Beneath Wandering Stars (26 page)

“May I?” Seth reaches for the guitar and Pilar obliges.

“I didn't know you played.” Seth has never struck me as being creatively inclined, so it's hard to hide my astonishment.

“The number of things you don't know about me may surprise you,” Seth says as he tunes the strings. “I do have other hobbies besides blowing things up, you know?”

On the surface he's teasing me, but Seth's tone has an edge to it that I don't know how to take. Then again, I'm too stunned by what happens next to care. Seth's guitar skills can't touch Pilar's stylized strumming, but his
voice
cuts me to the quick. Lush and a little somber, he sings the story of wandering vagabonds, abandoned churchyards, and a million stars in an empty universe.

In other words, he sings our story. Our song.

“Sorry, I'm a little rusty,” Seth says when he's finished, bashful like a kid after his first talent show. “I haven't tried putting that one to music before.”

Pilar's face glows like she's just had a religious experience, which is entirely plausible since Seth's lyrics remind me of a psalm. Tortured yet timeless, they evoke a melancholy nostalgia that never goes out of style. Listening to Seth sing is like looking at a world photographed in sepia tones.

“
Un momento,
I must tell Rodrigo. He would love to hear you play!”

After Pilar leaves us, I turn to Seth, straining to form a coherent sentence. “When, exactly, did you write that?”

“After Eunate,” he says, like it's a confession he's been holding in for years.

He doesn't look at me, but he doesn't have to. The name Eunate tells me everything I need to know. Every confused emotion I feel for Seth started that cloudless night. The night I caught him wishing on a shooting star for a person both our universes would be emptier without. The night I was consumed by something big. Something as vast and mysterious as that illustrious night sky.

Apparently I wasn't the only one.

“Brent played music too, right?”

I know Seth is really asking:
How do I compare? How do I measure up?

“If you call whining other people's lyrics into a microphone music.”

Seth grins like he's won the lottery and will never have to work another day in his life. “Kid has no guts. See, I knew those tight pants didn't reveal much.”

I laugh. “I'll give you that. You saw what I couldn't see.”

“What about your dad?”

“What about him?” I ask.

“You said things haven't been great between you two, and I get the sense Brent has something to do with that.”

Am I that transparent, or is Seth just especially good at reading me?

“So what happened?” he continues.

“I've never talked about it.”

And why would I now? Seth kissed me, but he stopped himself because he didn't want to disrespect my family, which means he didn't want to disrespect me. What will he think when he knows my reputation is already tarnished?

“Okay, so tell me.”

I breathe in Pilar's special tea and exhale my shame. “Brent and I were headed to a party at Kristina Newman's house—”

“Wait,” Seth interrupts, “you mean
General
Newman's house?”

“Yep. He was out of town. Still stupid, but we're talking about Kristina here.”

Seth nods. “Yeah, her dad may wear a lot of brass, but I'm pretty sure the last gold star that girl saw on schoolwork was way back in kindergarten.”

“Don't be so mean,” I say. “But yes, Kristina wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box and yes, she hosted a huge party at her high-ranking officer father's house.”

“In his general's mansion? On post?” Seth shakes his head at such a folly.

“On post,” I confirm.

“And you guys actually went?”

“Well, we would have. If we hadn't been arrested first.”

Seth nearly jumps from his seat, then remembers that he's in extreme pain and eases himself back on to the couch. “
You?
Arrested? For what?”

“Brent was in charge of picking up booze since one of his bandmates is twenty-one, and being the connoisseur that he is, he decided to bring a case of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill.”

Seth smirks and shakes his head. “Such a rookie move.”

“Yeah, if you're going to get busted for underage alcohol possession on federal government property, might as well get caught with something a tad more sophisticated than a malt beverage that tastes like Welch's strawberry soda and air freshener.”

Seth adjusts his frozen bag of peas. “So how'd you get caught?”

