Beneath Wandering Stars (20 page)

“Oh, who the hell cares?” I mutter, which is strange because when it comes to soccer, I'm usually as much of a freak as the rest of these people. Why am I suddenly so irritable? Why do I want to turn around and slap these diehard fans for failing to realize the world has bigger problems than what they're bickering about?

I unfold the neon flier and set it on the bar.
This
is my problem. This stupid piece of paper, which has the same power over my sweat glands as the
Odyssey
had moments before I learned Lucas was hanging onto life by a tattered thread. A thread those three hags from the underworld are threatening to cut at any moment.

The bartender points to the flier. “Quite a tragedy, eh? Losing someone so young. The kid probably made one mistake, but it cost him everything. It isn't fair when a person your age can't come back from a wrong turn. It isn't right.”

One mistake. One wrong turn.

Is that all Seth made by talking to Brent? Was I too hard on him? What if he really is this hiker found at the bottom of the ravine, and I never even gave him the chance to tell his side of the story?

“You know, I think I might have seen him. The young man who was killed,” the bartender continues, staring into space as he polishes silverware. “The weather was getting bad, but this guy seemed determined to keep going. Said he needed to reach Santiago by a certain date. Said he had a non-negotiable deadline.”

My eyes snap up from the condensation rings on the bar. “What was he like, this guy? Did you catch his name?”

“No name, and an accent that was hard to place. But I remember his drink.” The bartender almost smiles. “Red Bull and vodka. An unusual choice for a pilgrim walking the
camino
in the middle of the day.”

Yes. It is. And it fills me with relief. There's only one thing Seth—no snob when it comes to a midday drink—despises more than Red Bulls and vodka, and that's “bros” who drink Red Bull and vodka.

Seth is alive. And it gives me wings.

Without warning, the stocky soccer fan next door turns my way. “How about you?”

“Huh?” I almost choke on my soda.

“Yeah, what's your team?” his French/Belgian buddy adds.

No sudden movements
.

If I take my eyes off the TV and engage the enemy, it will only encourage them and I'll be stuck here all night. I keep my gaze fixed ahead and name the first team that comes to mind.

“Bayern Munich.”

“You don't sound German,” says the English guy.

“You don't look German either,” his French (I'm pretty sure) friend observes.

“I'm not German, but I live in Germany.”

“So you're American?”

“That's right. My father is a soldier stationed there.”

Frenchie casts a not-so-subtle glance down my tank top. “Explain something to me. Why are there so many American G.I.s here in Europe? Do you really need bases all over the world to feel secure in your superpower status?”

I don't know what to say. Curious eyes from around the pub drift towards us, but I don't want to do this right now. I don't want to play the sole representative of the United States, as if I'm qualified to speak on behalf of my government. My father is still my father, and my country is still my country. Maybe our tribal loyalties are the reason we humans will always be at war, but I don't know how to love some vague notion of
all
humanity. We reserve the ferocity of love for the people and places we have ties to. To the things we know because we live and breathe in them and recognize their scent.

Take these two football fanatics. They're willing to go to blows because of the passion they feel for FC Lyon or Arsenal—
their
team—not for the sport of soccer in general. The line between love and hate may be fine, but I'd rather attempt the tightrope walk than not be able to feel either. It's a fine line between acceptance and apathy, too.

“Look guys, I didn't ask for my country to go to war, or for my family to move to Germany in a manner that you clearly regard as occupation,” I finally reply. “As a matter of fact, most soldiers don't want those things either. So lay off, all right?”

“But that doesn't change the fact that your troops are still here. And there. And everywhere. Or that more innocent people are dying in these wars than the soldiers who wage them.” My verbal assailant tosses back a shooter of schnapps before swiveling his stool in my direction. “You seem like a smart girl, so perhaps I'm missing something. If you're not a soldier yourself, then why do you defend them?”

Now there's a thought. Why
do
I defend them? Why do I care what the rest of the world thinks when I'm not part of the military—officially, that is—and never have to be?

