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

“I seem to recall saying almost that exact thing to you.”

“I’ll allow it.”

“He . . .” I wrinkled my nose. “He just doesn’t seem that into me anymore.”

“Are we talking about carnally?” asked Paul in a gentle tone.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I see. And have you mentioned this to him?”

“Sort of? He said that it didn’t mean anything, and that he felt pressured the second time we tried.”

“Ahh, ye olde sexual pressure. I bet you a Benjamin that it has nothing to do with you.”

“How can you say that?” I said, thinking about how weird I’d been feeling lately. “I was the one trying to—you know.”

“I do know, and let’s just say I have experience in this realm.”

“You and Charlie?” I said with surprise.

“At the end, yes.”

“That’s not reassuring, Paul.”

“You’re not us, and we’re not you. You can still fix this.”

“How? Every time I’ve tried, I’ve made things worse.”

I could hear him sigh through the phone. “I’m not sure, actually, but being in Puerto Rico is probably a good start.”

“I thought you knew everything,” I joked, though the truth was, I was a bit disappointed he didn’t have an answer at the ready.

“I am indeed a pantomath.”

“Panto-who?”

“Pantomath,” he repeated. “That’s someone who wants to know everything and mostly does. So, thank you for the compliment.”

“You’re incorrigible,” I said, looking out at the ocean. “All the same, I wish you were here.”

“I do, too.”

“You could come, you know,” I said suddenly. “I know you can afford it, and we’ll be here for another five days.”

“Honestly, getting out of this asphalt jungle sounds amazing, but the boys are doing an SAT test prep course for the next few weeks, and Charlie is going to Fire Island to stay with a friend.”

“A friend? That sounds less like coasting and more like riding a tsunami.”

“Moving right along! I wish we could join you guys, but the timing is rotten.”

“We are going to discuss this,” I warned, trying not to get upset. Here I’d been blaming Paul, but if Charlie was seeing other men . . . well, they were in even worse shape than I’d allowed myself to admit.

“And we will—later. For now, go put on your sexiest sarong and do your best to be adventurous. A little adrenaline is often just the thing to kick-start passion.”

“I think it works a little differently for women,” I said.

“As loath as I am to discuss this particular aspect of your health and well-being any further, do recall that we’re not targeting your libido.”

“Right,” I said. What I didn’t say was that I suspected Shiloh’s waning sex drive was probably a direct reaction to me—not a lack of adrenaline.

The clouds that had looked miles away were suddenly cloaking the sun again. I’d intended to walk a little longer, but with the sky looking ominous I turned to start back toward the guesthouse. “I’d better get going,” I told Paul. “Thanks for talking me down.”

“Anytime. Hang in there.”

“I will,” I said, because at least I felt better than I had before I called. “Love you.”

“Love you more and no take backs.” And then, because this had always been our game—to try to get the last word—he hung up.

When I returned to the guesthouse, Shiloh was helping the girls pick up the board games. He looked up and shot me a closed-lip smile, probably for the girls’ benefit, but I managed to smile back at him. “Almost ready for drinks?” I said cheerfully.

“Yes,” he said, looking at me quizzically. “You’re feeling better?”

“I am!” I wasn’t, actually, but the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that the only thing to do was throw everything at our marriage and see what stuck. I would try adventure and adrenaline, per Paul’s advice, because it couldn’t hurt. But I was also going to double down on relocating the real me—the one I’d found thirteen years earlier on this very island. Because that was the woman Shiloh fell in love with.

It had begun to drizzle when we headed to Milagros’ for drinks, so instead of meeting on the patio, Hector ushered us into the house. I steeled myself for more of his signature achromatic style but was relieved to see that little about Milagros’ home had changed. There were the same paintings of fruit trees and the Puerto Rican countryside on her pale peach walls; here was a familiar basket full of orchids swinging over the kitchen sink. And there was Milagros, sprawled on one of the two weathered velour sofas she and I had spent many an afternoon gabbing on back when Shiloh was still just my vacation fling. It felt like coming home.

“Bienvenidos!” she said, rising. “Let me get you a drink!”

“Please, sit. We can do it,” I told her.

“You’re my guest, Libby. Let me. And don’t worry about my eyes!” she squawked, already reaching for the pitcher on the coffee table.

“Milagros, amor, let me,” said Hector, gazing adoringly at her.

I couldn’t help it; seeing Hector look at Milagros like she was the best thing that ever happened to him made me glance at Shiloh, who was on a chair across from the sofa, saying something to Isa. The last time I could remember him looking at me like that had been at Rupi’s wedding the summer before. She and her husband, Trevor, had just kissed and were strutting down the aisle as newlyweds. It was one of those moments when everything up ahead seems to be brimming with promise, and Shiloh had kissed the back of my neck softly before meeting my eyes. “I love you even more than the day we married,” he’d whispered, sending goose bumps dancing up my arms. That night, we’d made love like a couple of teenagers, and I remembered thinking that although we were heading into the autumn of our lives, maybe we were in the midst of a sexual spring.

If only I’d known it was more like a short-lived heat wave that would be