Free Beneath Wandering Stars by Ashlee; Cowles Page B

“Seth, how did my brother get hurt in the first place? I
know
you know.”
    Nothing but a stony silence.
    “For real. What happened to you guys over there?”
    Seth opens the gate leading to a covered patio, his lips pressed into a thin line. The distance settling into his eyes is one I recognize, given that I saw it on my father’s face every time he returned from a deployment. I can be relentless when I want to be, but I also know that if you press in on a door that’s bolted shut, all you end up with is a bloody fist and a busted frame.
    Seth sighs. “That, kiddo, I can’t tell you. Not yet anyway.”
    Then I can wait. Maybe I’m more patient than I thought.

Chapter 7
    “Try the
queso con miel
. Trust me, you’ll never be the same.”
    And that’s how we made our first pilgrim friend: Bob from Australia.
    Bob is a sixty-seven-year-old ex-hippie, and he’s forever changed my life. When he overheard us arguing about an appetizer, Bob suggested we try homemade bread served with fresh goat cheese and Spanish honey so dark, it looks more like molasses.
    Seriously. Life-changing. The perfect blend of savory and sweet. Forget KFC, I’ll never crave those butter-drenched biscuits again after this nectar of the gods on toast.
    Bob pulls his chair over to our table, unbuttons his Hawaiian shirt, and props his Birkenstock-clad feet onto the empty seat. “So where are you newlyweds from?”
    “Uh, she’s seventeen,” Seth says in a way that makes it sound like I have Ebola.
    “Yeah, we are so
not
married,” I reiterate.
    “Could have fooled me with that proficient bickering.” Bob chuckles and removes a bag of sunflower seeds from his shirt pocket. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time for you two.”
    Time for what? To kill each other in new and creative ways?
    “Hell, I’ve been on the
camino
so long, I can’t tell how old anyone is anymore. Younger than me, that’s for sure.” Bob cracks a few sunflower seeds with his teeth, spitting the shells into his empty beer bottle. It’s gross and endearing at the same time.
    “How long have you been walking?” I ask.
    “Oh, I’ve come back every spring for the past seven years.”
    “You just keep walking the same route?” Seth asks before swooping in on the last chunk of goat cheese. “Aren’t there any good hikes back in Australia?”
    Bob laughs. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s something special about this road and the people who walk it. It isn’t even the most beautiful hike out there, though there are parts that will take your breath away. But of all the treks I’ve done, the
camino
is the most surreal. It’s like everything is orchestrated—every stop, every person you meet. Just wait, she’ll steal your heart. You’ll see.” Bob lowers his feet from the chair and slaps both thighs. “Well, kids, it’s been fun, but I’ve got old friends to visit and you two have a lovers’ squabble to resolve. See you around.”
    Before either of us can correct him on our relationship status, Bob saunters off to find his drinking buddies from pilgrimages past.
    Once he’s gone, I’m attacked by a killer yawn. “Ready to turn in?”
    “What are we, eighty?” Seth snickers. “It’s nine o’clock. That old guy puts us to shame.”
    “Give me a break, okay? I don’t usually walk fifteen miles in one day. Besides, I’m sure Bob did enough shrooms in the sixties to kill the parts of his brain most perceptive to physical pain.” I get up from my chair and rub my full belly. “I, on the other hand, am sore, sleepy, and stuffed with more honey than Winnie the Pooh. It’s bedtime.”
    Smiling, Seth tosses a stack of euros onto the table. “Okay, grandma. Let’s go.”
    • • •
    Una oveja, dos ovejas
. . . .
    Nope, still can’t sleep. I’ve tried counting sheep in English
and
in Spanish, but neither method is effective. Studying the cracks in the ceiling doesn’t work either. I’m exhausted, but there are snores coming at me