” said Shiloh, reaching out to shake his hand.

“I’m Hector.”

“You’re—” I stopped myself before I could say what I was thinking: This was Hector? He was too young and too good-looking, and . . . well, not what I’d envisioned when Milagros said she’d taken a lover.

Shiloh didn’t blink an eye before he began chatting with Hector in Spanish. But where was Milagros?

Then I heard her yodel my name from inside the house and I smiled. A moment later, she appeared on the porch, whose broad awning was shielding us from the rain.

“Mija,” she said, opening her arms to me.

“Milagros.” All of my troubles evaporated as I inhaled her citrusy scent. Her arms were tight around me, and though I normally didn’t like prolonged hugs from anyone other than my nuclear family, I could have stayed there all day. Milagros would know how to fix me, just like she had the last time I’d been here. In fact, based on the way my mood had lifted, she was already working on it.

As she let me go, I stepped back to examine her. My initial reaction was worry, because her legs, which were sticking out of the bottom of her yellow dress, were as thin as a small child’s, and her face was more lined than it had been the last time I’d seen her. But as I looked at her pink cheeks and shining brown eyes, I realized she was glowing . . . the way people glow when they’re in love.

Just for a moment, I had the most terrible, sinking feeling.

I was jealous.

Get a grip, Libby Ross-Velasquez, I commanded myself. Milagros had four decades on me, and after so many unsuccessful relationships, wasn’t it wonderful that she’d found love and all the energy and enthusiasm that comes with it while she still had the chance?

Hector smiled at us, then said, “Milly, do you want me to get your glasses?”

“Hector, you know they don’t make a difference. Estoy ciega,” she said, batting a hand in his direction.

“Blind?” I said with alarm. I knew she’d been having vision problems, but she’d said she’d been taking eye drops that were helping. “Milagros, are you serious?”

“Legally, sí. It’s just the glaucoma—I can see un poco right in the middle of things, but not on the sides.” She laughed and looked up at Hector as he linked his arm through hers. “But I can still see what’s important.”

“Milly,” said Hector, bending to kiss her.

“I’m sorry, Milagros,” I said, glancing at Shiloh. If he was surprised by their May-December romance, he didn’t show it; instead, he stood there like he didn’t have a care in the world. Good! I thought. Vieques was working its magic on him, which meant it wouldn’t be long before we embarked on the Libby and Shiloh reunion tour.

“Don’t be sorry,” she scoffed. “There are worse problems to have. Y dónde está Charlotte? And Isabel Milagros?” she said, smiling at her namesake.

The girls stepped forward. “Hi, Milagros,” squeaked Charlotte.

“Hi,” said Isa, standing there like a deer in headlights. I nearly leaned in to whisper for her to be warmer to the woman from whom she got her middle name. I knew she and Charlotte were too young to remember their visit to Vieques, but they’d heard me talk about Milagros for years, and they’d spoken with her on the phone many times. And though Shiloh and I had probably made a whole host of parenting mistakes, one thing we’d taught them was to