Day two of the harvest. We’ve spread the tarps under the trees, one by one, and now I’m taking the rake and beating on the branches, dropping the olives down onto the tarps. Other workers gather up the olives and put them in bins, stack the bins with a forklift, and take the stacks on a truck to the Molineros where they will grind the olives and extract the oil.

Trent works next to me in the same tree, opposite side, hitting the branches, while Tía Valeria and Dani pick up the olives. Everyone is out to help. Even my mother put on boots and jeans—it must be the apocalypse—because she’s getting dirty and working alongside everyone in the family. I’m not talking to her though. Not after the way she treated Kim. Not after the way she treated me. Guillermo got her to contract with a few day laborers, just to get the job done.

Because if I focus on the harvest, then I don’t tear myself apart about Kim.

But I’m already torn apart and broken. The only way for me to handle being in my body is to beat the olives with the rake with every muscle until I fall down asleep.

I hate her reason for leaving, because it was a clusterfuck.

As I work, the demanding physical labor makes it hard to keep talking, so I’m left to my own thoughts. Kim. Kim’s pregnancy. Sonia’s idiocy. Kim’s flight. My mother’s affair. All of this orchestrated to manipulate me.

Well, not Kim. Kim never used me for anything.

Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, Trent pauses to look at the activity on all the trees. “I’m amazed that this is how you do it. No machines.”

Grateful to him for keeping me from my painful thoughts, I say, “While some farmers in Spain use mechanized processes, we don’t. We still use the old ways. This ensures that we get the best-tasting olive oil. And since we’re a small-batch, high-quality grower, the better the olive oil, the higher our profits.”

“That’s so cool,” says Dani, flinging the olives into a bin. “I love being a part of this. It’s old school and in harmony with nature.”

“How long do you think it will take to finish?” Trent hits a particularly fruit-laden branch, and olives rain down, making Dani shriek and cover her head.

“We have about three days to harvest all of these hectares.”

“Where’s Kim?” Dani asks, looking around.

“She left.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

Confusion passes over her brow. “Wait, what? I thought she was staying until the end of the semester.”

I don’t want to talk about it, but I need to say something. I bank on my aunt not knowing English. “Kim left after we had a big fight—a big misunderstanding—and I don’t know how to make it all right again without getting some money together that I don’t have.”

“That sucks,” says Trent.

“There’s a few other things.” I debate telling them that Kim is pregnant. That Sonia is evil. That my family had the blow-up of blow-ups. But I don’t want to talk ill of a woman to them. Even Sonia.

“Will she come back?” Dani asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Then you should go to her,” says Dani.

I can’t help but snort derisively. “Look around, amiga. I can’t do anything until this is done. It will have to wait, and I don’t have the funds for a last minute airline flight.”

She shrugs. “I think she needs to know how you feel.”

“I told her how I feel. She didn’t feel the same way.”

“Or maybe she didn’t tell you,” Trent says sagely. I look at him. “Keep trying. If you like her.” He sees my expression. “If you love her. Keep trying.”

“Why aren’t you speaking Spanish?” I ask.

He laughs. “Porque creía que quieres hablar en código.”

“Es verdad.”

When we finish with this tree, we move to another. And another.

The farther I go, the more pissed I get. I keep thinking of Kim, wanting her here, wanting to talk with her. To touch her. To love her.

When we get to the tree where I first kissed Kim, I take my phone out of my back pocket and take a picture of it, overcome with memories.

I want her to know that it meant something to me. It all means something to me. It matters.

Posting it, I finish this tree and take a drink of water. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket. Checking my Instagram, I see that she liked my post.

Wait.

Kim liked my post. The olive post. The one where we first kissed.

I get an idea, but I don’t have time for it now. I keep beating on olive trees for our harvest, shaking down the fruit onto tarps. Others gather it. It gets sent to the Molineros as it has been done for centuries.

After a few more trees, my mother comes over to me.

“Gustavo, can I talk with you?”

“Yes.” I put down the rake and walk over to her.

She’s running her hands up and down her jeans. “I’ve been thinking, and I owe you an apology.”

“You do. I agree,” I say, not bullshitting her.

“I’m so sorry I pressured you, Tavo. I wanted what was best for everyone, and Sonia had me so scared.” She glances over three rows where Sonia is working on a tree with Guillermo. She’s wearing a loose plaid shirt and sweatpants, nothing like her usual overly made-up self.

After she left I washed all my sheets, cleaned the casita, and burned sage inside. It felt violated otherwise, but now it’s restored to being my place. Lonely, but mine.

“You did pressure me, Madre. You kicked out my girlfriend. You ignored my rights. You ignored my feelings.”

“I did. And once I realized that, I had my pride. I did not want to … well, I did think it would be best for all of us, and I trampled over your feelings in the meanwhile. This is not the way I should have acted. I should have worked with you to come up with a solution, not force you into something you did not want.”

