“Dumbass,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “It’s because they explode, and that explosion is so powerful that it leads to the formation of nebulae, and inside them, new stars can be born. I’m not sure, because I’m improvising here, but I like to think that the end of something always brings about new life, that it doesn’t go away, that there’s an infinite cycle there.”
“When I was little, I used to look at the stars with my granddad. We could spend hours lying on the ground and looking up at the sky. My grandmother thought we were out of our minds and used to ask us,When the hell are you two going to come inside?Granddad would tell her:When there are no more stars left to count.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’d crack up then, you know, because there are millions and millions of them. That was his way of telling her to leave us in peace.”
In the ensuing silence, as the stars faded into the lighter blue of morning, I glanced over at him, saw his mind was elsewhere, preoccupied, maybe, and I said, “Lucas, can I ask you a question.”
He turned his head and said, “Shoot.”
“How long has it been since you last saw your family?”
His expression changed. “What makes you think I don’t see them?”
“Something you said the other day, and then… I don’t know. Look at this place. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to leave here.”
He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. He was tense. I could tell by the way he was clenching his jaw and opening and closing his fists.
“Two years. I haven’t talked to any of them for two years except my sister, and her just barely. We wish each other a happy birthday, we chat on the holidays, that’s about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m better than ever.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged and chuckled humorlessly. “What didn’t happen? My family’s very conventional, very religious, one of those where the patriarch sets the rules and everyone else has to obey. And my father has always been a tyrant, and incredibly demanding. So that should give you a bit of a picture of how things were.”
I thought of my grandmother, of her domineering, severe character, and that helped me imagine what it must have been like for Lucas, living in that family. Lucas kept talking as he slipped on his shoes, “I think Dad already had my future planned for me long before I was born, and from my very first day on earth, he started training me to fulfill his expectations. It didn’t matter so much when I was little, because I wasn’t so aware of what was going on, right? But when I turned twelve, I made different friends and I turned sort of rebellious. I wanted to go out and play and sign up for the soccer team instead of going to tutors in the afternoon.”
“And your dad wouldn’t let you.”
“No. According to him, those things would distract me from what was really important, and the Velascos only cared about what was important.” He sounded hurt and scornful as he uttered those words. Picking up our trash, he stood. “Anyhow, even my tutors couldn’t keep me from failing math. I remember when my report card came, he lost it. He started shouting at me like a crazy person and he kept getting more and more pissed off, and then all of a sudden, he clutched his chest and fell to the ground.”
“He had a heart attack?” I asked.
I hurried to put on my socks and shoes as Lucas stretched a hand out to help me up.
“Yeah. He almost died.” He pulled me to my feet. “We were alone at home when it happened and I could hardly even call for the ambulance. And I felt like it was my fault, and so after that, I tried as hard as I could to do whatever he wanted.”
“Lucas,” I told him, “how could something like that be your fault?”
He squeezed my hand, looked away in anger, and tossed our bag into a trash can. “I don’t know, but they think it is, and maybe I do, too. And another thing is, after his heart attack, he had complications, his heart was weak, and his doctors told him he had to remain relaxed at all costs. And Mom used to remind me of that all the time.”
My heart broke as I thought of twelve-year-old Lucas feeling guilty for his father’s illness. It just wasn’t fair. “So you decided to become the perfect son,” I said.
“I did. I went to the schools he told me to go to. I chose the major he wanted, I spent the summers in La Rioja learning how the winery worked. When I got my degree, I worked for the company, and I went on doing everything he told me. Then a moment came when I just couldn’t anymore.”
“What happened?”
He shook his head and I didn’t press him. He barely knew me. A week before, he’d had no idea I existed, and I was sure that without the alcohol, he wouldn’t have revealed anything so private, so personal to me. And yet, when I’d assumed he would let the matter go, he started speaking again, “They lied to me about something really important, and that opened my eyes. I realized I didn’t mean shit to them; all they cared about was the stupid fantasy world they were living in. So I left one day without saying anything.”
His words were bitter, and all I could do was squeeze his hand and try to comfort him.
“Are you never going to go back?”
“No way,” he said cuttingly. “My family thinks I’m their puppet, and I refuse to be manipulated. They made me feel like I was nothing. I still don’t get it. I need to be far away from them if I’m going to have my own life, OK? I can’t fall back into the trap. Anyway, I like it here. I love it, actually. I can do what I want.”
He seemed better after his confession. He smiled as he swung our hands and I tried not to think about how wonderful it felt, being with him.
“And you can be yourself,” I added.
