Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (dar e dil novel online reading .txt) 📕

other. Maybe he had a surprise planned. After all, it was my cancerversary!

But it was too late; my buoyant bubble had already burst. Paul had probably told Charlie all those text messages he’d gotten were from no one, too. I felt queasy. I’d never once worried about Shiloh cheating on me—he was as loyal as they came. But as Paul had reminded me, people did change.

And sometimes their partners were the reason.

Before I could press him further, he let me go and shielded his eyes with his hands. “Hey, I don’t see the girls anymore. I think I should go try to catch up with them before they get too far.”

“Sure,” I said. My voice warbled ever so slightly, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Should be back in five—hold tight,” he said, pecking me on the lips.

“Will do,” I said. Now my foot wasn’t the only thing aching as I watched him jog down the beach.

So much for turning things around.

SIXTEEN

When Shiloh returned with the girls a short while later, he acted as though nothing was amiss. In fact, he was so casual as he took photos of Charlotte and Isa building a sandcastle that I almost convinced myself I’d imagined the whole thing.

Almost.

I was still trying to come up with plausible explanations for his secrecy when tiny bugs began jumping from the sand onto our feet and ankles. One minute the girls were digging a moat; the next, Isa was jumping into it and screaming bloody murder while Charlotte ran in circles slapping at her skin.

Shiloh, who was already scratching his calf, glanced up at me. “And . . . scene.”

“I’m ready,” I said. The beach was beautiful, but between Shiloh’s phone call and my throbbing foot, which was now a bunch of bugs’ lunches, I was ready to get out of there. Anyway, the girls were already running toward the trailhead.

The trail was steep, and it hurt to climb it, which made it difficult to hold a conversation. “You okay?” Shiloh kept asking me.

I had half a mind to yell back, “What do you think?” But yesterday’s Momzilla moment was still fresh in my mind, so I told him I was hanging in there—because after all, wasn’t I?

“Lunch will be good,” he said as we piled into the Jeep. “We ready for some food?” he called over his shoulder to the girls.

“Always,” said Isa.

“I don’t really care,” said Charlotte.

“You have your kit, right?” I said to her.

She held up her nylon bag. “In here, Mom. Stop worrying so much.”

Right—because the only thing I’d been waiting for was her permission to relax about the chronic health condition that had nearly killed her the other day. “Thanks for being on top of it, honey,” I said pleasantly, stealing a glance at Shiloh. He still looked calm, which was somewhat reassuring. But a few minutes later, his expression clouded over.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered as we pulled up to the restaurant, or what was left of it.

The place had never had an official name, so the locals referred to it as El Chinchorro—The Shack. That was part of the charm; it was slapped on the edge of a hilly side road, and you had to know someone who knew about it, or just stumble across it, as Shiloh had years before we met. The food was so-so, truth be told, but the dining area was open air and surrounded by lush vegetation. Twinkle lights were strung over booths and tables, and the bottles lining the oval tiki bar were lit up like jewels. Shiloh and I had our first date here and had returned several times afterward. It was one of the spots I’d been most excited to revisit on our trip.

But now the roof was caved in, and vines had roped their way around the bar; the turquoise paint was peeling off the sideboards of the facade.

I tried hard not to let my face reveal my disappointment. “You think this is from Maria?” I asked after I’d gotten out of the Jeep.

“No doubt,” said Shiloh, surveying it from where we were standing on the side of the road. “This is . . . depressing.”

I didn’t bother trying to find the silver lining, because there wasn’t one. As awful as it was to see a place that had been part of our story decimated, it was far worse to know that good people had worked there; good people had eaten here, and one storm had taken all that away. As I watched a pair of stray cats scurry through a gap between two rotted planks of wood, I was struck by how insignificant, how petty, truly, it was to worry about a stupid phone call, or obsess over a few botched attempts at intimacy. I was healthy and whole. We had so much more than a roof over our heads. The building my charity was housed in was intact, and my employees didn’t have to worry about whether their next paycheck would show up on time—or at all. Suddenly my face was burning, and not from the heat.

I was a walking, talking first-world problem.

No more, I vowed. From here on, I was going to view everything through my old rose-colored, gratitude-tinted glasses.

“I’m sorry, Libby,” said Shiloh, who was standing beside me on the side of the road. “I know you were looking forward to this, and so was I.”

“Don’t be,” I said, shaking my head. “Not for me, at least. What a loss for the island.”

He looked at me, and even though he was wearing his aviator glasses, I could tell he was sad. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

The girls had stayed in the Jeep, but Isa had just stuck her head out the window. “Mom! Papi! Come on!” she yelled.

“Is Charlotte okay?” I yelled back.

Isa rolled her eyes. “I’m fine—thanks so much for asking!”

“Charlotte can tell us if she’s not okay,” Shiloh said. “It’s not Isa’s job to monitor her. I don’t want to give her