I cross my arms over my chest. While I have been mad at her, while I’ve fought with her, while I’ve disagreed with her, and while she was incredibly selfish … she is my mother.

“I accept your apology, Madre. Now, I am going to get Kim back, no matter what you think.”

She reddens. “Except for her being in the way of you getting together with Sonia, I actually like her quite a bit. She’s a very good cook. She’s got natural talent.”

“And she’ll be a great mother for your grandbaby.”

My mother gets a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes. My first. I thought it would be Mari Carmen and Jorge, but it is not to be.” She pulls my hands from my chest and takes them in hers. “My son, I apologize profusely. She came at the wrong time, and I took it out on her. I was prejudiced against her because of my own fears. I will not interfere again.” She looks over at my brother. “Although it is really tempting to go over there and tell Guillermo not to get involved with Sonia.”

“Madre, I think the best course of action is to stay out of the affairs of the heart.”

She nods. “You are wise.” Kicking at the dirt, she says, “I think … I didn’t … I don’t want you to leave me. Leave us. If you go to America, I will miss you, my son.”

“Gotta let me go sometime, Madre.”

“That doesn’t make me like it. I like having you around, my son.”

“Just because I go somewhere doesn’t mean I’m leaving you forever.”

“Yes, Tavo. Yes. Thank you, mijo.” She pats my cheek. “I will go get ready for dinner.”

I slump back in relief. She listened to me. Finally.

By the time the light is almost gone for the day, we’re all sore and tired and dirty. A crowd descends on our dining room, because we’re feeding everyone, even the workers. My mother and tía cooked yesterday for a crowd—warm stews and breads and cooked vegetables. Food that sticks to your ribs.

The kitchen feels empty without Kim, though.

I eat my dinner in silence, scrolling through my phone. I know it’s antisocial, but while my heart is a little lighter after talking with my mother, I’m still not feeling like talking to anyone. I’ll apologize to them later. Right now, I need to talk to Kim, and this is the only way I know how to speak in a language she’ll understand.

I’m searching my phone for photos. Clues. Anything we did together. And in the middle of dinner, I jump up and go to a few places, taking pictures.

When I return to my seat, frenzied, I post the last of the peonies I picked for her in the garden when she found out she was sick. “I will always care for you like these flowers,” is my caption. And I think of our baby growing in her. God, I need her back.

I post a photo of my guitar, with the words, “I will always play for you. And I will help you learn anything you wish.” She had progressed to playing three chords and a little tune. And I can’t help but see the sexy back of her neck as she plays.

A candle from my room. I caption it, “What we shared together was precious. Is precious.” I exhale. All of those times in my casita. Not just with me inside her, with our vulnerabilities, our souls joining. With her gone, I’m not even half of who I was.

A package of Cola Cao. “My brothers and my family miss you. They treated you wrong.” This is the only kind of packaged food she should have.

The sea sponge in my bath. “If something goes wrong, you can trust me. I will always make it comfortable for you.” Thinking of her in the bath with me makes me ache.

The view from Sergio’s cave into the Albaicín. “I love trying something new with you.” I think about her face trying a cigarette. And our drunken kiss in the Alcazar. And—

The cream and red scarf we bought. “We still need to use this.”

That snow walker cat. “May we never run out of new experiences, no matter how small. And may we forever be open to them.”

A bottle of our olive oil. “All is well. All is well.” She needs to not worry about us or our finances. We are fine.

A strawberry. “Spain wants you to come back. Its food calls to you.” Her face when she tried one. The moans she made.

The plaza where we danced. “I want to dance with you for the rest of my life.” The way she felt in my arms, still forbidden.

I keep going and going. The last post is a photo of a new dragonfly drawing I did. I type, “You know the dragonfly means adaptation, transformation, realization, clarity, illumination, and whatever else Dani said. You illuminated and transformed my life. I see you clearly. I hope we can adapt together. I love you.”

I sit back and wait. Hoping she’ll get the message. Hoping she’ll understand.

Seeing me put my phone away, Trent elbows me. “Listen, Tavo. You can take a break—”

“This is the worst time to take a break.”

He gestures toward la huerta. “We got a good head start on it today. We could be done tomorrow. At the latest the next morning.”

“With my help.” I press my lips together.

Trent sighs. “If you won’t accept my advice, will you accept my frequent flyer miles?”

My brain stops mid-course and is slow to change direction. “What?”

Grinning, he puts his arm around Dani’s shoulders. “Listen. We’ve spent a lot of time together, and I’ve never seen you with anyone the way you are with Kim.”

“Right.” Dani swallows her bite. “And I know Kim is in love with you.”

“What do you mean?” I say sharply.

“I just know. I see you two together. You’re meant for each other.”

“We are. I agree.”

“So,” Trent rips off a piece of bread with his teeth. “Go to her. Right after we finish.”

I shake my head. “No, I could not accept. Who will make the decisions, here?”

