Far Away from Yesterday: Part One

By H. Valencia

Despite his carefree manner, Dashiel Sarmiento’s life had been unremarkable. He divides his free time between watching movies, caring for his emotional support dog, and helping his would-be model girlfriend gain American citizenship. Dashiel has become comfortable living in the shadow of his twin sister, Jasmine, who is a pillar in the local gymnastics community.

But when tragedy strikes Dashiel in combination, he’s compelled to challenge his core beliefs about love, faith, and what it means to be human. This doesn’t stop him from training in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Jitsu, reuniting his boy band, and befriending a novice nun. Although his most remarkable challenge will be one that will change his world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781698703282

H. Valencia

This is H. Valencia’s seventh novel and his first attempt at Fiction Romance. With each effort, he seems to be getting closer to mastery. Since graduating from SJSU he’s been a consistent contributor to the arts. As an author, he searches the world for “Art...with a conscience.”. He then applies it to his natural gifts as an insightful linguist.  With the world as his palette, the result is a relevant voice that knows few bounds.

Book preview

Copyright 2020 H. Valencia.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by

any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or

otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-6987-0329-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6987-0328-2 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Trafford rev. 10/09/2020

21816.png   www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 844-688-6899 (USA & Canada)

fax: [phone]

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1   A Day in the Life of Dashiel Sarmiento

Chapter 2   Rolling After Dark

Chapter 3   Sentient Beans: Part One

Chapter 4   Sentient Beans: Part Two

Chapter 5   Looking for Mumu

Chapter 6   Free, Mireya

Chapter 7   Bad Catholics

Chapter 8   Intense Care

Chapter 9   Something Like Solace

PROLOGUE

Unexamined Lives

M y sister was a regular at the A-Lounge and the longer I was there, the more I could see why. It was the type of place that suited her: sleek, chic, and ultra-modern. It was the perfect place to see and be seen. Speaking of sight — through the lounge’s metal-bead curtains — I could vaguely see her; as per usual, the belle of the ball. My sister spent the better part of her youth as one of the darlings of the artistic gymnastics community. To the manor born, was how my father would boast about his baby girl. Whether she was competing in a packed gymnasium or fooling around, on a trampoline, in our backyard, my sister carried herself with a certain poise. It wasn’t arrogance. It was self-confidence. There she was, on the terrace of the Argüelles Hotel, dancing with an older man. It was as though she were to the manor born.

For reasons that will eventually be made clear, or not, I found myself relegated to the bar. The mixologist was a good fifteen-years my junior. She looked more like a pop star than hotel staff: red highlights, black mini-skirt, burgundy blouse, black vest, fedora hat. She turned in my direction and said something. She might’ve been talking to me, but I found myself hypnotized by the familiar lure of the Spanish guitarist’s hypnotic Bossa Nova rhythm. Far away from yesterday, music was my life. Start low, go slow. This was the mindset. Catch fire, rise higher. The guitarist was in the latter stage of that. Sorry. What’s that now? I reflexively asked.

She repeated herself slower and louder, Do you know Miss Jasmine? It’s like she littered the sentence with question marks: Do you? Know? Miss? Jasmine? You’d think she was talking to a pet or a well-trained gorilla.

I got the impression that she was under the impression that I was checking out my sister. Yes. Jazzy’s my sister, I clarified. I’m her brother, I stated for good measure. We’re siblings, I added to really drive the point home. The mixologist peered through the metal-bead curtain and out at the dance floor. Then she looked back at me. Rinse and repeat. At that point, she was thinking so loudly that I felt telepathic. Yup, I nodded in affirmation. We’re twins.

The mixologist tilted her head ever-so-slightly. Shut the front door, she volleyed.

Okay, I returned, but we’ll still be twins. It would’ve been challenging for me to try to match her enthusiasm.

The mixologist striked me as the cheerleader type. For a guy like me – who spent his high school days in a church – cheerleaders were another species. Her voice went up an octave. Oh my god. Oh my god. I can see it. Totes. I can see it now. She turned to the person sitting closest to me. Check it out. This guy, she turned back to me, I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name…?

Call me Dashiel, I responded rather clumsily, or Dash. It’s an ironic name. Actually, I’m on the lethargic side. I wasn’t sure how much of that she heard. I figured I’d just keep talking until she acknowledged me. I’ve been told that I run at a glacially slow pace. In fact —

She turned back to the person sitting closest to me. This is awesome. Dashiel looks just like Miss Jasmine. He’s like Miss Jasmine with short hair.

Despite the A-Lounge dress code, the person sitting closest to me was wearing basketball shoes. I only mention that because I took the time to go home and change into proper attire. Other than being underdressed, he looked like a regular enough guy. By my estimation, his priorities seemed to be who he was going to go home with, getting sufficiently wasted, whatever was going on his outdated cell phone. My sister and I didn’t even factor in. He took a break from fiddling with what I could only assume was his side-chick, burner-phone: You guys are twins, huh? That’s cool. Which one of you two is older?

