“Hi. I’m Trent Milner.” I moved my laptop so the camera pointed to me, my phone sitting to my side, as I kicked back on my bed, hoping that the hostel Wi-Fi was decent for an hour.

A lavender-haired woman with a western shirt adjusted the web camera so it was on her face. “I’m Marie Thrash. Nice to meet you. Where are you right now?”

“I’m in Granada, in the south part of Spain.”

She signaled at the set-up. “While it’s unusual to have a therapy session over Skype, and even more unusual to do it on a Sunday, I’m happy to accommodate you. Why don’t you start by telling me what’s on your mind?”

I almost laughed—what wasn’t on my mind—then I found myself telling her about the last month—Degan’s death, my nightmares, and how I ended up in Spain in love with Dani.

“She knows how I feel about her, but it’s choking her. I need to let her be. It’s better for her.”

“Why?” Marie’s question was asked gently, but it stung.

I shifted on the bed. “Because she told me she doesn’t want a relationship. I tried to push her into it. And I think that was me trying to control her. I can’t do that anymore.”

My phone buzzed. I picked it up. A text from Dani saying she wanted to talk.

“Hang on. Dani messaged me.”

“You can answer it.”

I texted Dani, I’m on Skype with the therapist. Call you in 20.

Then I continued talking. “I feel so empty. Like a bullet casing after it had been fired. I don’t know what I’m going to do after the army. And if Dani doesn’t want me…I’m so lost. I came here to tell her he died, but now…”

“That must have been rough telling her.”

I paused and rubbed the back of my neck. “It was the second hardest thing I’ve had to do in my entire life. The hardest was burying my best friend.” And I couldn’t help it. I reached for a tissue.

Marie let me cry, gazing at me through the computer with tears in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Trent.”

“It’s okay.”

“I think it’s necessary for you to honor and process what happened. To be with it.”

“Yeah, the yoga teacher said something like that.”

“Yoga teacher?”

“Yeah. This weekend. I’ve been trying yoga, and I don’t know. While I was there, breathing, I got this feeling that he hadn’t died in vain. He’d died for me to keep breathing. So maybe I should do that. But it’s just so hard.”

“It would honor his memory for you to live life fully.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“So if you were going to honor his memory, what would be the next step you would take?”

“I could go to school. I’m actually liking learning Spanish. Somewhere else, not here.”

“Why not there?”

“Because I need to leave her alone. I don’t need to hurt her more than I already have.”

“Why do you think you hurt her?”

“Because I remind her of her brother.”

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

“What isn’t?”

“His death.”

My chin trembled, and I leaned forward, placing my face in my hand. “I know that, but it still feels like it is.”

Another text came through. Meet me at 8 in front of the movie theater please?

Sure. I texted back.

“I love her. I can’t be with her. She doesn’t need someone like me holding her back. She needs to be free.”

“But Trent, what do you need?”

“It doesn’t matter what I need. The only thing that matters is her.”

“Do you feel like you did something wrong?”

I wiped at my eyes. “Yeah. I lived.”

“I’ll say it again. It’s not your fault that he died.” Adjusting the webcam, she looked right at me. “What do you know about forgiveness?”

I shook my head. “Forgiveness is when you let someone off the hook for something they did wrong.”

“I have a different definition. Did you know it’s a way of reclaiming your power?”

“What?”

“It means you’re not a victim anymore. You’re not a victim of your own life. You take back your own power.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Is there someone you aren’t forgiving?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me.”

* * *

At seven fifty-five, I walked down my street, turned the corner, and headed to the movie theater in the central part of Granada. The sunshiny evening meant that the streets were full of people going on a paseo. Enjoying the end of the day.

After talking with Marie, I felt a lightness, but she raised some serious questions that required thought.

What would it feel like if I forgave myself? For living? For not saving Degan? For hurting Dani?

Uncomfortable.

I’d feel shame about it. Like I wasn’t worthy of it.

Forgiving someone else? Easy.

Forgiving myself? I didn’t know if I could do that. One thing to know that there was a point to my life—to live because of Degan’s sacrifice. Another thing to accept the reason why it got that way—his death.

Passing by the bars, restaurants, candy shops, and even the yoga studio, all was bathed in a pretty light.

I really loved this town.

And I didn’t know how to fix this with Dani. Didn’t she know I’d give her anything? All I knew was that I’d meet her and see what she needed.

She was the light of my life. This didn’t mean she was perfect, but she was perfect for me.

And a gray lump of clay developed in my stomach knowing that my very existence cut into her because I reminded her of Degan.

I didn’t know what to do.

Crossing the street, not two blocks from the movie theater, I heard a BOOM!

I looked around with desperation. What was that? A car backfiring?

No. I wasn’t gonna get triggered.

It would be okay. I’d be okay.

BOOM!

Closer. Not more than a block away.

That wasn’t a car backfiring.

That’s an explosion.

The air broke into sirens. Eee-o, eee-o, eee-o.

A spiral of smoke rose up from among the buildings. Close to the movie theater.

Oh no.

I. Fucking. Ran.

Fuck this shit. This isn’t happening again. Not to Degan’s sister. Not on my watch.

Dear God, let Dani be okay.

A mass of people, screaming, ran the opposite direction I was going. Like a fish swimming upstream, I pushed my way through the crowd headed away from the city center, cars stopped in the street because of the masses of people outside. Screaming. Crying. Fingers pointed. Cell phones out.

Oh no.

I smelled acrid smoke.

I ran.

Heart walloping. Running.

Air. Barely enough air.

And I ran to the chaos.

A dozen police cars. Three ambulances. Stretchers.

Smoke.

So much smoke.

Fuck.

No.

For a moment, I was back in Afghanistan, holding Degan. Holding his bloody body. Getting soaked.

A man stumbled by me holding a stained shirt to his face, and I smelled that awful scent of explosives and blood.

“Dani!” I started yelling. “Danika Anderson! Where are you?”

Dozens of postcards covered in soot with pictures of the Alhambra lay scattered at my feet. Someone’s travel dreams burned to a crisp.

The smoke choked me, but I still kept going.

“Dani!”

People bumped into each other, shoving, prodding. I ran under the police tape. Someone yelled at me. I didn’t care if I was running into the line of fire. I didn’t care if I got hurt. My life was not worth living if she wasn’t safe. I needed to go get her. I passed women sitting on curbs, with ice to their bleeding heads. A man carried out on a stretcher. Then a child on a stretcher.

Firemen applied water to a burning building one block from the movie theater.

Where was she?

Ambulances gathered, pushing their way through the crowds.

Rolling out stretchers.

All my senses on alert. I was gonna find her. Or die trying.