After dinner, I curled up with him on my couch. Night noises came in. Quieter than normal. As if no one dared go outside until it was okay.
That sense of safety, broken.
I trembled in his arms.
“I was so scared you were hurt,” he whispered. “I lost my best friend. I couldn’t lose you, too.”
“I didn’t know what was happening. I think it’s gonna take me a while to process.”
“That’s what post-traumatic stress is. Maybe you should talk to Marie, too.”
“I’ll do that. You talked with her today, right? How did that go?”
“It was like cleaning out a wound with peroxide. It stung, but I felt better after. The main thing I got out of it was that she said Degan’s death wasn’t my fault, and I needed to forgive myself.”
I stared at him. “Degan’s death wasn’t your fault.”
He bopped my nose. “Even you blamed me for it.”
“I didn’t mean it, though.” I faced him directly. “Trent. Degan’s death was caused by the bomber. Not you.”
“I know. But I still feel like I could have done more.”
I set my head on his shoulder. “I know. I feel that way, too.”
With a deep breath, he kept talking. “She told me that forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. It’s self-healing, self-liberating, and self-empowering. Without forgiveness, you are hopeless, helpless, and powerless. But with forgiveness, while you can’t change your past, you can change how you relate to it.”
“I like that. I’ve been beating myself up for everything.”
“Me too.”
I kissed him. “I can’t change my past.”
“Neither can I,” he whispered against my lips.
An invigorated feeling ran through my body as an idea took shape. “But I can change how I relate to it. What would it feel like to forgive, say, Degan, for going into the army?”
He chuckled. “Try it.”
“Degan, I forgive you, my beloved little brother, for joining up in the army when I didn’t want you to!” I called out. Chills sliced down my arms. “Is it that easy?”
“Yeah. I think it is.” Big blue eyes encouraged me. “Keep going.”
“I forgive you, Degan! I forgive you! It’s okay! You did what you wanted! And it’s okay!”
With every word, I was liberated. I became more and more independent from my past. I declared my own future.
He beamed at me. “It’s like forgiving the Spaniards for being Spaniards and bullfighting.”
“Exactly!” I got up and started pacing, calling to the ceiling. “Degan! I forgive you for being you! You don’t have to be like me! I can love you the way you are!”
“Atta girl.”
“Trent?”
“Yeah.”
I reached over and took his hands, looking into his eyes. “I forgive you. I know I told you I forgave you earlier. But I’m saying it again. I get it. I get you. You care. I love you. And I forgive our past. I am committed to moving forward.”
He got up and started pacing with me, giddy and excited. He pointed to me. “Try forgiving yourself.”
I hugged my arms around my waist. “I forgive you, Dani, for not being there.” And as I said the words, I burst out in tears. “I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you. For blaming your brother. For holding on to old fights and past regrets. For being too scared to open up to love. For not giving it a chance. I forgive!”
Tears poured down my face. “I am weightless,” I said. “I am free. Forgiveness releases me. It releases the guilt I’ve been carrying around about Degan. About yelling at him before he left. That his last words from me were angry. That I can never go back and fix them. You guys were meant to be in the army. You are badasses. You’re soldiers. You defend people. You care about our freedoms. My freedom.”
“Right. Exactly right.”
“Trent. You try it.”
He anchored his feet on the ground, closed his eyes, held my hand, and said in a deep voice, “I forgive you, Trent, for not saving Degan.”
And he let out a breath.
“Dani,” he whispered. “It releases the guilt.”
“What if his life had meaning? And his death did too?”
“It absolutely did,” he assured me. Then he held me the rest of the night.
Later that night, after we’d made love, I showed him the letter from the university. “We’ve got one little problem, though.”
He read it. “Leave that to me.”
23
Trent -- Amor
A week later, I met Didi and Gustavo at the bar for breakfast. I still wasn’t used to the concept of a bar for breakfast, but when in Spain…
We’d exchanged phone numbers to study and had been constantly texting after the explosion to make sure everyone was okay. This morning, we’d agreed to meet up to check on each other.
Over the past few weeks, Didi had become a friend. I found out he was a Miley fan, too. We made up plans for me to go visit him in Germany. And Tavo was so cool. After I texted him to see if he was okay, I got nonstop texts back. Fascinated by vintage American culture and movies, he peppered me with messages, sending me link after link of YouTube videos, links to Wikipedia articles, and IMDB cites for old actors and actresses, wanting to know if I knew more than the internet. Uh, no. But Spanish to the core, he also invited me over to his family’s house for dinner for an upcoming festival.
For the past week, the central city had been cordoned off to repair the damage from the explosion. While our apartments and the historic monuments hadn’t suffered, a nightclub had been bombed. Luckily it was at a time when no one was there—no one went to nightclubs in Spain until really late. The mood of the city was still one of shock and fear, especially with no one claiming responsibility for the attack. But little by little, people started emerging, going about their business in a tentative way.
School closed for a week. Dani’s meeting was pushed off. Everything was delayed.
I’d spent the entire time in her arms.
