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

. . . a whole lot of nothing. In fact, it was not unlike the doctor’s office: I’d been expecting a thunderbolt but had barely registered a slight breeze.

“Mom? What are you looking at?” said Charlotte. The girls had just paddled up beside my kayak.

I swallowed hard and pushed myself into a seated position. Thank goodness it was too dark for them to tell I’d been sobbing my face off. “I was trying to see the stars, but it’s too cloudy for that.”

“Yeah,” she said, glancing overhead. “It’s still nice here, though.”

“I’m really glad you think so.”

“Thank you for bringing us,” said Isa. “This is really nice.”

“It really is,” I agreed, trying not to think about how I wished I were having this conversation with Shiloh, too. After all, my mother would have given anything to have had this experience with me and Paul. Having Isa and Charlotte with me was enough. “I’m so glad you two are here,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Isa softly.

I blinked several times, trying to keep my tears at bay. So much had been riding on this trip—and so far it had been a bust. But at least one day Charlotte and Isa might look back on the tour and feel the same sort of reverence I felt about this place.

The guide was in the middle of the bay, calling for everyone to join him, so I motioned for the girls to follow me. Together we cut through the water, our paddles softly slapping the surface and sending sparkling ripples out to the sea.

In the moonlight, I saw that Shiloh was making his way back.

“Hey,” he said when he reached us. “I just followed this huge school of fish around the bay. They were right near the surface, so some of them were making the water glow—it was incredible. I wish you’d seen it.”

“No kidding,” I said. But inside, I was thinking: Fish? Fish?! Bad enough that we would not be swimming side by side in the water tonight—or if our tour guide was to be believed, ever again. Now Shiloh was trying to explain his fifteen-minute absence as a nature excursion? There wasn’t a lens of gratitude from here to Mongolia that was going to make the truth any more palatable: this truly wasn’t about sex.

Because Shiloh and I?

We had far bigger fish to fry.

EIGHTEEN

“Well? What did you think?” asked Shiloh.

The tour guide had just returned us to the parking lot, and we’d toweled off and piled back into our Jeep. It was after eleven p.m. already, and although I was still raw about Shiloh’s disappearing act—particularly since the rest of the tour had required us to follow the guide, who yapped like he’d never heard a lovelier sound than his own voice—I was so exhausted that I’d resolved to deal with it tomorrow.

“It was good,” I said, fastening my seat belt.

“Are you disappointed that it was different from last time?” he said, glancing at me briefly from the driver’s seat.

Of course I was; that he didn’t know this was yet another reminder of how out of sync we were. “Weren’t you? Actually, never mind,” I said as I remembered that I’d already decided against airing my grievances. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said in a low voice. The girls, who looked as tired as I felt, were silent in the backseat.

“It doesn’t mean anything except that it’s over now, so there’s really no reason to discuss it.”

I could just barely make out the taut line of his jaw in the moonlight. “Libby, would you just tell me what you’re thinking for a change?”

“For a change?” I said, jerking my head back. “I tell you what I think all the time. I don’t even know what you mean right now.”

“Don’t fight,” said Isa groggily.

This was rich from someone who practiced mixed martial arts on her sister at least twice a day. “We’re not fighting, but you’re right, Isa. This is a discussion best had another time.”

“Fine.” Shiloh sounded irritated. Well, I was, too. How could I keep my mood afloat when my husband kept reminding me that he was drifting away from me?

I turned away from him to stare out the window. “We’re all beat. Let’s just get back and get some sleep.”

Neither of us said anything more the rest of the drive, though I kept stealing glances to see if Shiloh’s expression softened. It didn’t—nor did he ease up on his death grip on the steering wheel. So now we’re both angry, I thought as we pulled into Milagros’ gravel drive. It was a fitting cherry to top the poop pie that was my cancerversary.

“Charlotte, check your sugar and let me know your numbers. Then both of you brush your teeth and hop in bed, okay?” I told the twins as I unlocked the guesthouse. Behind us, Milagros’ place was dark, save a dim light coming from her bedroom. For all I knew, Hector was up reading, but the thought that Milagros might be getting lucky made me feel even bluer than I already was, which was saying a lot. I blinked back fresh tears as I remembered what had happened after the last time Shiloh and I had been to the bay. We hadn’t hit our stride at that point, so we exchanged awkward goodbyes—but then he’d driven back to the guesthouse and kissed me with ferocity before making love to me in all the ways that my gay husband had been incapable of. Though I wasn’t aware of it at the time, it was the point at which my life finally began to turn around.

I didn’t need a crystal ball to know that would not be happening again tonight.

Shiloh was standing at the counter now, drinking one of the soft drinks Milagros had put in the fridge for us. “Libby,” he said.

When you’ve been married to someone long enough, a single word can contain a soliloquy. He wanted to know if we were okay.

“Shiloh,” I said,