I was about to respond when the mixologist response-blocked me: Wait up. Don’t say another word. Let us guess. She was kind of forcing this random patron to participate in her improvised parlor game; although, he looked more amused than annoyed. As the two of them sized me up, I tried to look more mature than my sister — whatever that means. The fact that Jasmine was a regular at the A-Lounge made their chances better than 50/50. It’s either that or I’m mistaking possibility with probability, again. After an uncomfortable beat, the mixologist pointed at me. You, her energy was matched only by the guitarist. You’re older.

The person sitting closest to me was inclined to agree. He nodded, I think Daniel here is older. It was impressive because the young man wasn’t even looking in my direction when he came to that conclusion. His gaze was fixed through those metal-beads. He seemed completely mesmerized by my sister’s dancing. I must admit that I felt a little bit proud. My sister was one of those pretty girls who didn’t know they were pretty: 5’ 2", dark-layered hair, graceful. That being said, he had guessed incorrectly. I had to give him partial credit for almost getting my name right. I shook my head to convey that I wasn’t the older sibling.

Upon seeing that gesture, the mixologist leaned forward and took another good look at me. She exclaimed, You’re the baby?

Totes, I confirmed.

You’re the baby, she repeated loudly. That is so cute. Those were two statements I would’ve rather not heard from any woman at any bar. I’d rather she said I was a beast — a sexy beast. She could’ve yelled that as loudly as her heart desired. My only hope was that her declaration was a comment about chronology and not a referendum of my general demeanor.

It’s because your doppelganger is dancing, the person sitting closest to me said matter-of-factly. He was still gawking at my sister who, at that exact moment, was executing a pirouette to perfection. I tried not to stare directly down at his basketball shoes. I wanted to correct him, about my name, but his next statement followed without hesitation. Chicks always look younger when they get lost in music like that. By the look of him, I’d have said the person sitting next to me would’ve looked pretty good dancing with the mixologist. The two of them were conventionally attractive; especially with the bar’s red-acrylic bulbs backlighting them.

Well, the mixologist said as if it were scripted, it looks like your big sister isn’t dancing anymore. Is it me or does she look pissed?

As Jazzy made her way towards the bar, I ordered two more Manhattans. The person sitting next to me cleverly used what I had just said as a pretext to strike up a conversation with the mixologist. It was pretty clever. What exactly is in a Manhattan? he inquired.

The mixologist called out the ingredients as she eyeballed ratios out of a series of identical bottles: Whiskey, bourbon…

At that point, I felt like I was third-wheeling it big time. I waited for the appropriate moment to bow out of the conversation. By the time I was able to slip into my low-battery mode, the two of them were in a world of their own. It was like watching two pieces of flint collide. The last thing I heard was, So, what’s poppin with you?

My sister and I weren’t just twins: We were identical twins. It’s not common for identical twins to be of the opposite sex, but stranger things have happened. In case that’s not strange enough, on paper, Jazzy was an entire day older than me. It only appears that way because my mother gave birth to her just before midnight and I was born just after. In reality, my sister was a mere 87-seconds older. I try not to think about the fact that my life as an Ading was the product of an 87-second gap. Let me explain. In my culture, the term Ading refers to a younger sibling. Older siblings are referred to as either Kuya (older brother) or Ate (older sister). Given that construct, Jazzy was my Ate. What’s interesting about that is next to nothing. What’s revealing about that is that my sister outranked me.

Ate stood directly behind me and tugged her coat free. Her coat was nice and warm because I’d been leaning on it the entire time. It was a little rude that she didn’t just ask me to hand her-her coat, but sisters do that. I was a bit relieved to see her cover herself up. On that night, she chose to wear a short-black, diamond-backed dress. I’m not a prude, but this is my sister. Jazzy correctly assumed that one of the Manhattans was for her. She picked up a cocktail glass and took a sip. Bitter-sweet, she exclaimed, but I could really go for some Halo-Halo (a dessert beverage). Before the alcohol could take effect, she started speed-talking; only it wasn’t talking – it was venting. My sister was speed-venting. Having shared a placenta with her, I felt I had a good grasp of what she didn’t expect of me. What she didn’t expect me to do was interrupt her train of thought and, by no means, did she expect me to offer any type of solution. In moments like those, my sister just needed someone to listen. With things being the way they were, I was that someone.

Basically, my sister was describing relative deprivation. Out on the dance floor, some guy proposed to some other guy. This did explain all the requests for Bossa Nova tunes. This isn’t to say Ate was homophobic – quite the contrary. In order to further understand her reaction, you’d have to understand that her biggest mistake in life was loving a man beyond all reason. Now, 99% of the time this wouldn’t be cause for aggravation; that is to say, I’ve lived enough to understand that there’s seldom ever too much love. It just so happened that the man Ate fell deeply/obsessively in love with was struggling with his sexuality. By mid-rant, she was saying, I almost went the whole day without thinking about that… A person much more intelligent than me once penned that the heart wants what it wants. When you think about it, for longer than ten-seconds, it’s a statement that could be extremely problematic. The heart wants what it wants is emotion without the benefit of intellect. How many people are sitting in prison because the heart wants what it wants? Shakeaspeare has written plays about this.

Of all the men, in the Golden State, Ate chose a man who could never love her the way she deserved to be loved. The heart wants what it wants. I could’ve told her