Now, not only did I have nightmares, but she did, too. With awareness, though, and several calls to Marie Thrash, we both felt like we could go forward.
Dani had caught me arranging my cards on the table—my daily inventory.
“Why do you always take out your things and put them back?”
Letting out a breath, I said, “I don’t know. I think it helps keep my brain organized. Like if I have everything here, then I’m all here.”
“Have you told Marie about it?”
“No. But I will.” I told her about how I showered, and she insisted on a demonstration.
That ended up with me inside her.
I also emailed the VA, telling my counselor that I’d started therapy.
But now, with things starting to reopen, I needed to act on that note from the university. As I drank my coffee and talked with Tavo and Didi, I felt proud that between school, living in Spain, and catching words on television or wherever, I’d learned some Spanish. Instead of the language being an undifferentiated mass of syllables, I was starting to understand words within a sentence, often knowing three or more at a time.
Progress.
“I knew you liked the teacher, amigo,” Gustavo said in English.
“Yeah. She’s in trouble for it. I never meant that to happen. I didn’t even think about it. I’ve known her my whole life.”
“Are you still going to be in the class?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I need to talk to the registrar. Maybe I can switch to another class. Do you know how the school found out?”
They shook their heads. “We’d never tell,” said Didi.
“Right.” Tavo took a sip of his coffee. “We’d never get in the way of amor, James Dean.”
I smiled. “Thanks, amigo.”
When we finished, I headed to school early and went directly to the registrar.
“Can I help you?” she asked in Spanish.
; “I’d like to change classes,” I answered, grateful that I knew how to say that.
She switched to English. “Is this because of Profesora Anderson?”
“Yes. I’m in love with her.”
The registrar eyed me. “I saw you two leaving the cathedral, holding hands. A teacher is not supposed to be involved with a student.”
I’m glad that’s the only thing she saw in the cathedral.
“I’ve loved her my whole life.”
The registrar regarded me with surprise. “Really?”
“Really. She’s my best friend’s sister.”
“Hmmm,” she said, noncommittal.
I leaned over the desk. “Can I transfer into a different class?”
She flipped through some papers, looked around, then gazed at me, sizing me up. “It is unusual, but there is space for you, yes, in Professor Wyatt King’s class. The class is in the afternoons on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“I’d like that,” I said, and waited for her to change me in the system, then print out a confirmation.
I checked my phone. I had minutes to spare before her meeting. I sprinted down the hall, clutching my transfer papers.
Without knocking, I opened the door. Dani stood in front of five serious Spanish administrators, three women and two men.
They looked up, surprised at my entry. Dani blinked rapidly and bit her lip. I hadn’t told her exactly what I planned.
I could tell I’d interrupted one of the women, speaking to Dani in Spanish, I’m sure telling her that it did not reflect well on the school for a teacher to be romantically involved with a student.
“Uh, hola,” I said. “Me llamo Trent.”
Dani’s eyebrows narrowed, and she cocked her head.
“Who are you?” the woman asked me in Spanish.
“The one who loves Danika Anderson.” I started reading from a paper in Spanish. “I came to Spain because I couldn’t be away from Professor Anderson. I have known her my whole life. I signed up for her class so I could be with her. We are consenting adults, and we are in love. I don’t care about my grade, so I am quitting the class. I have signed up with another teacher. Please keep her as a teacher, she is excellent.”
When I finished, silence filled the room so thick, I could’ve molded it into a sculpture. But Dani beamed.
“Well?” I asked.
The line of stiff Spanish bureaucrats stared at each other.
“So you are no longer taking the class?”
“Right. I am no longer her student.”
They started whispering into each other’s ears. With a shrug, the man on the end, a portly Spaniard with a mustache, ripped up the papers in front of him.
“Amor.”
The other administrators shrugged. Love. It’s what you do in Spain.
“She’s free?” I asked.
“She can remain teaching,” he said. “So long as you are not in her class.”
“Thank you!” Dani cried, and hugged me. “Thank you,” she said to the administrators. “My apologies for any of this. I didn’t mean to fall in love, but I did.”
“We understand,” said the woman. “Buena suerte.”
That night, naked in bed, arms wrapped around each other, I pointed to her head.
“La cabeza,” I said.
Dani smiled. “Muy bien.”
“El cuello.” With a move, I hovered over her and kissed her neck.
She sighed. “Yes.”
“El pecho.” My finger pointed to her pretty chest.
“That’s right.”
I sucked on her nipple, gently, then with a harder bite like a tang. A twist. One that made her know I was there. Not to hurt, just to make her feel alive.
“Love that,” she whispered.
My hands roamed down her body, down her middle, my finger tracing a path that my tongue then followed. “El ombligo.”
“Belly button.”
“See, you’re still my Spanish teacher, even if I’m in someone else’s class.”
She giggled and bopped me with a pillow. “You think you’ll keep up with it?”
“Yeah, I like learning how to talk.”
“You’ll still be my action hero, though. Even if you know how to communicate.”
“We complement each other, don’t we?” I asked.