Maybe it's because I have a strong suspicion this guy has never stuck his neck out for anything greater than a soccer team. Maybe it's because I'm part of a miniscule group of people
not
in uniform who actually know what it's like—the terror of loss lurking around every corner, the turmoil people like my dad and brother have to wade through as they navigate defending the nation they swore to protect, without losing their souls in the process.

I turn to the Brit, hoping to revive an old alliance. “Want to back me up here? It's not like we're fighting overseas alone.”

The bloke studies the bottom of his beer glass, both elbows resting on the bar. “Sorry, luv, but no one in Parliament asked me what I thought before they launched the most pointless mission in recent memory.”

Awesome. Guess I'm flying solo, then.

Team France scoots closer and his sleazy sneer comes with him. There's enough alcohol on his breath to assure me this situation could take a nosedive real quick. “So you have no justification? No argument? Or are American schools still failing to teach you kids how to think for yourselves?”

There's a line in the sand and this jerk is about to cross it. Living overseas, I've gotten used to bouts of good old American bashing, but this guy's arrogant I-Googled-some-statistics-once
attitude makes me want to throw his beer in his face.

“I thought she told you to
lay off
.”

This time, I do choke on my drink. That voice. I know that voice. It's a not-lying-at-the-bottom-of-a-ravine voice. I turn and see Seth behind me, his sunburned face unsmiling, his arm no longer encased by a sling. I'm what he's been searching for all this time, but his livid eyes stay glued to the two football fans, not me.

“Ah, now I see. Your boyfriend is a G.I.” My bar mate gives me a smirk that suggests this puts me on par with a prostitute. Not to mention makes me a fascist. Then he turns to Seth, his bell glass of fancy beer twirling in his hand. “We were merely engaging the young lady in a friendly political debate that doesn't concern you. Then again, most of the conflicts you Yanks insert yourselves in don't concern you.”

“Funny, you frogs didn't say that when the Nazis overran your ass and several thousand American soldiers dead on the beaches of Normandy helped put a stop to it.”

That particular zinger makes me tingle all over, I'm not gonna lie. But it doesn't stop me from snapping my head in Seth's direction to hiss, “What are you
doing
here?”

Seth's eyes stick to his foe, but his anger transfers to me like a rerouted current. “What do you
think I'm doing here? Once I figured out that you stayed in Burgos, I decided to wait it out. You're lucky I'm patient.”

“Hey, you giving the little bird trouble?” the Englishman interjects. Because
now
is the perfect time to come to my aid. “Maybe she doesn't want you following her about.”

“That's right,” his occasional ally joins in. “Maybe she wants to stay here with civilized men who've progressed further up the evolutionary chain.”

“Uh, thanks guys, but I can speak for myself.”

No one hears me.

“By the way, I'm Belgian, not French,” the scruffier guy continues. “Could you even find it on a map? I'm sure geography isn't one of your strengths.”

Based on the toxic levels of testosterone in the air, that last jab is all it takes to light the dynamite. One second Seth and the Belgian guy are standing chest to chest like two enraged roosters, and an instant later a fist slams into Seth's jaw. The punch knocks him back onto a barstool and the pub goes silent. Seth just sits there, rubbing his cheek while the kindling ignites in his eyes. To everyone's surprise, he maintains his composure.

“Glad you got that out of your system, pal, but I'm not looking for a fight,” Seth seethes through gritted teeth.

“Too bad.” His assailant rolls up his sleeves. “Because I've been waiting for some imbecile with an attitude to walk through those doors all day. What are you doing on the
camino
anyway? Out here seeking forgiveness for your many sins?”

That does it. Game on.

My eyes stay glued to the pompous jerk with more unfounded opinions than a Facebook newsfeed, but I don't need to see Seth's face to hear him suck in his breath like it's the last one he'll ever take.

I jump out of the way seconds before Seth and the Belgian collide. Their bodies twist in a hostile bear hug as they topple pint glasses and send my olive bowl soaring.

