Beneath Wandering Stars (30 page)

Seth clenches his jaw so tight, it sounds like he's grinding his teeth to gritty powder. “Once I realize the insurgent isn't dropping his weapon, just altering his aim, I hesitate. Why? Because he's a
kid
and I don't want to kill him. Lucas sees what's happening before I do. When the boy shoots the Coke can on the ground between us, the can filled with explosives, Lucas is already turning to throw his body against mine. He knocks both of us to the ground, taking the brunt of the shrapnel in his back.”

Silent tears of rage and regret run down Seth's face, but he can't stop. He can't look me in the eye, but he can't stop. “Just before the IED in the can exploded, I'd panicked and shot off a round. The Afghani kid was dead. His blood was everywhere, Gabi. And Lucas was so messed up, I thought he must be dead, too.” Seth trembles and meets my gaze. It isn't this cruel world he hates. It's himself. “I sprained an arm. That stupid kid is gone forever and your brother will never walk again. I had to wear a sling for a week, but that's it. I get off scot-free.”

I pull Seth towards me, and he falls limp into my lap. “It's okay,” I whisper, knowing things may never be okay again. But his grief
is
okay, and he needs to know that. “Odysseus wept. Even Achilles mourned.”

Then I do the only thing I can think of: I stroke Seth's hair and kiss his cheeks until he has nothing left.

“Where do we go from here?” I ask Seth once he's sobered up. Neither of us will be able to sleep now, but at least this time Seth is drunk on tears instead of Tanqueray.

“We walk.”

“You don't think we've walked enough already?”

Seth shrugs. “Sometimes it's the only thing left to do.”

I get up from the curb. “Okay, let me grab a sweatshirt.”

“Plan on going back the way you came, Catwoman?” Seth smiles weakly and glances up at the fire escape.

I give him a feeble grin back, knowing super-sensitive Seth could only stick around for a limited time. “Let's not tempt fate. I'll go through the lobby.”

Seth has regained his composure by the time I return, almost like his late-night confession never happened. “Where should we walk to? Portugal might make for a nice evening stroll.”

“I have a better idea,” I reply. “Follow me,
por favor
.”

It's after 2
A.M.
, but the night is still young. We soak in the pulsing sounds of life, grateful to be a part of the dance. Horns honk and people pour out of bars like a steady stream of bubbling champagne, filling this city with their celebratory songs. I can tell by the way his sweaty fingers clasp mine that Seth wants to go somewhere with less people, but there's still one Spanish tradition we haven't taken part in yet.

“What's this?” Seth asks when I stop in front of a modest building with a green and white awning. It doesn't look like anything special, but when we walked by earlier today, the chalkboard sign out front spoke to me in multiple languages.

“They claim to have the best churros and chocolate in town,” I explain as the smell of fried bread and cocoa drifts out onto the sidewalk. “It would be a sin to leave Spain without trying this specialty midnight snack. Or three in the morning snack, rather.”

Maybe it's a girl thing to crave chocolate after a good cry, but Seth humors me and steps inside. At least I'm not the only one with a sugar hankering. The tables are packed with groups of friends, couples, even families, all busy dipping the savory into the sweet. This confirms it. Spain is a culture for the nocturnal.

“
Hola guapa
,” says an older man behind the counter, grinning as though this is the start of his midday shift. He wipes the powdered sugar dusting his hands onto his apron before pointing to the menu board. “
Que quieres, guapa
?”

“
Guapa
. I know that one,” Seth whispers in my ear. “Looks like I have competition. This guy thinks you're hot.”

“This guy could be my grandfather,” I murmur back. “It's meant to be endearing. Every girl who walks through those doors is
guapa
, trust me.”

“Maybe, but this time he means it,” Seth replies. “Trust me.”

My face feels flushed, so I turn back to the man behind the counter. “
Dos chocolates con churros, por favor
.”

