This ain't easy but it sure is worth it to me
Diego Brando x fem!reader- Chapter 8
Tags: angst, angst and more angst. swearing, mentions of death. a little comfort at the end
Notes: Hi friends! I can't believe this series came to an end. It will always be the work I'm most attached to, as it got me into writing, and meet all of you wonderful people. I love writing for Diego and will absolutely do more in the future, especially with the new series. It took me a lifetime to write this final chapter because I wasn't happy with anything. At last, I think I got it how I wanted it to be. Thank you for your support, I love you all so much!!
Inspired by Aces- The Something Specials and Taylor Olin. If you wanna get in your feels I recommend listening to it while reading because I think it really captures the vibe, or im just sappy.
dividers by @sturniolohohoho
Taglist: @impossessedbyjeongyeon @vikkus-main ❤️
Litchfield, Connecticut. 10 years after the Race.
What a fantastic day to hang sheets outside.
Your life was filled with these thoughts about convenience now.
Which day was the best to do laundry. The right time to water plants. Practical ways of sweeping without hurting your back.The
And of course, a thousand ways to make stew.
One was with carrots, another with cayenne pepper, to give it a kick. There was another one including celery. A lady in town told you about that. After that exchange, you decided not to leave the ranch for another few weeks.
Thinking your life revolved around conversations about recipes, and waiting for a man to come back home from work to have some entertainment, was not just a fall from grace. It was a whole loud, and heavy punishment.
You groaned, took the pristine, freshly washed linen sheet from the washing line, and unceremoniously threw it on the ground.
Then you stepped on it. Got on your knees, and rubbed it further down in the dirt.
A bit sweaty, you looked down at the results. It was pretty, if you squinted. Like one of those pretentious new wave paintings.
Getting up, you cleared your hands on your apron. At least, you filled the next few hours with something to do.
How did that happen, even?
Not the dirty sheet, but everything else leading to this?
Was it really your mother’s fault, who insisted on you finding a good catch, after miserably losing the race?
It had been ten years, since it was over. Ten long, disappointing, unappealing years. So many months that always felt the same.
You had a couple wrinkles. Smile lines, some on your forehead that were noticeable only under the sun. Nothing major, you liked to believe you aged pretty damn well, all things considered.
But the dark eye-bags under your eyes?
Weren’t the consequences of the little hours of sleep you got in the past years.
It was the tears. That’s what you told yourself once, while looking at the mirror. You were the sad protagonist of a novel doomed from the start.
Or just tired of waking up at dawn to make breakfast for someone.
That was why you resented your mother. If she lived one hellish life, for so long, why would she subject you to the same fate? Her darling daughter?
Well, she had been pretty clear. If you came back from the race, all battered and bruised, without a single penny to your name, you could find accommodation elsewhere.
She repeated the same exact thing at dinner, on your first day back from the race.
New York City, Manhattan. Final Stage of the Steel Ball Run.
You waited for Diego on the last day. Waited and waited and waited. You were camping, biting your nails, expecting a sign. Night came, and you were restless. That was the beginning of the sleepless nights that followed you for years to come.
At dawn, you spotted a few racers. Not a single sight of him. Not even of the other two, Joestar and his friend. But you couldn’t believe something badhad happened. Technically, some weaker fuckers were on the way to cross the finish line.
Maybe Diego got the stupid corpse, and was celebrating. He might’ve ditched you and the race all together. Or expected you to find him, this time.
By the time afternoon came, you begrudgingly decided to push one last time, towards the finish line. At this point, you were nowhere near close to the podium. Not a winner, only because you decided to stall. Victory could’ve been yours, if you didn't.
Was that what Diego meant, all along? By his actions, by shifting his focus on a new objective?
That wins are not always validated by someone else, or by a prize. Winning means you’re in charge of your destiny. However stupid your decision-making process could come across.
10th place. No flowers, not much cheering. Well, okay, whatever then.
You were still looking for Diego. Rushing through the crowd, you ran towards the score sheet, who had been freshly published. Skimming through it, Diego was at the very bottom.
Disqualified. 342 points. Two bonus hours.
They surely would have written ‘Deceased’, or something, if he was, right?
Or was that too creepy of a wording for the masses?
You were pushed away by some random guy who wanted to have a closer look.
Not even one of your limbs charged for attack.
Saddened, you rented a motel room. It was overpriced because of course, Manhattan, and patrons were looking at the lucrative side of the deal, instead of cutting you some slack. What the hell did they know, anyway.
You couldn’t afford to stay longer than a day. So you headed back home. Where everything started.
San Diego, three months after the race ended.
Your sister was ecstatic. To her, you were a shining star. You wondered how that could be, and thanked the universe she was there.
