Chapter 59
CALLUM
Me ha dicho la luna - Raya Real
Where the fuck these Spanish people had brought him, Callum had no idea, but just seeing Alejandra in that second-skin red dress, her breasts perfectly pushed up, her curves on full display with a sensuality that should’ve been outlawed, was worth every ounce of confusion.
Apparently, this was part of Sevillian tradition—something from her father’s side—and honestly, whoever invented that dress deserved a statue. No, a temple.
As they arrived at what they called El Real, it felt like stepping into Pinocchio’s Land of Toys, but for grown-ups: a riot of color, music, flowing alcohol, and hundreds of people dancing something called sevillanas.
José, Alejandra’s dad, had told him in his very broken English that he had once been a famous flamenco guitarist, and that now he had passes to all the best casetas because he was, as Alejandra put it, "kind of a big deal."
“Casetas here are private, the majority,” Alejandra explained as they walked hand in hand, both of them sweating bullets in the Andalusian heat.
His suit was clinging to his skin, and the yellow albero ground had already ruined his custom-made shoes.
“There are only a few public ones. You usually have to know someone to get in. I just say my dad is José López Gallardo, the guitarist, and people basically roll out the red carpet.”
“Which is why we got absolutely smashed every time we came to the Feria,” Carlos added, grinning beside her.
He looked sharp, polished, surprisingly relatable, especially since they'd bonded over rugby.
Callum had half-expected the Spanish to only talk about surfing or football, but Carlos was proving to be a solid exception and someone he can speak with about anything.
“I blame the rebujito,” Alejandra said with a sly smile, locking eyes with her brother.
“Be careful with that stuff, hijo,” Marina, her mother warned, linking her arm with his. “It goes down like water, but it hits like a train.”
“I’m Welsh,” Callum grinned. “I know how to handle alcohol.”
“We’ll see about that by the end of the night,” Alejandra teased.
God, she looked radiant. She’d come back glowing after her talk with her family, a visible weight lifted off her shoulders.
And when she’d stepped out of the bathroom and asked him to zip up her dress, he’d nearly ripped it off instead.
Only the knowledge that her whole family was waiting downstairs had saved that dress.
The Feria was surreal. The air buzzed with energy—music pouring from every direction, bursts of laughter, people singing, dancing. It smelled faintly of horse manure and piss, but that was part of the chaos apparently. A week-long party, drenched in sweat and joy.
They entered a large caseta. People smiled and waved, and Carlos returned with a tall glass filled with something pale and bubbly.
“It’s time to meet rebujito, devil’s juice, according to Sofia.” Alejandra giggled.
“Let’s eat something first,” her mother said, ever the voice of reason.
Her father reappeared, balancing a tray of montaditos and tapas, followed by Carlos. Callum tried to help but was waved off by the overly polite Spanish men.
Rebujito didn’t taste alcoholic, and he was parched. Dangerous combination. They’d lost track of the older generation somewhere between guitar music and the soulful voice of a singer, singing something that made Alejandra stop and close her eyes.
“You should learn it,” she said, watching her parents dance. “I’ll teach you. Next year, when my shoulder is good, we’ll dance together.”
“I’m not a great dancer.”
“We’ll work on that.” She grinned, eyes sparkling.
Between dances, her father asked her to dance, offering her a hand and a smile so similar to the one his daughter had inherited. He heard Sofia once mentioning she looked like that Chesire Cat when she did that very specific smile, like she knew it was trouble, but she still wanted to have fun.
“The shoulder, papá,” she reminded him, pouting slightly. He could see the battle inside of her—a part of her wanted to dance, not worrying too much about the shoulder, and the other one wanted to be careful.
“You can still do Me ha dicho la luna. Come on,” The man begged almost, pouting too, his hand still extended toward his daughter.
She sighed dramatically, then turned to Callum. “Please don’t laugh.”
But how could he? She looked so full of life, spinning and stepping with her father in a dance that spoke not just of culture, but of legacy, a love passed down in rhythm and footwork.
In that dance, in the way they smiled to each other, he could see the bond they shared, and unwillingly, Callum’s mind kept circling back to Mick Turner—wondering if maybe he should reach out to him or maybe not.
It was a constant battle since he had found out, and for that night he settled on not contacting him, while Carlos filled the tiny empty glass he had in his hand mentioning that a rebujito glass couldn’t stay empty too long.
They drank a lot. He prided himself in handling alcohol pretty well, but Sofia was right—rebujito was the devil’s juice.
It was hot, the rebujito was easy to drink, like water.
And like Marina had warned him, it hit him like a train between a spin and a laugh.
They danced. Marina forced him too, and then he switched with Alejandra.
And he didn’t care he stepped on anyone’s foot, everybody was just so happy, cheering him, as people kept calling him guiri with a very affectionate smile.
He didn’t have it in him to question what that meant as he started a conversation with Carlos about what between surf and rugby was most dangerous as Alejandra kept dancing.
What he gathered from that night was that the rebujito lived up to its legend and he might have to take it back to Aberystwyth for Rihannon to try and see if he was weak or if that thing was actually the most devilish and alcoholic thing he had ever tasted.
Later, after bunuelos dipped in hot chocolate—insanity in this heat but completely worth it—they finally stumbled back to the apartment which, luckily, was just a short walk.
But even though he had tried to convince Alejandra that taking off her shoes in the middle of the street wasn’t a good idea, he had ended up carrying her piggyback the last few blocks, both of them giddy and tipsy—or maybe completely smashed.
Just as he dropped her onto the bed, laughing, he checked his phone.
Twelve missed calls from his mother.
He sobered up instantly, his pulse quickened. Stepping into the bathroom, he called her back.
“What is it?”
“Finally,” she answered. “It’s nothing urgent, but you need to be in London in four days.”
“What? Why?”
“Your father, Mick Turner, was found dead of an overdose in Malibu.”
Silence. Should he feel something? Grief? Anger? Indifference? He felt... nothing.
“And?”
“Apparently, he left something for you and your half-sister in his will. The lawyers will call tomorrow.”
“Mom, what the hell?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Slightly.”
“Okay. I’ll call tomorrow.” She hung up—no goodbye, typical of her.
When Callum stepped back into the room, Alejandra looked up, flushed and barefoot, tipsy and beautiful, as she was untying her shoes.
“What happened?”
“Mick Turned died,” he said, his eyes widening as he remembered what his mother had just said. “And I have a half-sister.”
Alejandra blinked, lips parting in surprise. He could see her alcohol clouded brain trying to put the pieces back together. The only thing she said was, “Me cago en la puta.”
Me cago en la puta indeed.