Page 21 of We Shouldn’t Do This Again

I take a quick shower, just enough to wake myself up, and get dressed in comfortable clothes: light linen pants and a white cotton T-shirt that still smells of fabric softener. When I look in the mirror, I realize that my reflection says much more than it shows: the dark circles under my eyes, the tense expression, and that look of someone who spent the whole night fighting sleep. “Perfect.” Just the look you want to have on your first day on a paradise island.

I step out of the bungalow. The morning air is completely different from the night air. Fresher, cleaner, as if the island had reset itself while I tossed and turned in bed. The sun is already quite high, but it doesn’t burn yet; it simply warms. I walk toward the restaurant along the white sand path, surrounded by vegetation. The large leaves glisten with dewdrops, and a gentle breeze sways the palm trees.

Everything is too beautiful. Too peaceful. Too perfect.

The restaurant is an open space, with high ceilings made of light wood and direct views of the turquoise sea. The tables are spaced far enough apart to provide privacy, and the buffet takes up an entire side wall, filled with trays giving off aromas capable of weakening even the strongest will. Freshly brewed coffee. Warm bread. Tropical fruit cut into perfect pieces. Sweet. Savory. Everything mixed together.

I grab a tray and move slowly forward, examining everything carefully. I know exactly what I should eat: black coffee, fresh juice, scrambled eggs, and a couple of slices of whole-grain toast. Routine. Balance. Control. My motto for over a year now.

But my eyes, those traitors, go straight to the golden, buttery, flaky croissants, to the fluffy stack of pancakes, to the cream-filled pastries that seem to scream “eat me” from the other end of the buffet.

“No,” I whisper to myself, tightening my grip on the tray. “Don’t even think about it, Barbara.”

I grab a plate. I put it down. I grab another one. I put it down again.

“You’re ridiculous,” I say quietly, almost laughing at myself.

Finally, I force myself to serve something more reasonable: a black coffee, a large glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and some fresh fruit. But when I walk past the toast, the smell of freshly toasted bread and melted butter stops me in my tracks.

“Just one,” I whisper, as if someone were going to scold me. “Well… two. I don’t know when I’ll be eating.”

I place the two pieces of toast on my plate and turn to look for an empty table. And then it happens. It’s absurd, I know, but I can smell the fruity scent of Lidia’s perfume even though she’s nowhere nearby. I don’t know if it’s because I’m hungry or what, but my stomach tightens, and when I pay attention to what’s happening around me, Lidia appears in the restaurant as if the world were a simple, friendly place. As if last night we hadn’t experienced the most awkward moment in recent years. As if nothing had changed.

“Because nothing has changed, right?” I ask myself.

She walks calmly, her reddish hair pulled back haphazardly, wearing a light outfit that lets me see her bikini and a glimpse of her skin. She doesn’t look at me. Not for a second. She heads straight for the buffet, grabs a red apple, and turns to leave.

I could let her go. I should let her go. That would be the most sensible and logical thing to do given the situation, but my mouth betrays me once again:

“Good morning, Lid. I hope you had a good night.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, my heart races, my stomach clenches completely, and regret rises in my throat like bile.

Lidia pauses just long enough for me to notice the tension in her shoulders, and she says nothing. The silence surrounding us is so thick I could cut it with the knife I’m carrying on the tray. She lets out only a long, ironic, cold sigh. And she keeps walking, the apple in her hand as if I weren’t there. As if my greeting meant absolutely nothing, when the truth is that that “Lid” reflects all those mornings when we woke up together and started the day making love.

“Screwing up first thing in the morning,” I tell myself as I stand still in the middle of the dining area, tray in hand, the coffee getting cold, and the feeling that I’ve done yet another stupid thing.

“Good morning, Barbara,” I murmur, my voice tinged with irony.

I sit down at the nearest table, though I’m barely aware of how I got there. I take a long sip of coffee. The toast remains untouched on the plate, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I try to regain control, to convince myself that it was just a word, a stupid reflex, a minor mistake. But I know that’s not true. That “Lid” belongs to the past, like everything we once had.

I rest my elbows on the table and run a hand over my face, rubbing my eyes wearily.

“Great,” I sigh, letting the air escape slowly between my teeth.

And then I hear his voice, clear and surprised, breaking the silence behind me:

“I can’t believe it!”

I lift my head, and when I turn around, Pablo is standing a few feet away, looking at me as if he’d just seen a ghost. His expression is one of pure disbelief mixed with a joy he can’t hide, and it rubs off on me immediately.

“Barbara!”

He comes over quickly and, before I can react, wraps me in a strong, warm, and sincere hug. One of those hugs that can bring anyone back to life.

“Lidia just told me you were here, and I couldn’t believe it,” he exclaims, stepping back just a little to cup my face in his hands and look me in the eyes. “I thought she was pulling my leg, I swear.”

I smile. Or at least I try to, because my lips are trembling, but the smile doesn’t fully come.