Page 6 of Sombra
“I don’t even like her, Madre,” but she’s nodding along as I speak, not hearing me.
“She likes you. She positively glowed when I asked her to dinner tonight. She specifically wanted to know if you’d be here.”
“That’s because”—joder—“she’s been a pest my whole life. I don’tknow why she’s stuck on me, but a crush isn’t enough to marry her. Besides, why can’t Guillermo or Antonio do it? Maybe one of them likes her.”
Dios, I should not have given in. I’m the biggest idiot. I don’t know how to fix this. Sonia’s childhood attachment to me—all those times she followed me around the property picking olives—has now gone stalker-level. Did she plan this? Did she tellher dad to tell my mother that I needed to marry her? Of course she did.
Fuuuccckkk.
My mother’s nostrils flare. “She likes you. She asked for you. It’s not like you’re interchangeable. And besides, Guillermo is still a boy. Antonio shows such promise as an engineer. You, with your course of study, will have plenty of time for the farm.”
I’m about to explode, then hush myvoice. No one outside needs to hear this. “That’s ridiculous! I’m going to the United States. Idon’thave plenty of time for the farm.”
“Don’t use that tone, Tavo. You can still travel. Just come back here.” My mother’s face starts to crumple. “If you don’t, what will she tell her father?”
“Don’t let her hold us hostage!” I seethe.
“She’s not holding us hostage. For whatit’s worth, I like her. She has a good family and will make you a nice wife.” With a snap, she picks up the serving dish and utensils.
Sweat beads around my hairline. “She won’t. I know she won’t.” Again, I want to tell her that we got together, and it was a complete and total mistake.
Like I can tell my mother that.
Carrying out the tray, she calls over her shoulder, “It’sthe way things are done all over the world. People marry who their parents choose because their parents know what’s best for them. Their parents see beyond what they can see for themselves. Of course her father would want you, our oldest son, to marry his daughter. To keep the land in our families.”
I run and stop her before she goes outside. “That’s positively medieval.”
“It is.And it isn’t. It’s the way things are done around here—”
Cutting her off, I hiss, “No. Not so.”
She points a laden finger at me. “If you don’t, we will lose our home. Our home for centuries.” She raises the tray to walk around me. Her now-flinty eyes lock on mine, but there are tears behind them. She’s giving me a brave face, and I read so much into it.
My jaw muscles contract.I cannot promise her I’ll marry Sonia. But I cannot tell her I won’t.
After dinnerand driving Sonia home, thankfully with a minimum of pawing at me by her, I find my grandfather. He and I plunk our culos on a stone wall that faces the hectares of olive trees. In daylight,it overlooks the landscape, which undulates off to the distance. The city of Granada is just south of us, and beyond are the mighty peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. In late summer, there’s no snow, but come winter they’ll have majestic white caps. Right now there are a few points of light on the ground, but we’re mostly illuminated by stars. The incessant clicking of the cicadas createsa strange but comforting night song.
He lights a cigarette, inhales in satisfaction, then gestures over the dark countryside. “There is no finer land in all of Spain.”
“This is probably true, abuelo. Although I haven’t seen all of Spain.”
His snap-front hat hides the twinkle in his eyes. “You aren’t missing anything.” Then he sighs. “I don’t have many harvests left. It isyour responsibility to take care of the huerta. You must ensure that generation after generation of de la Guerras grow up knowing how to make the superior olive oil.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I know, abuelo.”
“You hesitate?” His hand reaches for mine to give me a quick squeeze. Warm, dry fingers extend from his craggy hand with thin skin and prominent bones.
Kickingat the stones, I grumble, “It’s not what I want.”
After a drag on his cigarette, he asks, “What do you want, mynieto?”
“You know. I want to go to America. I want to sing. Play my guitar. Paint. Draw. Perform. Travel. Create. Explore.” I want those things so badly they make my stomach jumpy.
He raises a shoulder. “You can still travel and do those things. Just come back home.”
My words come out with quiet vehemence, especially after the conversation with my mother. “No. I’m not going to be tied to anyone or anything. I’ll pick where I want to live and what I want to do. I’m not going to have it decided for me.”
“When I was a young boy, I wanted to do that.” He pats my hand, and I feel like a child.