“On our way to the party, we stopped in the PX parking lot for a make-out session in Brent's car. Brent opened one of the bottles of ‘wine' for us to drink—I guess he was trying to be romantic or something. The next thing I know, a military police officer is tapping on the foggy window above my head. He asks us to step out of the car, finds the Boone's Farm, and two minutes later we're in the back of the police cruiser in handcuffs. My dad was called to the MP station to pick us up, and that's when he pretty much stopped talking to me. For a year.”

Seth studies me closely, like he's envisioning me in the back of Brent's car and doesn't know what to think. He doesn't seem upset or disappointed, just confused.

“We never had sex, if that's what you're wondering.” I pour Seth another cup of tea. “There were a few close calls, but I never went through with it.”

“Why not?” Still no judgment in his voice, just relief.

“I don't know,” I reply. “Deep down, I figured there was something more. That I'd be making a vow I couldn't keep. That Brent wasn't worthy.”

“Gabi. Look at me.” Seth's eyes are resolute. “He wasn't.”

• • •

“This is it,
peregrinos
! The solution to all your problems.”

Somehow I doubt that, but Rodrigo's gusto will not be diminished by the skeptical glance Seth and I share. In one swoop, Rodrigo pulls off the dusty horse blanket like he's unveiling an artifact at a world-class museum. The item beneath the blanket
is
ancient, I'll give him that.

“No way.” Seth shakes his head like his hair is on fire. “
Gracias
, but no way.”

We're in Rodrigo's garage behind his shop, which houses so much Celtic overstock it looks like we're bidding on a storage unit that once belonged to a leprechaun. But it also contains an alternative mode of transportation for my injured
compañero
.

An old wheelchair that belonged to Rodrigo's mother, may God rest her soul.

“Come on, Seth. What other option do we have besides taking a bus the rest of the way, which means no
Compostela
certificate for Lucas? This is the only way we can finish the last hundred kilometers on foot. Well, sort of.”

“You think you can actually push me in that thing?” Seth's Adam's apple flinches as he tries to swallow his pride.

“I can push you.” I ignore the fact that this wheelchair is in worse shape than he is.

“There's no time. We need to reach Santiago in a few days and I'll only slow you down.”

“I can push you,” I repeat, my voice firm.

The rare reception in Seth's eyes tells me I've almost convinced him, which is proof he really will do anything for Lucas. At least I think it's for Lucas, though the goofy way Pilar looks at us makes me wonder. Regardless, dodging bullets and building fundraising blogs are cakewalks compared to Seth putting his weakness on display for the entire world to see.

I grab his hand. “I'm not finishing this without you.”

Seth's fingers tighten around mine. He sighs and says some of the hardest words he's likely ever spoken. “Okay, Gabi. You win.”

Every muscle in my body screams like a boiling lobster, but my calves hurt most of all. Rock-hard calves are what you get when you spend multiple days pushing a 175-pound man in a wheelchair across varied terrain. I don't do it alone, thanks to the other pilgrims walking this last leg of the
camino
who offer to help out when we reach a steep/muddy/crappy section of road. The most arduous parts of the trek are behind us, but it isn't all downhill yet.

Seth handles his humbling circumstances like a champ. He's visibly grateful for the assistance from strangers, even when he has to explain
ad nauseam
that no, despite his dog tags and cropped hair, he didn't injure his ankle in combat—unless a heroic campaign to reduce littering on the
camino
counts.

Neither of us brings up our kiss again, which is probably for the best. Still, I can't stop thinking about it, and I kind of hate myself for thinking about it. Why should I let myself get all gaga over a guy when this journey is about something bigger than both of us?

That's just it. I can't. And I won't. Our pilgrimage is almost over and I need to focus all my thoughts on the reason we're walking it in the first place: Lucas.

I lift the phone to my ear and wait for the repetitive ring. The signal should be stronger now that we're back near civilization, but my parents haven't been answering their phones. That means something has happened. Some sort of
change
has taken place.