That overwhelming joy lasted very little. She told you she met a boy, and he was so sweet, and she wanted to marry him.
Probably the result of your mother’s pushy nature while you were gone.
Oh, mother dearest. Didn’t utter a word, even when you flamboyantly stretched your arms out for a hug. She invited you inside. Cooked dinner in complete silence. Listened to you and your sister talk about this good for nothing boy she wanted to marry so badly.
You kept throwing looks at your mom. How does one concentrate so hard on eating soup?
What did you do, that was so bad? Lost some months, learned so many things. Came back empty handed, yeah. But you were going to find a hustle, something to bring home the bread. Especially now that it was just going to be the two of you, once little sister signed up for prison.
Turns out, the clever old fox was charging up for the conversation she started as soon as your sister left to do some washing up.
She muttered, elbows resting on the table, hands crossed, looking like a businessman waiting for you to come up with the wrong answer before they could gesture to their goons to shoot you dead.
You pressed your lips, considering she was going to hit you with a scolding regardless.
She didn’t falter. Kept staring, not a tinge of compassion in her gaze.
Opting for radio silence, you started fiddling with the table cloth. Even if you were grown, now, she was still your mother. Scary as hell.
Huffing, she stood up and retreated to her room.
Days went by, filled by your sister’s love declarations for her boy, and random people coming to your house, bringing gifts and fruit baskets for your mother.
You found out your father had died, recently.
How did that feel? Strange. Sad, surely. But what was even more upsetting, were the condolences. So fake, even if they were good custom.
Apparently, he died alone. The mistress left him as soon as he got sick. So your mother was the only valid recipient of empathy after such loss.
You admired how she was able to portray the perfect grieving ex-wife in front of the neighbours. Her mourning looked very different behind closed doors. A bottle of whiskey, and cigarettes she would put out on your father’s favourite side table.
You tried to rekindle your relationship, but she wasn’t having it. It felt like you died to her, alongside your father.
On a sweet summer day, you got back home from running errands in town, to find it completely empty. Just a letter.
Few words. Your mother and sister left. You were forbidden from contacting them again. She sold the house. Good luck.
You cried more tears than the entire population on Earth combined. That was when grief hit you.
What about your sister? What did your mother say to her? She was going to be looking for you for a lifetime. And so would you. As soon as you got back on your feet, that is.
New York looked nice. You went back there.
Your last hope to find Diego mingling in the crowd. At least, that place was big enough for you to find a job. Someone would recognise you as one of the racers, there were good chances you could bask in some glory, instead of rotting away in your home village.
This shoemaker recognised you as one of the infamous participants. Slightly older than you, a little unkempt, but offered you some reassurance.
Clearly, wanting something in exchange.
You promised yourself it was just going to be for a little while.
It was far beyond your initial intentions, to stay with the guy for more than a month. The harsh reality of life struck you down to earth’s core. You got burnt, at last.
He wasn’t all that bad. Stern, with his advances. Not gentle, or cheesy, but provided you with food and shelter. When you were sick, he would leave some medicine, a shot of brandy, and a cloth. Which wasn’t even damp, but at least, he tried.
The limbo between resenting him for treating you like a cute pet, and being somehow grateful he didn’t leave you begging on the street, made you restless. More than you were before.
You tried being playful with the dude. To regain dignity, at least. One thing that was unshakable, was your character. Even when you were lonely, disliked by most, and abandoned. A little banter made everyone feel younger.
When you told him you had been so lucky lately, if you decided to open a hat shop, people would be born headless, he didn’t get it. Just looked right through you and kept reading his newspaper.
Diego would have told you, headless folks were your close relatives. And then you would argue, one of you would storm off, and you’d regroup for dinner. That was the usual scenario during the race. In your current setting? Maybe you’d end up making love.
You shook those thoughts away. Since when did you think of Diego that way?
Since the guy you were…With, strictly because of circumstances, was so underwhelming in every aspect? Or because indulging in your imagination was the only thing that didn’t cost money?
Have you always thought about Diego that way? Hence why you followed him at the very beginning?
No, you were different back then. Or always the same. Too hopeless, and too stubborn.
You made a vow to your future self: you’d stop being both cocky and insecure at the same time; that mix didn’t work one bit.
Still, when the glorified bootlicker of your, current companion, drowned himself in unpaired shoes, you’d wander around the city. Every short and blonde guy in your proximity made you jump.
It was obvious Diego would have made his presence known, if he was there. Without a doubt. You still hoped he decided to go incognito, and could find him under a box in an alleyway.
By chance, you found the answer to your game of clues in a newspaper your 'partner' left unattended on the kitchen counter.
A small segment, almost imperceptible, but you figured some bits of that damn corpse made you retain superhuman vision, because you ignored the huge front page titles talking about motor vehicles being the progress society needed, for this small piece of information, written in black and white.
