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

“Now, mija,” she said, waving me over. “Why do you look like someone peed in your piña colada?”

I managed to laugh as I sank into the chair that was next to hers. “No piña coladas for me yet today, but I’m sorry if I look down. I’m just tired, I guess.” This was true—between the hike and the heat I was wilted—though I suspected Shiloh’s secrecy and the decimated restaurant were as much to blame. But at least my foot had finally stopped throbbing.

She stretched her thin legs out in front of her and leaned farther back. “Eh, I can’t see so well. But am I wrong in sensing that you’re still having a hard time, like we talked about?”

“You’re not wrong,” I admitted. “Well, not entirely. I’m starting to feel a little better.”

“It’s okay if you aren’t, tú sabes,” she said kindly.

“I know.” I hesitated, then said, “Today is my ten-year anniversary. Of being cancer free, I mean.”

“Felicidades,” she said, raising her water glass to me. “I still remember taking you to the doctor the first time you were here. Ay, you were in a bad way, ¿recuerdas?”

“I do,” I said, smiling at her. The incision on my abdomen where I’d had part of my tumor removed had gotten infected, but I’d thought the pain was just another sign of cancer. I’d been on the verge of developing sepsis when Milagros had driven me to the health clinic, where another doctor had given me antibiotics. Looking back, Milagros had probably saved my life. “Do you remember what you said to me?”

“Never ask an old woman what she remembers!” she said, swatting in my direction.

My smile widened. “I told you I was supposed to die. You said that if that was true, I’d be dead, and that everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be, even if they didn’t realize it.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“You sure were.” I meant it, even as I wondered what it meant for me all these years later. Cancer—well, that had been a gift, albeit the kind that you’d definitely return, given the option. But I was hard-pressed to see the purpose in this ridiculous midlife funk I was in the midst of. “Hey, Milagros?”

“¿Sí?”

“Did you ever have a midlife crisis?”

“Claro que sí, amiga!” she hooted. She leaned in conspiratorially. “His name was Nacho.”

I looked at her and began to laugh. “Nacho?”

“Short for Ignacio. Now that was a man. He had the biggest—”

“Milagros!”

“I was going to say boat!” She grinned. “Anyway. It was a bad idea, and I knew that from the moment I let him put his arm around me.”

“Huh,” I said, thinking of Paul and Andy. “Then why’d you do it?”

“Ay, there aren’t many things better than being naked with someone who’d give anything to be naked with you. Why do you think I’m having so much fun with Hector?”

I tried not to wince and ended up wrinkling my nose.

“You think old people shouldn’t have sex, eh?” said Milagros, frowning.

“No, it’s not that at all.” My cheeks were warm. “It’s just that Shiloh and I—” I glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot. “Things haven’t been going so well for us.”

“That hunky husband of yours? He adores you!” she protested.

“I’m sure he does,” I said, even as I thought of him silencing his phone on the beach. “I mean . . . in bed.” Just admitting this, however mortifying, was an immense relief.

“Ahhh.” As she pushed herself up and leaned toward me, I was reminded of how frail she was. “Can I give you a bit of advice?”

“Please do.”

“Don’t try to fix it.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head firmly. “Mija, I’ve had a handful of husbands, not to mention Nacho and Hector and all the others who didn’t put a ring on my finger. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s the bedroom. And believe me when I tell you sex is never about sex. Shiloh loves you. Things will work themselves out, so don’t spend all your time worrying about why your fancy underwear isn’t doing the trick, tú sabes?”

I was wearing cotton briefs and a bra that had seen better days. Still, the point stood. “I hope you’re right,” I said.

“I’m always right most of the time!” she declared, grinning at me.

Milagros had yet to steer me wrong. But as she began telling me about the gaggle of stray dogs she’d been caring for since shortly after the hurricane hit, I kept thinking about what Paul had said to me. Wasn’t letting our marital issues work themselves out the very definition of coasting?

SEVENTEEN

“No flash photography. If you have a phone, we recommend you leave it on the bus, but if you must take it with you, please use one of the sealable plastic bags we provided and place it in a zipped pocket. And again, you are welcome to put your hands in the water, but absolutely no swimming or otherwise attempting to leave your kayaks.”

The four of us were standing in a semicircle with half a dozen other people, listening to our guide run through what was turning out to be a very long list of instructions for the bioluminescent bay tour we’d booked. And with every new prohibited activity, my enthusiasm waned a little more.

“Really?” I said to the guide. “We went swimming last time we were here.”

He looked at me agog. “Must have been ages ago. All that sunscreen and bug spray is bad for the dinoflagellates,” he said, referring to the tiny organisms that lit up when the water was disturbed.

“And hurts the fish,” said an older man dressed in khaki cargo shorts and a matching vest decorated with pins shaped like fishing lures. “There are more than two hundred and fifty species in this bay alone.”

I frowned. I guess I cared about the fish. No, I did, I reminded myself. But . . . what about being able to float beside Shiloh, as we did on our