Page 28 of We Shouldn’t Do This Again

“Yes,” she finally replies. “Much better.”

She’s lying. I know because I’d do the same in her place. I wouldn’t let myself show weakness, much less let her be the one to discover that my world falls apart when the scent of her perfume makes my knees tremble.

“Sure,” I murmur, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. “Your face doesn’t lie.”

“Thanks for the honesty,” she replies, and that ironic, playful tone slips into her voice—the one that always drew me in and was, on many occasions, the reason our fights ended in unforgettable sex.

“It’s one of my many charms—what can I say?”

“I don’t doubt it for a second.”

The exchange flows lightly, almost casually, as if nothing had happened between us. And that’s precisely why it’s dangerous. During those few seconds, everything seems easy again. Just like before. Just like when there were still no cracks, no heavy silences, no words stuck in our throats, no tears or disappointments between us.

“I’m going to get the snorkeling gear ready,” Miriam announces, breaking that fragile balance with her usual energy. “As soon as everything’s ready, we’ll jump in the water, okay?”

“I’m coming with you,” my father volunteers, quickly following her toward the stern.

We’re left alone, and the silence changes texture. It grows thicker. I force myself to look toward the horizon, searching that distant line for something to anchor me, but it doesn’t work. I feel her move and come a little closer to me.

“Thank you,” she says then, in a much softer, more intimate tone.

I swallow before answering.

“For what?”

“For earlier,” she clarifies softly.

“Oh. That.”

“It was nothing,” I reply quickly, downplaying it. “It was the least I could do.”

“Even so… thank you.”

I know she means it sincerely, and that throws me off balance. A long time ago, we were everything to each other; I spent my days talking about her, dreaming of her; I felt fulfilled, happy, complete. But even the greatest love in the world can’t save itself when it isn’t enough. And for Barbara, it wasn’t. I shrug, trying to look nonchalant.

“I don’t like seeing people go through a hard time,” I add. “And even less when it comes to…” I stop myself mid-sentence.

“When it comes to me.”

I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence, but I don’t need to. The words hang between us like a half-shared secret.

“You’re just the same as always,” she says after a few seconds, with a half-smile barely touching her lips.

I furrow my brow slightly, intrigued.

“The same how?”

“The same as…” she hesitates, searching for the right word. “Transparent. You can see everything on your face, even when you try to hide it.”

I let out a short laugh, incredulous.

“I don’t know if that’s the word most of my friends would use to describe me.”

“Well, I would use it,” she insists. “It’s always been that way.”

I look at her then. Our eyes meet and stay there, locked. Suddenly I feel that invisible pull again, that undercurrent that drew me to her the first time I saw her. As if our bodies recognized each other again despite the time apart, the distance, or the decisions that led us to end our marriage.

“Well,” I say, looking away before she can completely draw me in. “Not everyone has your gift for reading people.”