Beneath Wandering Stars (17 page)

I read through the message one more time, then log off the computer so I don't bash in the monitor, even though I have eight paid minutes left. Brent's pathetic message isn't worthy of a response. And no, the fact that he's been meaning to dump me for weeks and decided to soften the blow with a plane ticket doesn't make him any less of a two-timing turncoat.

I speed walk across the plaza, envisioning the scene I'm about to make—me picking up Seth's umpteenth glass of beer and throwing it in his face in trashy American girl fashion. I can't believe he had the nerve to go behind my back and tell Brent whatever he told him. I can't believe I was actually starting to trust him.

Seth is no longer seated in the café. Our stuff is still there, but he's gone.

“Your army friend had to use the loo,” a familiar voice announces. “Spanish beer goes right through you, see. I told him I'd watch your bags.”

I turn around. Yep, good old Bob is back. The sleep apnea didn't kill him, and neither did a lynch mob of REM cycle-deprived pilgrims, which was my forecast for the poor old guy if he kept up his snoring.

“Thanks, Bob,” I mutter, searching for a pen so I can write on the back of Seth's bill. My hand shakes. I can feel my skin breaking out in red, blotchy hives, which only happens when I'm especially pissed off. As soon as I finish my infuriated scribbling, I grab my backpack and the guidebook, then leave the café without once looking back.

Walking on my own now, traitor! Buen frickin' camino!

Burgos is a big city, so it's the perfect place to go missing. Unfortunately, there's only one bus station with a single bus per hour headed in the direction of Santiago, so I've got to plan ahead in order to ditch a trained tracker like Seth. I don't care what motivated him to tell Brent we should break up. Seth isn't my father and he's definitely not my big brother. Now he's not even my friend. From this point on, I'm walking alone.

But first, I'm going to splurge.

“
Un
habitación, por favor
.” I slap my passport down on the front desk. “Preferably a room with a view.”

The concierge at the Meson del Cid hotel is a severe woman with penciled-on eyebrows who wears a red scarf around her neck like she's about to go run with the bulls. She studies the crushed leaves in my hair, trying to determine if I'm serious. I open my passport, pull out my last one-hundred euro bill, and slide it across the counter.

Funny. After that, the woman doesn't utter a peep.

“
Gracias
.” I take my change and the room key, then search for the elevator in a lobby with one too many fake potted plants.

I figure a hotel stay is the best way to throw Seth off my scent. Literally, since the first thing I intend to do when I enter my budget yet blissfully private room is take the longest, hottest shower of my entire life. The bathroom is huge for a European hotel, and once it's nice and steamy, I jump in and do nothing but watch water swirl down the drain for the next thirty minutes, wishing I could clean up my life with so little effort.

All my blisters have hardened into calluses—little islands of rhinoceros flesh no longer susceptible to pain. If that's what it takes to make it on the
camino
, then maybe that's what it takes to make it in life. An armor of thick skin.

I rinse the hotel's coconut-lime shampoo out of my hair and wrap myself in a fluffy white towel. The feather duvet on the double bed feels like a homecoming, so I lie there in silence, staring at the flamenco dancer paintings decorating the room's crimson walls.

What now?

Why go back to Texas at all? Sure, I had friends there, but we were a cohesive group of couples. Couples who are still together minus the pairing I happened to be a part of. UT-Austin was supposed to be
our
school, and it was the only college I applied to. The worst part is that Brent couldn't tell me the truth face to face. Instead, he chose to dump me in an e-mail so devoid of emotion, it sounded like a request to disconnect his cable.

I do not cry. I
will not
cry. Brent isn't worthy of my tears, though the wasted months of waiting and saving every penny to see him again
are
worth weeping over. But I can't do it. There's this dead, hollow space inside me instead, like I have nothing left in me worth loving. Like I am now—cue the
Les Mis
soundtrack—on my own. Lucas, my parents, Brent. None of them are here, and none of them can tell me what to do after I hand over my military ID card and become a stranger to the only life I've ever known.

