All Our Wars by Stephanie Vasquez

Author:Stephanie Vasquez
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SparkPress

Andres passed the equestrian center at the base of the hill the Herreras’ home was nestled into. The center, studded with reclaimed wood, natural stone, sharp angles, and buildings set into relief, was meant to be a part of the landscape; more important, it was meant for the horses. This was his father’s favorite project, and most likely his last.

The electric engine of Andres’s car purred whisper quiet as he pulled into the driveway of his father’s home. The home he’d grown up in.

Andres killed the headlights, sitting in the silence and darkness for a moment.

He didn’t know what to do with horses. Sure, he’d grown up around them, but he had picked up his father’s love of books, of sleek lines and appealing geometry instead of his interest in the outdoors. Andres was no cowboy. So the horses, he’d have to figure out what to do with them. And that list of things to deal with once Martin was gone was growing.

Andres missed so many years. The good years where the two men would visit on Sundays, sit and talk about life. All the impatience of Andres’s youth tempered by the experience of Martin’s age. And Andres needed that because he felt like he was on the verge of losing the last grounding thing he had.

It was selfish, unbelievably so, to care only about what he was going to lose. But the old man wouldn’t talk about it anyway. About the disease ravaging his body, like it had done to Andres’s mother’s body before. Martin was still young, and he was still strong, and he never complained a day in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

The old man would never meet his nietos, if Andres ever got around to having any, like his father was prone to dig. The only hope Andres had was that his father would live long enough to see his son’s reputation repaired. Martin had come to this country for opportunities, and Andres was his father’s legacy of that sacrifice. He had to make it right.

The light was on in the main sitting room when Andres quietly entered the home.

He smiled and leaned against the wall. “What are you doing up, old man? You should be resting.”

Martin looked up from the designs spread across the coffee table in front of him. His father was old-school and still liked to sketch by hand when he could. “Wanted to hear how the meeting went,” Martin replied, reaching up to remove his glasses.

Andres shrugged.

“That good, huh?”

“She’ll do it,” Andres replied.

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

Andres dropped onto the leather couch across from the one his father occupied and suddenly felt suffocated by his tie, his suit jacket. “It is what it is.”

Martin shook his head. “That indifference is a poison.”

At fifteen, Andres had been taught how to trail a mark, how to take the perfect shot, how to avoid standing downwind of blood splatter, how to leave no trace. That indifference was how he survived.

“What do you want me to say?” Andres asked, trying to tamp down the prickle of frustration.

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