Page 41 of Slanting Towards the Sea
THIRTY-EIGHT
I’M IN THE OLIVE grove when Asier emails me the contract for the Lovorun sale, so that I can go through the details with my lawyer before he comes to sign it.
He says to let him know if there are any changes I’d like made before the end of next week, so that his team has time to review them before he books his flight over.
The tone of his email is professional, but I guess I deserve that for being short with him again.
I slip the phone back inside my pocket, looking up.
The olives are blooming. They’re casting clusters of tiny white florets, offering them up to the wind for pollination.
People say the olive flowers are unimpressive—plain and unsightly—but to me they’re beautiful.
The trees look like upside-down ball gowns, embroidered with the most delicate lacework.
It gives me a pang that these trees will be gone soon, that this is our last dance.
I was so mad at Asier because of this, but after that day with the chickpea stew, I realized my anger had been misplaced.
It isn’t Asier’s fault. He hasn’t done anything other than what we agreed on, and he doesn’t have a say in what happens when the hotel is sold any more than I do.
And I’ve villainized him for it, made him responsible for my pain.
The day is hot. I sit on the shore, take my sneakers and socks off, and dip my toes into the still-cold water. It pinches and pricks against my skin. The small pebbles mixed with sand scrape against my soles. The sea burbles softly between the rocks.
I dial Asier’s number. He isn’t petty like me and picks up after two rings. Before he can say anything, I say, “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t respond, and I look at the phone, afraid that the call hasn’t been patched through. It has. “I’m sorry I’ve been like this.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
But he keeps waiting, so I push the air out of my lungs.
“Difficult. Fickle. I’m just… This is a hard time for me.
” Which is only partly true. Because I’m always like this.
Overthinking. Overfeeling. Overreacting.
I’m an uncovered nerve and everything touches me, everything causes me pain. Even pleasure does. Even love.
“It’s fine,” he says. “You don’t owe me explanations.”
I push my legs deeper into the sand, until I’m calf-deep in water and the edges of my pant legs are getting soaked. “Funny, a moment ago, I thought something similar about you.”
He laughs. And I laugh too, though disappointment staggers through me.
If we expect nothing from each other, owe nothing to each other, what more is there to say?
I should save face and tell him that, given the circumstances, it would be best if we proceed professionally from now on.
Close the deal and go our separate ways.
If I don’t say that, I’m sure he will. I form the words, but they barricade themselves in the back of my mouth.
“What if I want you to owe me something?” I say instead, then shut my eyes, counting heartbeats. So. Many. Heartbeats.
“You mean businesswise or…?”
“You know what I mean.”
Each second of silence on his end feels like a trust exercise gone wrong. I’m falling backward, willing him to catch me, but all I hear is the woosh of air as I’m slipping through the void where his arms should be.
“You ghosted me, twice,” he says.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You called me out on being a sorry excuse for a father, even though you don’t know the first thing about me or my son.”
I hug my knees. The sand is grainy between my toes, it sticks to my skin, I’ll never get rid of it. I want to say I’m sorry again, ask if it didn’t turn out well for him that I said what I had about his son, but things feel too far gone for that.
He sighs. “You’re infuriating, you know? You have these sharp little nails that scratch and dig into my skin, and then all of the sudden there’s blood where I didn’t expect it to be.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save your grove,” he says.
I turn behind me, where three rows of upside-down lacey gowns waltz with the breeze.
There is so much blood under my own skin right now, all the vessels, veins, and capillaries bursting with life.
Life, as in the good and the bad. Or perhaps, the good alongside the bad.
The warmth to wistful smiles, the happiness that comes with an expiration date.
The exhilaration of having something, perfectly balanced with the despair of losing it.
But does the loss negate the happiness that preceded it?
If I had known I’d lose the grove, would I not have groomed it anyway?
If I had known I’d lose Vlaho, would I have renounced him on that first night?
If there is a certainty that I will invest in this new relationship with Asier and end up disillusioned and scarred, would the journey still not be worth it?
“About the grove and the contract. I do have a small request, if you can make it work on your end,” I say.
“If I can make it happen, I will,” he says, and I know it’s true. He’s practical, and I like the fact that it also means he’s dependable.
The olives’ sharp leaves rustle behind my back. “The fruits will be ripe in late October. One last harvest, that’s all I ask.”