Page 15 of We Shouldn’t Do This Again

The ferry lurches as it crosses a stretch of rougher water, and I decide to sit back down, clinging to the seat just like the people on the Titanic must have clung to the railings. The woman across from me smiles with infinite patience. And then, finally, after more than fifteen minutes, a line of land appears on the horizon—barely visible at first, but gradually coming into clear view.

I had never visited Ukulhas before; Lidia and I stayed on one of the many islands that make up the Maldives when we first met, but I never would have imagined it could look so beautiful from a distance.

The ferry gradually slows down as it approaches the dock, and the motion of the boat eases noticeably, which is a relief. My stomach is still churning, but when we dock, that’s the last thing on my mind; I don’t wait a second for anyone to tell me what to do. I practically jump to my feet, grab my suitcase tightly, and rush toward the exit in desperation.

“Excuse me, sorry,” I say as I weave through the crowd. “Excuse me, please…” I repeat politely. “I’m so sorry…” I add as I pass by other passengers.

I make my way through the crowd as best I can while the ferry fills with activity, and when I finally step onto the ramp leading directly to dry land, I smile.

I step off the boat, dragging my suitcase, while the world around me sways slightly, as if the sea had decided to take up permanent residence inside my head. The air is warm and humid, but a cool breeze gently blows my hair out of my face; the sensation should feel pleasant, but at this very moment I’m just struggling to focus on walking in a straight line without stumbling.

I pass several tourists gazing at the surroundings with fascination; I barely look up from the ground because I’m too busy trying to convince my stomach that everything is under control and that it can relax.

I drag my suitcase across the wooden planks of the pier, and then I see him: a young man in a white shirt with the resort’s logo printed on it is holding a small sign with my last name written on it: Manrique.

“Bless that guy.”

I walk quickly toward him, and once I’m beside him, he gives me a smile.

“Are you Barbara Manrique?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I reply, trying to project an air of composure far greater than I actually possess at the moment.

“Welcome to Ukulhas, ma’am,” he says politely. “Let me take your luggage. The car is right over there.”

I nod in thanks and start walking behind him, grateful to finally be getting away from that hellish ferry.

I don’t even pay attention to my surroundings; I don’t notice the colors blending in the water, nor how the fine white sand of the beach begins to glow beneath the warm light of lanterns. I don’t need anything else in the world right now except to feel that I’ve left the sea behind, that I’m on solid ground, and to talk to Ingrid. Because she has always been my anchor and my refuge in the midst of chaos, and on important days like today, when the team is risking everything and I’m not by their side, I realize that I owe her a lot… no matter how much the past refuses to let me go.

CHAPTER 8

GHOSTS OF THE PAST

Lidia

If someone had asked me this morning how I imagined my first day in Ukulhas, I would have answered that I’d be by the sea, immersed in wedding preparations, yes, but enjoying the atmosphere to the fullest. What I never would have anticipated was ending up exhausted and aching in every single muscle of my body.

From the very moment I set foot on the island, Miriam and my father decided to fill every minute with their presence. We started with breakfast on a terrace overlooking the sea, and then we took a leisurely stroll along the beach, during which Miriam took the opportunity to explain in great detail where the ceremony would take place. You can feel their enthusiasm, how much they’re looking forward to that day, and, above all, the love they have for each other.

They’re both so excited that they’ve asked me to accompany them this very afternoon to a local boutique to find the clothes they’ll wear that day. I advised them to go to Malé; everything is very different there, and they’d surely find what they’re looking for, but neither of them felt like taking the ferry.

After the walk, lunch arrived, followed by an endless conversation about flowers, music, and lights. By then, my mind could no longer tell hibiscus from bougainvillea or orchids; everything blended into a whirlwind of vibrant colors and sweet scents that overwhelmed my brain. I needed to take a long nap, to recover the energy I’d lost on the trip, but neither of them took that into account.

Now, I find myself sitting at the beach bar by the resort’s pool, my bare feet resting on the wooden floor that still retains the day’s warmth, a cold drink in my hands. The sky has already turned a deep, mysterious blue—not quite black, but that special shade that appears just after sunset, when the air still holds the heat accumulated during the sunny hours. The pool reflects the lights surrounding the bar, and the water looks like a sheet of dark, liquid glass inviting you to lose yourself in its depths. I take a slow sip of my “Maldivian Sunset” cocktail, and its sweet yet tangy flavor, a blend of mango, passion fruit, lime, and coconut, fills my mouth and awakens my senses.

I close my eyes for a brief moment and let everything happening around me envelop me. This is exactly the kind of moment I’d dreamed of when I agreed to come here: absolute tranquility, silence, and that peace only the sea can offer.

“I hope you’re enjoying it,” the waiter says with a smile.

“It’s delicious,” I reply gratefully. “I’ll take the glass and go for a walk along the shore. May I?”

“As you wish.”

It takes me a couple of minutes to find the exit, but all of that stops mattering when I reach the resort’s entrance through a side path and come across a woman walking behind one of the hotel employees. I don’t pay much attention to her at first, but something about the way she walks seems so familiar that it makes me frown in surprise.

“It can’t be…” I whisper, almost to myself, the cold, icy glass between my fingers.

It takes my mind several long seconds to process what’s happening. A blink later, the information I’m looking for crashes into my brain: “Barbara. Here. In Ukulhas.” My heart pounds against my chest, and I laugh at myself for being so stupid.