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

“Really, Mom?” said Charlotte. “Because I am. I miss my friends. I want to be somewhere where the electricity isn’t going to go out, and I don’t have to worry about my insulin getting all wonky.”

“I know, sweetheart. We had a few nice moments—like now,” I said, looking around the table before glancing at Pedro. I knew I’d told the girls we could get a dog; it was a shame that Pedro wouldn’t be the one. “But on the whole, I’ll be the first to admit this vacation was kind of a bummer. When my oncologist told me to celebrate, I’m pretty sure getting stranded in a storm wasn’t what she had in mind.”

“What?” said Charlotte, sitting up suddenly. “An oncologist is a cancer doctor, right?”

“Yep! But it’s just a routine thing. I go every couple of years now. The day we went to the bay? That was ten years cancer free for me.”

“You didn’t tell us?” said Isa, pushing away from the table. “Like, did you think we weren’t grown up enough to handle it?”

“Not at all! I mean, initially, yes—I didn’t bring it up before I got the results back because I didn’t want you to worry. Then I found out I had an all clear, and I meant to tell you,” I said. “But it’s kind of been one catastrophe after another, and I just hadn’t gotten around to it.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe this,” said Charlotte.

“Right?” said Isa. “She thinks we’re babies.”

“You guys, don’t give your mother a hard time,” said Shiloh. “Keep in mind I didn’t think telling you in advance was a good idea, either.”

“It’s okay. They can be honest with me,” I told him. “I messed up.”

“Sure, but there’s a difference between honest and rude,” he said.

“Let’s just worry about honest for now,” I said.

He met my gaze, and I could tell he was trying to figure out what to think. “Okay,” he said after a minute. “Let’s start with honest.”

“So, speaking of honesty . . . ,” I said.

Paul and I were standing in the leafy green courtyard between the hotel and the beach, taking Pedro on a quick walk. The sun was just beginning to set, and Shiloh and the girls were squeezing in a quick swim at the pool (because, as Isa had reminded us yet again, there were no jellyfish there).

“Oh boy. I’m afraid to know what you’re about to ask me,” he said, taking a sip of the cocktail he’d fetched from the bar on the way over. It was the kind of drink that begs to be photographed—pale yellow, with a pink paper umbrella—but after the island elixirs I’d had at Milagros’, the smell of alcohol wafting at me made my stomach recoil.

“Now that it’s just the two of us, I want to know: Do you actually want to divorce?”

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he said, looking away. “See also: my husband being in Fire Island without me.”

“Is he there with someone?”

Paul’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, this smug-faced prick named Trevor.”

I whistled. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“He looks like a mole rat who’s been injected with high doses of steroids,” said Paul indignantly. “Worse, he’s seemingly incapable of using words containing more than two syllables, and”—he shuddered—“he’s a mouth breather.”

“Maybe he has a deviated septum,” I suggested.

“Ahem. Whose team are you on, again?”

I threw my arm over his shoulder. “Yours, Paul. Always and forever. Which is why I want you to tell your husband you don’t want to split up.”

“Why bother? It’s not like Charlie said at any point that he wanted to stay together. I mean, do you know what his response was when I suggested we consider separating?”

I unlatched my arm and waited for him to continue.

“‘Okay.’ That’s literally all he said, Libby,” said Paul. His eyes were kind of misty, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t the alcohol.

“I’m sorry, Paul. I really think you should tell him how you feel, though.”

“Like you’ve been doing?”

My cheeks got warm. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Because I was going to suggest Imodium for your raging case of verbal diarrhea. I’m guessing it has to do with some sort of breakthrough in Vieques?”

“There was no breakthrough,” I said, but his expression was so dubious that I had to laugh. “Okay, I had a minor epiphany or two, compliments of this guy,” I said, smiling at Pedro.

“Aha. Well, I’m glad. But epiphany or no, you should know that Charlie and I are moving forward with our divorce. It’s not something we can be talked out of.”

“Because you cheated?” I said frankly. “I wish you’d told me when you were thinking about it so I could have talked you out of that.”

We’d just reached the beach, and he set his drink on one of the small wood tables the hotel had placed beside lounge chairs along the perimeter.

“Libby, don’t take this the wrong way, but I tried to. Remember all those nights when I kept you on the phone way too late because I couldn’t sleep?”

My eyes smarted as I thought about what I’d said to him. “And I told you to try and be grateful and think about all the good times with Dad.”

He nodded. “I know you were trying to help me, and it wasn’t the worst advice. But I needed to talk about the bad feelings as well.”

“I’m sorry, Paul,” I said sadly. “I was feeling dead inside, too, but I didn’t want to. It made me feel like I wasn’t grateful for all the good things in my life—like I didn’t appreciate any of it. I didn’t see how damaging it was to try to plow past my emotions. That’s what I realized when I was stuck in Vieques by myself. As Milagros told me the other day, repression backfired. Instead of feeling better, I felt worse.”

“I know what you mean.” He managed a smile. “You and I were having yet another parallel experience without even realizing it.”

A wave of sadness came over