And if it was good news, they'd have called me already.

What if Mom and Dad are waiting until I get home to tell me that Lucas is dead? The thought makes me so ill I can't even entertain it, not when I'm this close to the finish line. This walk is the only motivation I've had to get up in the morning. It's the only thing keeping me from spending hours in bed, tallying up a long list of
what ifs?

What if
Lucas doesn't get better?

What if
I walk 500 miles for him and he never gets to hear about it?

What if
, after everything we've been through, Seth and I never speak again because the one bond holding us together doesn't wake up in time to save us both?

What if
repentance and atonement don't mean a thing because nothing we do ultimately matters, which means ultimately there's nothing to forgive?

What if
cells in various stages of decomposition are the only thing that's real?

What if
there's no point to
any of it
? To life, to death, to war, to
love
?

I dig through my pockets. If a passerby studied my jerky movements, he'd assume I'm an addict searching for her next hit. Oddly enough, that's what this ritual has become: a respite, a moment of relief. The feel of wax between my fingers is like a surge of serotonin. A promise
that not all lights—not the brightest ones—have to go out.

Up ahead, Seth talks rugby with a young South African who volunteered to take over the reins of his rusty chariot. I take this opportunity to light a candle for Lucas, given that I've been slacking ever since my new wheelchair workout routine. I set the tealight below a plain wooden cross on the side of the road, decorated with worn-out boots hung by their laces, along with other random items pilgrims realized they could do without. The assortment of offerings includes a cherry-red cowboy hat, which brings a smile to my lips.

“Is there something you must let go of to lighten your load?”

The unexpected voice startles me. As I whirl around to face it, I accidentally knock Nancy's hat off of the shrine. A man with a full head of white hair and skin the color of cardamom sits in the grass behind me. He wears an embroidered shirt made of linen that matches his mane, and kneels on a small carpet, facing east.

“I don't know if my load needs to be lightened,” I reply as the man rolls up his mat. “I, uh. I'm sorry if I interrupted your prayers.”

“I doubt the Almighty minds.” The man smiles and joins me on the road. He gestures to the stack of random junk. “May I ask for whom you are lighting that candle?”

“For my brother. He's injured. Pretty bad.” It feels strange to be telling
this
man, of all people, about my brother. “Are you, uh . . . where are you from?”

“Iraq originally, but I live in London now.”

Talk about awkward. At least Lucas never deployed to Iraq.

“And why, if you don't mind me asking, are you walking the
camino
?”

The man doesn't flinch. “What am I doing here as a Muslim, you mean?”

I nod. There's no point trying to be PC when that's
exactly
what I mean.

“I came to Spain to visit relatives in Barcelona. They told me about this ancient pilgrimage route and I wanted to see it for myself.” He shrugs. “Simple as that.”

“Muslims have to make a pilgrimage too, right? To Mecca?”

The serene man nods, still smiling. “You might say this is my warm-up.”

I smile back. “And it's been
okay
so far?”

“It has, in fact,” the man replies, sensing what I'm getting at. “Most pilgrims have been very welcoming, though they are curious about my intentions, just like you. Now, if you don't mind
me
asking, why are you walking the
camino
, my young pilgrim friend?”

This question is getting as old as “So, where are you from?” Yet the way this stranger asks it somehow feels fresh. For once, I come up with a halfway thoughtful answer, even if I'm not quite sure what it means. “I'm walking to heal what's broken.”

“Ah, I see. Then you picked a good route, for this land is a symbol of what's been broken in our world for centuries. Yet it also shows us ways the wounds might be mended.”

He must be referring to Spain's long history of religious conflict, seeing how this peninsula was once home to Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike. We pilgrims may seem like a peace-loving bunch, but there are lots of statues along the
camino
that depict St. James on horseback, slaying Moors with his sword. “I imagine seeing all those images of
Santiago Matamoros
is a little insulting.”