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

porch, which was marginally cooler than the house, while Hector mopped the floor in the places the roof had leaked. It wasn’t time to check Charlotte’s blood sugar, but I’d been watching her like a hawk, and had asked the girls to come out front with us so I could continue to keep an eye on her.

We’d just sat down when a gaggle of strays appeared next to the porch, wagging their tails and yipping for Milagros’ attention.

“My babies! ¿Mida, cuántos son?” Milagros asked me as she tossed the cold cuts, which she’d retrieved from the fridge and were no longer cold, onto the soggy lawn.

I counted them silently. “Six.”

“Ay, there should be seven! I hope . . .” Her voice trailed off as she glanced around, presumably to take in what she could.

“You looking for a little guy?” I asked. A small, fawn-colored dog was peering around a bush with one eye; the other was closed, presumably for good. “Tan, kind of scrappy-looking, half-blind?”

“Pedro! Mi vida!” Milagros exclaimed, smiling genuinely for the first time since the storm had arrived. She was right—she had needed to come home. “Pedro can’t see so well, just like Old Milly. Pedro!” she hollered, extending her hand.

The dog came trotting up to her, his tail swinging like a metronome.

“Can we pet him?” said Charlotte, approaching the porch.

“Careful!” I warned as Pedro trotted toward her. “He doesn’t know you and might bite.”

“Pedro wouldn’t hurt a mosquito!” Milagros protested.

“Right, but he probably hasn’t been vaccinated,” I said, glancing at his matted fur.

“He has,” she said, patting his head. “I had a vet come to my place last winter to take care of them. Couldn’t get Coco or Bene to cooperate, so maybe don’t pet the little black one or the brown one with spots,” she said to the girls, who were both at the foot of the stairs.

“As you may have gathered, I’m not really a dog person,” I told Milagros, grimacing as Charlotte bent before Pedro and put her hand out. He sniffed it, then stuck his head under it to get her to pet him, making her giggle.

“Everyone’s a dog person,” said Milagros. Now a mangy-looking brown Lab had joined us on the porch and was rubbing against her legs. Its backside was entirely too close to my face. “You just haven’t met the right dog yet.”

“Maybe not,” I said, because at least Charlotte and Isa, who was now running her hand down Pedro’s filthy back, were starting to shake the stressed-out vibe they’d had since the storm hit.

“Pet him, Mom!” demanded Isa, looking up at me.

“Do I have to?” I said, and for some reason, this got a laugh out of them. I sighed and rose from my chair. “Fine.” After I was down the stairs, I knelt in front of Pedro. “Hey there, fleabag,” I muttered under my breath.

Pedro cocked his head and eyed me. Then he lunged.

I was about to scream—my cheek was wet, so surely I was oozing blood—when I realized that I hadn’t felt the sting of his teeth. I pulled my head back and examined him. “Did you just . . . lick me?”

He wagged his tail in response.

“Naughty dog,” I said, but I couldn’t help but smile.

The girls were laughing. “See? You’re so paranoid, Mom,” said Isa.

I was tempted to remind her that I wasn’t the one who’d sworn off the ocean because of a freak jellyfish incident. “It’s all fun and games until you get rabies,” I said, but then I remembered, yet again, that there was no hospital to go to if Pedro changed his mind and decided to have my face for dinner.

“Pedro doesn’t have rabies,” said Charlotte, scratching the mutt’s ears. She looked up at me with bright eyes. “Mom, can we get a dog when we get home?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation, even though I’d said no each of the four thousand and three times she and Isa had asked me in the past. If all went well, I’d live to regret my impulsivity. But as I resisted the urge to check my phone, which was nearly out of batteries, to see how long Shiloh had been gone, I would have promised them a baby llama if it meant we’d make it off the island without another catastrophe.

TWENTY-THREE

The sun was just starting to set when Shiloh returned. I could tell from his posture that the news wasn’t good.

“Ferry’s down,” he said, leaping over a puddle in the driveway to come to where I’d been waiting on the porch. Hector was inside, attempting to cobble together dinner, while the girls were on the patio, clearing debris under Milagros’ supervision. “The dock was damaged, and no one seems to know what’s going on. There’s no one at the airport, either.”

“No one?” I said, incredulous.

He shook his head. “Not a single person.”

“Pharmacies? Health clinics?”

He met my eyes but didn’t respond.

“Crap,” I said.

“I know. And the gas stations are closed, too.”

I was staring at him, but for a few seconds it wasn’t him I was seeing at all. Instead, Charlotte was in my arms, just as she’d been a few days ago at the hotel in San Juan. Only this time my attempts to save her weren’t working. “What are we going to do?” I said, my voice cracking.

He looked away for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he said.

This was not what I had been hoping to hear. After all, the man had once calmly landed an engine-damaged plane like it was an everyday event!

But then I realized that however harrowing that had been, our current situation was far more complicated. And if I was being honest with myself—and admittedly, I was mostly trying not to be—I was mostly upset because I was expecting Shiloh to play the role my father had always played. He’d been like a magician, always distracting then amazing us without ever showing us how very hard he worked to pull it all off.

He pushed at the gravel with the tip of