“
Dos chocolates con churros!
” the man shouts to his partner at the other end of the blue-tiled bar. He, in turn, passes the message on to the cook inside the kitchen. None of the men working here look like they're under sixty. Their cocoa powder must have some amazing medicinal powers to keep them going so late into the night.

While we wait for our snack, I study the old photographs of bull-fighters on the walls, next to stuffed heads of all the
toros
who lost. It's like a Spanish version of the creepy taxidermy trophies you'd find in a Midwestern bar. Hanging on the wall beside us are additional photos of the three
compañeros
who own the joint, smiling with an assortment of celebrities.

“
De donde eres
?” the man who took our order asks when he sees me looking at a collection that would make
People
magazine jealous.

“
Los Estados Unidos
,” I reply.

“America?” The man's face perks up as he steps out from the bar and grabs me by the arms. “
Mira!
” he says, dragging us to the wall of fame. “Look. Mel Gibson!”

Seth chuckles as the enthusiastic bartender shows off an autographed headshot of the actor, who must have been a patron here way back when he liked wearing blue face makeup.

“We
have
to get a picture of this for Lucas.” I envision the
Braveheart
movie poster and its famous quotation, ‘Every man dies, not every man really lives
,
'
which hung over Lucas's bed when he was twelve. That should have been my first clue that my brother is more honor-driven than most.

“Did you bring the action figure?” Seth asks.

“Of course.” I open my purse. “Never leave home without him.”

As we position G.I. Lucas next to the headshot, capturing a celebrity image of our own, the churro man's eyes dance between us like
we're
the ones with some weird Hollywood fetish.

“
Amor.
Nos vuelven locos.
” The man sighs and leaves us so he can assist the next customer.

Seth perks up. “What did he just say?”

“Didn't catch it,” I fib. Because I'm a little freaked out. The bartender's comment—
Love. It drives us crazy
—means my chemistry with Seth must be visible to the outside world. I'm not prepared to call this chemistry
love
, since I think of love as a promise, not a transitory spark. But there's definitely something burning between us and it's bright enough to notice.

Our order is up, so we find a table by a window overlooking the street. The churros are piping hot, but I dig in despite my singed tongue. Eating distracts me from Seth's intense staring.

“Oh. My. Word,” I say in between bites. “This is amazing.”

Spanish hot chocolate is
not
of the instant-sawdust-with-cardboard-marshmallows variety. It's rich and dark and thick as soup, hence the churros, which serve as edible spoons.

“I'm not a big sweets guy, but this stuff is good,” Seth says after a few bites. All of a sudden he laughs, which, given his status an hour ago, is music to my ears. “Napkin?”

I turn to look at my reflection in the darkened window. There's chocolate all over my face. “Guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

Seth grins. “Sometimes we don't know what we really want until we taste it.”

Why
hello
, double entendre. That comment
has me blushing like crazy, so I stare into my cup, stirring my churro like a witch whipping up a cauldron spell.

Seth's confession has clearly established some sort of bond, but I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of responsibility. Not on top of Lucas. I care for Seth a lot, but in many ways he's hurt as badly as my brother, only his wounds are harder to see. If I fall for him now, what exactly will I be falling into? More than I can probably handle, that's for sure.

“When we get back home, what else should we do to help Lucas?” I ask, knowing this question will be a game changer. As intended, the sappy look in Seth's eyes solidifies at my reminder of the tragedy that brought us together in the first place.

“Get him a dog.”

“Come again?” I assume he's messing around, but I don't get the joke.

“Get him a dog,” Seth repeats. “There are a few charities that pair disabled veterans with retired MP and K-9 unit dogs. It won't fix everything, but I know of a few discharged vets who got pups and it made a huge difference. Sometimes it's nice to have a companion who doesn't offer up clichéd condolences when there's really nothing to be said.”