“I think so.”
“I’ll watch over you and make sure you’re safe. I’ll let you fly wherever you want. You have that freedom. But I’ll always be a base for you.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she didn’t say anything.
I continued, “And you’ll teach me. Make it so I learn.”
“And we’ll both be free.”
“Yeah, babe. Absolutely free. You’re gonna liberate people by making them understand each other. And I’m gonna keep them safe. But we’re both gonna make a better world.”
“My patient soldier.”
“Not that patient. I’m getting to where I’ve got a lot of ideas about what I want to do to this hot body of yours tonight.”
She cuddled into me. “As your earth goddess, I’ll let you have your way with me.”
As I made my way down her body, I asked, “Have you ever tried any of that tantric yoga?”
“No. I always thought it was invented by horny yogis to get their disciples to sleep with them.”
“Really? I would have figured you’d be into it.”
“I’m all for trying. You in me and me in you. My tongue in your mouth and your cock in me. Breathing into each other, the energy flowing from the tops of our heads, and out.”
“Yeah,” I said hurriedly. “We’re doing that.”
24
Dani -- Degan's Letter
Six weeks later
I tiptoed through the plush redwood forest at dusk, holding Trent’s hand. Laden with a backpack on his back, he let me go first. I hadn’t been back here since that time so long ago with Trent and Degan.
Where once there was a rough log to cross the stream, now someone had built a sturdy bridge arching over the gleaming water.
“Can’t you just feel the good vibes?” I asked Trent.
He smiled at me and took a deep breath. “Yeah. He’s here, I think.”
Degan was there.
We hiked until we got to a clearing, and Trent unpacked the bag we brought—a blanket, candles, matches, Cocoa Puffs, milk, bowls, spoons, and napkins, along with a speaker for his phone. I spread out the blanket, then set the white votive candles in mason jars and lit them, creating a lively glow.
Carefully, I poured out three servings of cold cereal. One for Trent. One for me. One for Degan.
I added milk.
“Cheers,” I said, and took a bite, the cold, chocolaty sugar hitting my taste buds.
“Cheers,” repeated Trent, and clinked his bowl with mine. He leaned over to turn on the music. “You know he liked Miley, too.”
“I know.”
“Is it inappropriate to play ‘Wrecking Ball’?”
Shaking my head, my mouth full of Cocoa Puffs, I said, “It would be inappropriate not to play “Wrecking Ball” at Degan’s funeral.”
For the past six weeks, Trent had been living with me in my apartment. He’d changed classes, but was still studying Spanish. And getting better every day.
We’d gone back home to honor my brother. When we got back to California, we went to dinner at Trent’s parents’ house. His mother held me as if she were my own mother.
Trent emerged from his room holding a small box. “These are Degan’s things.” I held it reverently. We also made a trip to the small storage space I’d rented for so many years, pulling out photographs and memorabilia and selecting some to take back to Spain with us.
And we’d made a trip to Degan’s grave. I’d stayed there for hours, playing UNO with Trent and talking to Degan.
I think he would have liked it.
With the pop song winding its way around the trees, Trent and I now ate our cold cereal dinne
r in honor of my brother. Trent let out a laugh. “I was just thinking. Remember that time he changed all the abbreviations on your phone, so whenever you meant to text ‘okay’ it came up, ‘I love meatballs’?”
“Yes! What a brat. It took me ages to change all of them back. I’d go to text ‘Hey’ and it said ‘I do it Gangnam Style.’” I shook my head at the memory.
We ate and talked and let the light go low. We had flashlights to find our way back to the car, no problem. For now, once the music stopped, we listened to the noises of the woods.
My brother was there with us. I knew it. I could feel him. His love. His voice. His spirit.
When it was almost too dark to read, I said, “It’s time to read the letter.” With shaking hands, I slid my finger down the edge and ripped it open.
My dearest, darling sister Dani,
Just kidding. You’re totally a dork.
Actually, no. I maybe didn’t tell you this as much as I should have, however, since you’re only reading this letter since I’m dead, I can say it with a straight face. Or, well, write it with a straight face. And mean it. You really are my dearest, darling sister.
When mom was sick, you took care of me. You brought me Apple Jacks when I wanted Cocoa Puffs, waited until the tears started just to mess with me, then produced the Cocoa Puffs behind your back. I think that’s Big Sister 101. We’re not gonna talk about the time you made me wear makeup. Or a dress.
But despite those shortcomings, you are the best, kindest, most amazing big sister I ever had. Of course, you’re the only, but you’re the best anyone could ever have.
You drove me to football practice, baseball practice, and cut short your dates with slacker losers so that you could make sure I had enough sleep for school.
After mom died, you hugged me, and we never thought we’d get over it. Then dad died, and we knew we were strong enough together, but we were lost, like the trunk of the tree of our family had been cut off, and all we had were branches and leaves on the ground. We had to build something new.
When I was in high school and you were in college, not so far away, I looked forward to you coming home on weekends. Mostly so I could use your car.
Sol (Love in Translation Book 1) Page 20