Okay, this pity party has got to stop. I sit up and rifle through my pack for the
Odyssey
.

For a friend with an understanding heart is worth no less than a brother
, reads the first highlighted quote I find. Kill me now. Seth may have had his moments of understanding, but he will never be like a brother.

A brother.
Do I even still have one?

I flip through a few more pages.
Out of sight, out of mind.

Now that's more like it, Homer. Lucas isn't here. Brent isn't here. And now, thankfully, Seth isn't here. It's time to stop giving this troublesome trio real estate in my brain.

I turn on the TV and flip through the channels. Apparently European TV is the same as American TV: lots of infomercials, spandex-clad girls gyrating to musical lyrics that could have been written by a three-year-old, and a Spanish version of
The Jerry Springer Show
. Great, now I'm even more depressed.

Get over yourself, Gabi
. My conscience, inner voice, whatever you want to call it, is right. It's stupid to worry about the future, especially when my main concern should be finishing this pilgrimage. That's one good thing about the
camino
. The main objective is simple: Get to the next dot on the map. Everything else comes day by day, kilometer by kilometer.

• • •

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, the sharp clang of church bells has me shooting up in bed with a start.

Lucas.

My first morbid thought? I'm late for a funeral.

No. Not yet.

My body trembles, which probably has something to do with the fact that I'm wearing nothing but a damp towel. I walk over to the window, pull back the curtains, and get a glimpse of the view that cost me an extra fifteen euros.

It was worth it. The Burgos Cathedral is right
on the other side of my balcony, and its bright white stones glow an eerie green in the fading twilight. The melancholy view makes the depressed just-got-dumped part of me want to dive back into the crisp sheets of a bed that is thankfully not my sweatbox sleeping bag, and play sappy break-up music on repeat.

Forget
that
. I'm in
Spain
.

And I'm not wasting a single moment because of one stupid boy.

I open the door to my balcony and let in the sounds of the street. The breeze that tags along assures me it's balmy out, almost summer-like. That means I can finally wear the one outfit I packed that's suitable for a night on the town—a black tank top and a ruffled red skirt that reminds me of the Spanish dancers I've been staring at for the past hour.

I dig through my backpack for the travel tube of mascara I've never used. After braiding my damp hair and twisting it into a low bun, I secure my favorite pair of silver hoop earrings, and
voilà
,
my gypsy flamenco look is complete.

A few dabs of roll-on perfume and I'm out of here, even though I have no idea where I'm headed. I certainly didn't get all dolled up to go to church, but the illuminated cathedral beckons me back into the main square, buzzing with chatter from all the outdoor cafés. Buzzing
is the perfect word to describe what's happening to me, too. There's this strange energy building up inside me, waiting to burst through. I feel brand new, like anything could happen. Like tonight I could become anyone I choose.

Boys lie and television is crap, but the cathedral before me is
real
and it has stood here for centuries, created by people who didn't have a forklift, let alone a phone app. Yet somehow they believed they could build something beautiful. Something people would walk hundreds of miles just to see in the flesh.

That's it. That's the question I need to ask the
camino
.

What am I going to build that will leave a mark? That will last?

I'm feeling all profound and deep, until my stomach growls out a less sophisticated question:
When are we going to eat?
My nose selects one of the many tantalizing aromas floating around the square, and I spy a café serving up seafood paella.

Whirling around in that direction, my bare shoulder collides with something solid.

“
Scheize!
”

“Sorry!”

The stranger's eyes widen as he catches me in the midst of my stumble. “Oh. Hey, Gabi. We meet again.”

That “something solid” is Jens. Have I mentioned that Jens is gorgeous?

“Gabi! How are you?” Katja is close behind, as excited to see me as her brother. “You look fantastic! It'd take me ten hostel showers to look that pristine.”

I'm not a big hugger of trees or of strangers, but I can't help throwing myself into Katja's homemade sweater–wearing arms. “I'm so happy to see you guys!”