Silence. Is that what Seth wants? Or does he want to acknowledge his wartime actions for what they were—an evil, perhaps a necessary and unavoidable evil, but an evil nonetheless? It isn't fair, but maybe that's how life works. Even when you
want
to walk the straight and narrow way, even when you're
trying
to stick to the honorable path, there are times where you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't. Like the sticky chocolate lining my cup, an unavoidable darkness lurks around every corner, coating every motive and tainting every move. None of us escape intact, even if we try to climb out of the muck by pointing fingers and passing the buck.

Seth was presented with an especially crappy choice, where even refusing to make it would have had disastrous consequences. I hate what happened, but I respect him for taking a side and accepting the blame, even if it costs him everything.

“So is that why you let me hang around?” I trace my fingernail along the tattoo inside his wrist, then press down hard. “Because I have the silent, steadfast loyalty of a dog?”

Seth grins. “You're a good listener, but I'm glad you talk back. Even if you do have a smart mouth. Besides, as you already know, I'm a cat person.”

Seth leans forward and wipes a smudge from my nose. “Here, you missed a spot.”

His expression of playful innocence makes me believe there are ways to get clean, no matter how big of a mess we make. Maybe that's what Lucas struggled with, why he poured himself into ancient warrior epics, in search of the secret for living with a fractured soul. Maybe that's why he wanted to walk the
camino
—to purge his spirit of all he'd done before returning home. Maybe
doing
something to show we're sorry when words don't cut it helps more than all the counseling programs and self-help books in the world.

If that's true, then Seth has a long road ahead of him, because I don't know how a person ever rights that kind of wrong. Maybe he can't right it on his own, but he can sure as hell repent of it. And for that, I'm glad. Monsters don't feel remorse, but men do.

“Can we talk about something besides Lucas?” Seth asks, suddenly looking sleepy. “I love your brother and all, but he's the only thing I've been thinking about for the past month.”

“I get that. What do you want to talk about?”

A mischievous glimmer in his eye, Seth chomps down on his last churro. “Maybe I don't want to talk at all.”

• • •

Unlike the newer parts of the city, the old town is quiet. Overflowing with dark corners made for kissing couples. Well, it's mostly quiet, until we pass through a courtyard where a public concert is taking place.

A small crowd gathers around an ornate stone fountain, where a group of men wear what must be traditional Galician garb: wool pants and white shirts with puffy sleeves, worn beneath gray vests. Each man dons a wide-brimmed hat that looks like it was stolen from a Mennonite. Each plays something musical, from the accordion, to the snare drum, to Rodrigo's beloved
gaita
. The few
hombres
not holding a physical instrument croon a controlled melody, clapping their hands in a consistent rhythm.

“Want to watch?” It isn't really a question. I'm already heading in that direction. The thought of being alone with Seth on an empty cobblestone street is both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. Better let the churros in my fluttering stomach settle first.

We work our way through the crowd, finding a seat on the edge of the fountain. I'm amazed by this musical spontaneity in the middle of the night, yet the people around us—locals and tourists alike—don't appear to find it strange at all.

At the start of a tune that sounds like a Scottish Highland ballad blended together with a finger-snapping song from southern Spain, a girl who looks about thirteen steps out from the crowd and begins to dance. She wears a full red skirt and a shawl that blends in with her long black hair. Soon she's joined by a few friends, all of them twirling in a circle around the fountain, their purple, yellow, and scarlet skirts billowing out like tulips. It isn't a sultry dance like flamenco; it's something sweeter and more traditional. Suddenly, in unison, each girl approaches a young man seated around the fountain and asks him to dance.

Naturally, Seth is one of those young men.

“No, no, no,” he repeats to the smiling
señorita
, his panicked eyes pleading. “Tell her, Gabi. I don't dance. Seriously, tell her.”

“
Le gusta bailar
,” I say to the girl before turning to Seth. “Loosen up. It'll do you good.”

“You'll pay for this, Santiago.”

Seth is dragged from his seat with the other unsuspecting victims, all of them equally mortified. At least his ankle is feeling better and he doesn't have to do much. The young ladies are the ones who own this show. All the guys just stand there looking silly, while the girls swirl around them and everybody cheers.