Dani sticks her thumb out like she’s hitchhiking and points to my brother Guillermo, who is back to ignoring us, eating at the end of the table like he’s never eaten before. Harvesting olives is hungry work.

“He’s not even eighteen. Putting the entire operation on his shoulders is a huge step.”

My mother overhears. “He loves those trees, Tavo. I think he can do it.”

Abuelo nods in agreement. “We talked about this, Tavo. I think he can do it.”

“I can help him,” says Antonio, sitting by me, overhearing us. “I can run the books.”

They’re right. While Guillermo may be a gawky kid as far as girls go, he loves our orchard and is more responsible than I am about taking care of the trees. And Antonio is our brain.

I let out my breath.

“Oiga, Guillermo,” I call.

“What?” he asks, chewing a forkful of food.

“Do you want to be in charge of the harvest this year?”

My brother looks like I just crowned him King of Spain. “Really?”

“Really. I think you could do it. We all do.” I gesture at my mother, abuelo, and Trent and Dani.

His smile is so wide, it’s worth it. “Thank you, Tavo. Yes. I want to. I want to take care of it.”

Dani claps her hand. “Now, that’s settled.” She and Trent exchange a look. They’re always talking silently.

Trent clears his throat. “Tavo. How long have you wanted to go to America?”

My gut sinks. “Always.”

“How much do you love Kim?”

“There are not enough words in the language to say it.”

“What the fuck are you waiting for? Sometimes you have to travel across an ocean to get someone you love.” He looks at Dani and then back to me. “Stop being a pussy and go get your damn girl.”

Later that night, I’m in Madrid. While I’m in Departures, I can’t help but take the escalator down to Arrivals. I take a picture of the area just past customs where we met and post it on Instagram. “This place will always be special to me. The lights and sirens went on when I met you, because you were all I could see.”

When I get to my gate, I take a picture of the sign to New York and post it. I thought it would be months and months, before I got to go to the United States. Not hours.

I don’t know how she’s going to take this. I don’t know if this is going to work.

But my heart is on the line and all I want to do is … win her over entirely. I’ve got a little box for her in my jacket pocket.

When I board my red-eye flight, I sit and spend the time drawing Kim’s face on my napkin and singing under my breath to calm myself. The little box I bought for Kim is in my jacket pocket. I know one thing for sure.

I’m all-in. All-in, and this is what it feels like to have everything on the line. Everything for the woman I want.

But I have to go to her, fight for her, and tell her how much I love her. I cannot hold anything back, or my life won’t be worth living.

I play a video on my phone over and over again. It’s one that Kim took of me singing, but she’s in it at the end.

The slim, mid-thirties, blond woman in the seat next to me sighs. “Ugh. Coach. Too bad they overbooked. I can’t stand coach for an international flight. Can you let me out?”

She puts up her tray table, and I go into the aisle to allow her to get out to go to the bathroom, and sit back down in my seat. When she returns, she’s lost her grumpy look and smiles at me.

“What are you watching?”

“A video of my girlfriend.”

She cocks her head. “Is that you singing?”

I nod. “Sí, señorita. I sing and play guitar.”

Her eyes widen for a moment. “Oh.” She looks me up and down. “Do you mind if I hear it?”

Shrugging, I hand her my phone. She plugs in her headphones and listens. As she listens, her face gets a happy look, even though it’s the middle of the night.

“Look, I work for a club in New York. I could get you a gig if you want to come and sing. I think you’re great.” She shrugs. “Maybe someone could find you there.”

Prickles come up and down my arm. It’s starting. My dream is starting. “Could you give me your information? Your phone number” I ask.

She pauses for a moment, her eyes not focusing. I almost want to wave my hand in front of her face. Then she recovers. “Yes. Yes, here you go.” She pulls out the airsick bag and writes down her phone number and email. I do the same, and I promise to send her my YouTube links.

My spine gets shivers. She smiles and goes back to sleep. But I can’t.

We land in New York City, and it’s a testament to how much I want to see Kim Brown that I don’t step foot in this classic American city except for the airport. But I’ll have time for that later. I can’t live another moment without Kim.

As I board the smaller flight for Iowa, my resolve grows and grows. I post a picture of a JFK airport sign. After going through customs and immigration, I proceed to my gate, where I take a picture showing my destination is Des Moines.

I’m a complete bundle of nerves. I’m here in the United States with every Euro I have, a free flight from a friend, and a hope that the love of my life will talk to me when I get there.

When the plane lands, they can’t turn off the “fasten seatbelt” sign quickly enough. I’m up, grabbing my backpack and out before I can do anything. I need to get my bag from the baggage claim, then arrange for an Uber or Lyft or whatever and find my way to her house. I’m so glad I have her address from her initial email.

Joder. That’s a lot to do.

As I step out of the security area into the baggage claim, people mill about. The conveyor belts are stopped.

And there is Kim, holding a little name card that says “DE LA GUERRA.”