Now
I want to cry, though I'm guessing that would freak out my new friends. At least their sudden appearance means I won't wallow around in self-pity all night.

“What happened to your soldier?” Katja asks.

I will never have a soldier.

“Let's just say we decided to go our separate ways.”

Jens's already big smile widens even further. “In that case, follow me, ladies. I have a suspicion Gabi needs to celebrate her newfound freedom.”

We hit up a few
tapas
bars for some pre-party fuel, then head off in search of nightclubs that allow minors in until 1
A.M
. It's almost eleven—right about the time Spain starts to come alive—so the streets are crowded. Every other face we pass belongs to someone our age, which is an unusual sight. I had an 11:30
P.M.
curfew back in the States, and a “big evening out” typically meant going to a late movie, but here young people own the night.

“How about this place?” Katja points to a sign above an inconspicuous alley doorway. It reads
Buenas Noches.

“Sure,” Jens and I reply in unison. Our eyes meet, the small flame flickers, and we both look away to avoid getting singed. Jens and I have either blurted out the same thing or finished each other's sentences multiple times. And we don't even share the same first language.

Inside the club, the music and strobe lights are so overwhelming, I feel like I'm going to have a seizure. With its sticky floors and dark corners, the place is kind of a dive, but people seem to be having fun.

“Want to dance?” Jens shouts over the roar.

“Um, yeah, okay,” I stutter. Truth be told, I haven't danced with anyone besides Brent since my sophomore Homecoming dance. And that was with a fumbling football player who stepped on my feet and treated every track like a slow song that gave him permission to hold my hips.

Jens, on the other hand, is an amazing dancer. I've only seen Germans dancing on top of tables to polka music at a
bierfest
, and believe me, it wasn't pretty. But this kid has moves and he knows how to use them—house, swing, hip hop, salsa, you name it, we dance it. The pulsing beat of the music and the heat radiating off of every body in the room create a warm fuzzy feeling that's intoxicating.

“I need a drink,” Jens gasps after a popular song that has the whole club cheering and singing along. “How about a
sangria?”

“Sure. I could use a break.” I step away from the neon lights and scan the crowd for Katja. Ah, there she is—glistening with sweat as she dances with a smoldering Spaniard who looks like a cross between a young Johnny Depp and an even younger Antonio Banderas.

Jens returns with our drinks, his smirk sharpening into a scowl. Katja and her new friend aren't leaving much room for the Holy Spirit. “Be right back.”

My jaw drops as Jens walks over and
actually
separates them, like a fearless nun armed with a ruler. I smile because Lucas would do the same thing, only in this instance, Jens would be the one getting told he needs to take a step back. As I sip my grown-up fruit punch, the deafening music fades to white noise. All I can hear is the voice of my father invading my head.

Gabriela, you are not a person who can be trusted
.

This is Spain, Dad, where the drinking age is sixteen and parents aren't so spastic,
I silently snap back. By the third sip the voice fades and by the fourth I couldn't tell you a thing about Sergeant Major Francisco Santiago, other than he's a major pain in my ass.

Jens returns, clutching Katja's arm. “I think it's time to go.”

“Yeah! Let's go back to the cathedral,” Katja squeals in a pitch that tells me she's had
waaay
more sangria than I have.

Once we're outside the club and far from the seductions of Don Juan, Jens loosens up. He keeps smiling at me in a specific way. A smitten way. I'm surprised he hasn't made a move yet, but then again, I can't imagine kissing someone with my sibling around. And these two are attached at the hip.

Katja walks ahead of us, swirling through the streets in a dance all her own, high on the hundred percent natural drug of being young and alive. “Your sister is adorable.”

“
Ja
, Katja is . . . what's the phrase in English? A free spirit?”

“You mean you have those in Germany?” I joke.

Jens smiles and drapes his lanky arm over my shoulder. “Ha. Ha. Yes, despite the stereotypes, not
all
of us are Type A, rule-abiding robots.”