Page 7 of After the Fire
“¿Adónde vas?Are you going out of town for work?” I asked. I heard my voice, trembling and shrill, a combination of astonishment and emotional collapse.
Without a single word, he opened the trunk and put the suitcase inside. Still clutching the documents, he walked around the vehicle and sat in the driver’s seat. He started the car and drove off without telling me where he was going or how long he’d be gone.
I felt my heart racing. I was frozen, holding a cloth napkin I had dragged with me from the house in my hand. Tiny and vulnerable: that was how I felt in front of such a structure behind me, slowly crumbling to the ground.
I was speechless.
5
THE HELP
I told you so,said that voice in my head.This is uncommon for you, and you should be back in the city, trying to fix this. I had tossed and turned all night in the hotel bed. I was so used to sleeping in my own bed with my fiancé next to me that the slightest unfamiliar sound made me perk up. The late afternoon was so quiet and warm, and the windows were open so that the constant sound of the cicadas outside would help drown my thoughts.
My phone buzzed on the desk by the TV, probably a message from Susana. I didn’t need to guess at this point. The voicemail notification had haunted me for almost two days now, gnawing at me every second of my day. I hadn’t been a rebellious teenager—Susana had had enough with my brother in his teens, who followed it up with a massivef-youwhen he married Catalina. I was the complete opposite: quiet and reserved and didn’t have many friends. At one point in my life, I considered my grandmother my best friend, until Cata came into the picture. Not answering the phone was probably the biggest act of rebellion, I would say.
“Victoria, where are you? Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Victoria, answer the phone immediately. This is a scandal. Manuel is here trying to fix what you’ve done…”
“Victoria, for the love of god. I can’t believe you would do this to me. Do you have any idea the humil—”
The messages kept playing on a loop in my head. Nothing I did was helping me shut them down. The voices of disappointment and humiliation. That was the worst of it all. She had never been disappointed in me; I had given her no reasons to be.
I grew up in a strict household under her watchful eye. My mother’s passing revealed that my father was wildly unprepared to raise two toddlers, sinking his pain in alcohol to try to make sense of his loss. So he moved us to his childhood home, where Susana helped. And she took on the role very seriously. I would say that of all of the cousins, I was probably the one that was closest to Susana, acting more as a confidant than a grandchild. And I liked it. It gave me a sense of purpose, to be able to make her proud and to share many different things with her.
Ever since we were old enough to recognize the consequences of our actions, Susana taught us to be intentional in everything we did. She believed that if we made a plan with very clear steps, then we would accomplish everything we needed to have the perfect life. “We make a plan and stick to it,” she said. “Calculated and intentional.”
Except that “calculated and intentional” was suddenly foreign to me. Because “calculated and intentional” had brought me here, to a place that felt so strange and unfamiliar but gave me peace at the same time. It was like my own existence was a contradiction. Whatever was going on was a sick joke, and my brain was in on it. Maybe I should consider listening to that voice in my head and go back to the city. Call them back. Get married. Forgive him.
I needed to get out of my head, but I was dragging my feet because I didn’t want to risk running into Santiago. I had been out of my room a few times in the three days since I’d arrived in town, and the times I did, I saw him. Either from a distance or close by, at the hotel’s restaurant or behind the desk in the lobby. It was almost as if he was a larger-than-life character—he was everywhere. His laughter welcomed me as I walked into the hotel’s restaurant, finally hungry enough to brave it out of my room. He was sitting comfortably at a table off to the side, his arm draped casually on the back of a chair right next to him. He was surrounded by older men looking at him in awe, everyone smiling and laughing together.
I glanced around the room, the place full of locals immersed in their conversations and their stories. It looked like it belonged to perfection in this quaint town. The walls were clad with wood wainscoting, and just like the sitting room right outside the doors, vintage sports memorabilia adorned the space. From the ceiling, discolored bunting hung in a zig-zag pattern, reminding me of a medieval castle or maybe a fancy circus. It definitely had an English pub vibe to it—no surprise there since the original settlers of this town were wealthy British families.
I took a seat at the bar and placed the book I brought right next to me. I knew from my previous nights there that the service at the bar was great, and the conversation was even better. The night before, Julia, the hotel manager, told me about the origins of the town, how it was now mostly dependent on tourism and the residents were getting ready for the off-season. She said that during the summer, the town was a very popular hiking destination because the trails led to many different parts of the mountain, from creek beds to the tallest peaks.
“Hey,” the bartender said as he approached me.
“Oh, hi. Wha-what are you doing here?” I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. Santiago was standing in front of me with a rag on his shoulder, looking like the quintessential bartender. He smiled one of his smiles, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Why are you behind the bar?”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand why this man was standing where he was. The last I knew, he was still doing family law back in the city and had been part of a team in a very high-profile case.
“Julia had an emergency, so I took over,” he said calmly. “I used to work here during my summers, and I think I remember a thing or two.”
“Ah, is she alright?” Julia had been extremely welcoming to me in the past few days. She sent breakfast up to my room every morning and immediately called me to let me know that there was a tray waiting for me outside my room. “I was looking forward to more of her stories tonight.”
He smiled, grabbed the rag on his shoulder, and proceeded to wipe the counter right in front of me. His hands were big and tanned, working in slow motion like they were taunting me. His movements were natural, confirming that he had indeed done this many times before.The back wall of the bar was full of liquor bottles, many I’d never seen before, in all different shapes and sizes.
“Is that common?” I cocked my head, trying to understand the town dynamics. He looked surprised at my question but smiled. “Do people around town just cover for others when they need help?”
“I mean,” he said with a soft smile, “Julia is my aunt, and she owns the inn. And also, I’m on vacation, and I don’t have much to do so…” He shrugged, not finishing his sentence and letting me use my deduction skills.
“Interesting,” I replied, looking around the room. “Well, I guess I could read my book then.”
I motioned to my right where I had set my book down. This was probably my most well-kept secret: I was a bookworm. I loved reading romance and mystery novels, the latter something that I had apparently inherited from the grandfather I never met. But not only did I read because it gave me a connection to him, but also because it was an escape from my reality, and right now I needed all the escape I could get. Susana hated it. She said multiple times that it took away from my time to socialize, to see and be seen.
“You like to read?” he asked, lifting one of those perfect eyebrows of his.Focus, Victoria.“I didn’t know that. What do you like to read?”
“Oh, a little bit of everything. Except self-help. Yep, not for me,” I said, looking over at him. His serene expression and carefree demeanor were so calming. “My grandfather was an avid reader, and they keep telling me that I inherited this trait. Although in the past few years, my reading time has been significantly reduced. I’m sure you can relate.”
