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

like it had forgotten what his bone structure was for. The worst part was that he’d always said he wanted to go out with a bang when he was a hundred or while he watched the Tigers win the World Series—whichever came first (though he was the first to admit that the former was far more likely, as his beloved baseball team had been disappointing him for as long as he’d been a fan).

Come to find out he’d end up exiting this world the same way my mother had: tethered to a hospital bed, forming a final memory that involved leaving behind everyone who loved him most and being unable to do a damn thing about it.

But just before he slipped out of consciousness for good, his eyes met mine and he tried to speak. I couldn’t understand the first part of what he’d been trying to say. But his last words—there was no mistaking those. They weren’t Goodbye, or Get Paul, or even Charlotte, which was my mother’s name.

They were Libby Lou.

It was the name he’d been calling me since I was old enough to respond to it, and it was synonymous with I love you.

And he had.

How could I live without that?

I didn’t even bother wiping my tears away as I looked at Pedro again, because in spite of all my worries and heartache, it felt good to let myself go—to admit the truth, even to a dog.

“You know what really sucks?”

He tilted his head as if to say, Go on. So, naturally, I did.

“After Charlotte was diagnosed with diabetes, I thought, ‘Okay, we’ve used up our bad luck for a good long time.’ But only an idiot would think it works that way, because six months later my dad died. And guess what, Pedro? Dunderhead that I am, once again I thought: ‘We’re finally in the clear!’ But it turns out that this existence is just a bottomless well of bad things, because my brother just announced he’s getting a divorce, and my husband is being as sneaky as my ex-husband was, and my family might be dead right now because I was so insistent on dragging us here and acting like everything was fine. But as anyone who lives on Vieques can attest, there’s no amount of wishful thinking that’s going to change that it’s not fine at all. Life is just so damn hard. No matter how good you have it.”

He barked once, but it wasn’t a mean bark. It was almost like he was agreeing with me.

“Thanks for listening to me, Pedro,” I said, blinking back new tears. But for once they were tears of relief, not sorrow. “Maybe honesty really is the best policy. Or something.”

The sun had slipped beneath the horizon, but the moon was high and bright, and its reflection on the water filled the guesthouse, so I flung an arm over my eyes to block the last of the light. And then, before I could think any more terrible thoughts, my brain took mercy on me and shut off.

TWENTY-SIX

The next thing I knew, Pedro was barking his mother-loving head off and someone was banging on the door.

My sleep-crusted eyes sprang open, but it took me a moment to remember why I’d woken up on the sofa. “Coming!” I tried to yell, but the rum and weeping must have taken a toll on my vocal cords, because I sounded like a bullfrog at the height of mating season.

Pedro was still yapping and running back and forth in front of the door. I tried to shhh him as I reached for the lock. “Who is it?” I called, because my mental fog was slowly lifting, and it had occurred to me that Shiloh, who I’d been expecting, had a key and would have let himself in.

“It’s me, you lunatic. Open up.”

“Paul?” As thrilled as I was to hear my brother’s voice, I had no idea what he was doing here. Sure, I’d sent him a telepathic cry for help. But where were Shiloh and the girls?

I flung the door open and found him standing there wearing an enormous smile. “The good news is,” he announced as he stepped inside, “Charlotte has new insulin and test strips, Milagros is in the hospital, and obviously, in addition to being a stellar pilot, Shiloh is one hell of a boat captain. Everyone is okay.”

“Oh, thank God,” I said, reaching for the wall to steady myself.

“I go by Paul these days, but you’re welcome.”

I would have laughed if I hadn’t just burst into tears. My family had survived! Milagros was fine! I was wrong, wrong, wrong, just like I’d been about my diagnosis!

“Libby?” said Paul, examining me. “You do realize I just gave you great news . . . right?”

Instead of responding, I threw my arms around him. I was hugging far tighter and longer than he normally allowed, but I must have looked particularly rough because he patted my back and said, “It’s okay, Libby. I’m not sure why you’re crying, and I’m going to assume it’s stress, but it’s all right.”

“Thank you,” I whimpered, spreading snot all over his three-hundred-dollar shirt. “Thank you for coming here and telling me that and being you. I love you, Paul.”

“I love you, too,” he said slowly. “But . . . are you okay?”

“No, but I will be,” I said, finally releasing him. I wiped my eyes. Only then did I realize I still had no idea what he was doing in Vieques. Especially since he had a fear of flying that was impervious to cognitive behavioral therapy, hypnosis, and hard liquor. “Where is Shiloh? And how did you get here?”

“It’s called flying private. Perhaps your spouse has mentioned it to you?” he said with a wry grin.

“Ignoring you. Now, details, please.”

He smirked. “As a frequent consumer of media, including but not limited to national and international weather reports, I saw the news about the storm, and when I couldn’t get hold of you after calling and texting