Page 87 of Que Será, Syrah

I want to deny it on the spot, but the question deserves consideration. So, I think about it, while cool mist swirls around us and the trail we’re on curves deeper into the woods, diverging from the creek for a little while. Because yes, it burns. The idea that someone is willing to hurt her, for no reason other than that he can, to take something that means so much to her—memories, safety, home. That doesn’t sit well with me.

“No,” I finally decide. “I’m sure that growing up with money helped to make her who she is, but even if she lost it all, that probably wouldn’t change much.” Unlike someone like Lori, who’d probably find it incredibly hard to cope. Or even my mom—who had money once and is still struggling to adjust to its being gone.

“Okay, that’s her. But what about you? I mean, you’d lose access to it, as well. And I don’t know how things stand between you, but it seems like her being rich is a hell of a perk.”

I fall silent once again. I mean, yeah, sure, there’d be fewer spa days in my future if we were both trying to make ends meet, that’s a certainty. But, other than that… “You know, I don’t think so. That woman’s resourceful as fuck. Even if a fire had taken out the winery, or if her family cut her off tomorrow, I’d bet anything she’d still land on her feet. And I’m doing okay on my own so…”

“So, then what is the problem?”

“Dude, I don’t even know.” What am I upset about? “Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that she didn’t trust me enough to confide in me. I mean, how’re you even supposed to help someone if they won’t tell you when they’re in trouble?”

But even as I say it, I know I’m lying.

There’s no doubt she’s been let down in the past. And, as a result, it’s hard getting her to open up. It took her the better part of a day to confide in me about the cave. But in the end, she did it.

And, not twelve hours later, I threw that in her face, as well.

But Miles is shaking his head. And I don’t even know why. “What now?” I ask.

“You, my friend, have got a hero complex. Which, sure, many of us do. But did you ever stop to think that maybe she doesn’t want your help?”

“Oh, there’s no question about that,” I say, laughing bitterly. “She made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t.”

“Right. So, what did you want her to say? If we’re still talking about this thing with the ex, she was probably embarrassed. No one wants to admit they’ve been gaslit.”

But my brain has just started to process something he said earlier. Of course, I have a hero complex. And I don’t need to wonder why that is. The men and women who put their lives on the line for people like me? They’re #goals. They didn’t quit when things got hard, they stuck it out, they pushed through. I can’t do less.

I owe it to them—and to the kid that I was, and the kids that might someday depend on someone like me. But it’s hard. And deep down, I’m not entirely convinced that I’m up to the challenge.

The sad truth is that it’s easier to be a hero when the people who are depending on you are strangers—the nameless, faceless public. There’s a reason surgeons won’t operate on members of their own family. Because when it’s in your home, or in your heart, when it’s someone whose survival is critical to your own well-being, and the outcome is deeply personal, that’s so much more terrifying.

All at once, I’m no longer here, in the cool, damp woods, on a bright clear day, where the loudest sounds are the birds chirping in the trees. I’m somewhere dark and terrifying. Where the air is thick and deafening. And I can’t find my way out.

This is the same thing that happened to me last night. And you call yourself a protector, my inner voice is scathing, but not wrong. You’re nothing but a fake. Because I’ve done the same thing time and again. When someone that I love has a problem and I can’t solve it, that makes me angry. When they need something that I can’t give them, I find a reason to reject them, before that fact becomes too obvious. And when Allegra came to me last night, asking for nothing more than companionship, and maybe a little reassurance, I projected all of this on her. I told her she had a pattern that needed changing. When all the time, I was the one with the problem.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Miles’ voice cuts through the noise in my head. I open my eyes—when had I closed them? —and realize that I’m no longer moving. My steps had ground to a halt at some point, probably several minutes ago, and Miles is now circling back to check on me.

I shake my head. “Damn, I’ve been an asshole.”

Miles’ eyes light up. “Oh, you just figured that out now?” And when I nod and pass my hand across my eyes—maybe to clear the dust and sweat from my eyes, maybe not—Miles shrugs and says, “Yeah well, I think probably we all are, from time to time. The question is what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. What can I do? I mean, that’s why I called you.”

“Me? Oh, my man, if I’m your only option? You really are fucked aren’t you?”

We run for a while in silence, pushing each other a little harder. After a while, Miles slows his pace, dropping to something closer to a jog I slow with him.

“Well,” he says, and if you ask me, he sounds a little reluctant. “If you really want my opinion, I’d suggest you start by helping her get rid of the ex.”

I slide a startled glance in his direction. “Define get rid of.”

Miles rolls his eyes. “What the fuck do you think it means? He’s here fraudulently, isn’t he? Or, at least under false pretenses? So, maybe do your job. The law says he should be deported. Ain’t no shame in following the law. Most of the time, anyway.”

Fuck. Everything in me recoils at the thought. I uncap my water and down half the bottle before I feel calm enough to say, “What makes you say he’s here fraudulently? You can’t know that for a fact.”

“Sure, I can. He pretty much has to be. I mean, either he’s here on a CR1 visa—which would only be valid if the marriage is. If that’s not the case—there you go. Or he could’ve come in on a tourist visa, which likely became invalid the minute he started trying to claim her as his spouse, or pressure her for money. Plus, if he’s really trying to shake down the family, just to get a piece of the winery—and he’s not even entitled to it? That’s not right.”

“Yeah.” The truth is, it’s frighteningly easy to get someone deported these days—sometimes for no reason at all. But for someone like me, the grandson and great-grandson of immigrants (who may or may not have entered the country legally themselves) conspiring with one of “those” agencies is roughly akin to spitting on my ancestors’ graves.

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