“Do something!” I shout to the bartender. He just stands there drying dishes like this is no big deal. After a solid minute, he moves into his office and casually picks up the phone.

“Guys, stop!” I try to get between them, but Seth pushes me out of the way before giving his opponent a solid blow to the gut. “The bartender is calling the cops!”

They don't listen. Two guys in the heat of battle never hear anything but their own raucous grunts and the smack of flesh against bone. Seth didn't start this fight, but it's clear he'll finish it. He's not nearly as smashed as his adversary, plus he has the guy beat in size and formal training. The Belgian only has one thing going for him: Seth's sprained arm happens to be his good arm.

The entire bar gathers around to watch and cheer, including the Arsenal fan—a fair-weather friend in the end. To be honest, I'm surprised people don't start making bets. Our perverse love for the coliseum endures, no doubt about it.

“
Mira!
Policía!
”

Three cops burst into the bar before this round of drunken UFC can conclude with a decisive victory. The officers pull the fighters apart, dragging them towards the nearest exit in handcuffs. As they push Seth out the door, he frantically scans the bar for me. Our eyes meet for the first time since Burgos. Blood trickles down his lip and one of his eyes is swelling shut, but the straightforward stare of its adjacent companion tells me all I need to know.

This wasn't just a bar fight. If assault charges are pressed, this is a potential discharge from the U.S. Army, and not an honorable one. Seth is in deep and can't speak more than two words of Spanish to tell his side of the story, which means I'm the only one who can haul him up the cliff he's thrown himself down.

The question is: do I want to?

• • •

It's as startling as it is in the movies—the harsh echo that ricochets along concrete when the lock is turned and the jail cell opens. Seth lifts his eyes from the assortment of stains on his cot. Despite the new facial welts he's added to an already impressive collection, he looks like a little boy. A boy in trouble for throwing rocks through his neighbor's window, though he doesn't have much of a defense because there are chunks of granite lining his pockets.

We don't talk until Seth signs the paperwork and we exit the small police station. Seth rubs his eyes as we step into the bright sunlight. “How'd you do it?”

I shrug. “I told them the truth. I said you weren't the one who started the fight, and that you defended yourself only after the second attack.”

Seth's relief is surpassed only by his disbelief. “And that's it? They're not going to press charges?”

“Well, I also told them you were a soldier on R&R, walking the
camino
on behalf of my wounded brother. Officer Fuentes's sister went to university in Madrid and was injured in the terrorist train bombings back in 2004, so he seemed sympathetic to your situation.”

Seth massages the red cuff marks around his wrists. “It's nice to know not all Europeans hate my Yankee guts.”

My job is finished, so I turn in the direction of the nearest
albergue
. I'm glad Seth is okay. I wasn't about to let my brother's best friend rot in some foreign jail, but that doesn't mean we are any less
done
.

Seth puts a hand on my arm to stop me. “Gabi, wait. Thank you. You're still angry. Obviously. So why didn't you just leave me here?”

Seth doesn't look like a little boy anymore, but he isn't the invincible warrior he once was, either. He looks humbled, taken down a peg or two. It makes his scarred face slightly more inviting, which makes me want to run from it faster than ever. Against his bronzed skin, Seth's irises pop with a blue that contains the entire sky, but his newfound humility isn't enough to soften my resolve. He betrayed my trust. Defending my “honor” in some stupid bar fight doesn't change the fact that he went behind my back. That he still sees me as a kid who needs to be protected, not as a partner.

“A pilgrim died not far from here the other day,” I say. “He was about our age.”

Seth drops his head. “I heard. How tragic.”

“So that's why. I did it for Lucas.” I pull my arm away and walk. “I did it because he would have a hard time forgiving me if I hadn't.”

Today is the hardest day of the entire
camino
—a straight uphill climb that lasts several hours and doesn't quit. The full-body assault feels even worse with Seth on my tail. At least the guy took the hint and keeps his distance, letting me walk up ahead alone.