‘British Star Jockey, Diego Brando, still missing. Potential victim of a crime.’
You burnt yourself with coffee.
Everyday after that, you avoided newspapers in their entirety. Ran away from them.
Who cares about the news? If the world was going to crumble, you didn’t need a warning. There was nothing you could do anyway.
Just like you couldn’t go around and keep looking for Diego. That chapter had to be over at some point. So you put it in the back of your mind, during the day.
However, you latched onto the word ‘still’, for hope. Because that ‘still’, meant someone better than you was still looking for him. Your partner asked you what the bandages on your hands were for. You said you were terrible in the kitchen. He tossed some ointment your way later on that day.
Litchfield, Connecticut. 7 years after the race.
You had a husband now. Officially, because he insisted on a proper ceremony, priest and all. It was small and quiet, in a tiny church in the countryside. He saved enough money to buy a ranch, and move you both over there. In exchange, you were going to be his darling wife.
But you accepted because there was nothing left waiting for you.
The benches on your side of the chapel were empty. One of your husband’s family members sat there for pity, or to make everything look more aesthetically pleasing.
The ring on your finger was bland. Just like the rest of your life. You took it off whenever your husband went to work, to free your finger from the constriction.
It was during a silent, and painfully uneventful dinner, that your husband mentioned the terrible awful.
‘You know, that British jockey, Brando?’
The two of you rarely made small talk. You learned he must’ve liked the idea of owning a ranch so much, because he was very much genetically closer to a mule, than a human being.
Still, those extra years of living, gave him an advantage when it came to reading people.
That, or you became a total shell of a person, so much so people could see right through you.
Careful not to spit bread all over the table, you pondered if he actually did this on purpose to make you choke tonight.
‘Heard of him.’ You responded with more bluntness than needed. And didn’t bother asking why the fuck would he ever, ever bring that name up.
He kept slurping, barely looking at you.
You were fidgeting with your wedding ring. The mere mention of Diego brought back some fire in you, because you considered throwing the object in your husband’s face.
Wiping the corners of his mouth, and throwing the napkin on the plate, he announced.
‘They found him dead, apparently.’
Now, now you had really lost. Screw the race and everything in between.
Your husband stood up, and circled your frozen body.
‘Thought you oughta know.’
He left. You didn’t join him in bed until you made sure all the tears you had to let out, fell on your half-eaten soup.
If it wasn’t for your heart being ripped out of your chest, put back in, and ripped out again a thousand times, you would question how your husband knew you were linked to Diego Brando. Wise old bastard.
Unfortunately, still Litchfield, still Connecticut. 10 days after the dreadful discovery.
How long can the human body sustain itself on small pieces of bread and some milk?
You were just about to find out, because everytime you cooked that stupid, greasy stew, you felt like being sick.
Grief is so strange. You were grieving so many people, in so many different ways.
Curiosity about your father, for example. You wanted to be able to see him for a few minutes to ask him some things. Like what bourbon and cheating tasted like.
Anger towards your mother. Again, how could she abandon you? Did she ever think of you at all?
Heartache over your sister. Oh how you missed her. Was she happy with that loser? Maybe yes, maybe life gave them a chance.
And Diego? Absolute denial.
To you, he was alive, and they found the wrong person to not waste anymore state funds on his disappearance. If you ignored what your husband said, it was like he never said anything in the first place. Also, he could have lied because he was jealous or resentful or something.
Anyhow, Diego was alive in your mind, and in your writing. Even if, you didn’t dare write his name down anywhere. Some old lady in the city told you tales of bad luck, superstition and omens. You reinterpreted the whole thing to give your delusions a stable thriving ground.
A sane person, would have asked her husband for a piece of paper that stated Diego Brando was, in fact, deceased. You weren’t sane because you saw dinosaurs in real life.
So screw it. Frankly, it could’ve been some magic trick involving the President, or someone else. Could you tell your husband that, just to spite him?
Was asylum food better than your cooking?
Fair enough, you’d go out in the bleakest way possible. Starving yourself. You wanted to disappear before someone knocked on your door and told you, everything was real: dinosaurs, magic corpses, flying horses, and the reason why Diego left you was because he was dead.
Your front porch. 10 years after the Race, 3 years after Diego’s death, 20 minutes before your cake would burn up to smithereens.
In the end, you didn’t starve, only lost some weight. Your husband came in clutches. After spending his money and efforts on you, he couldn’t let you perish, could he?
He force-fed you, bathed you, took care of you in his own rough way. You started being just grateful for him. Resentment washed away, as well as anger, and pain. You entered a whole new scope of human emotions, something very much undefined, that didn’t feel like much. Like playing a chess game, but the King disappeared right before checkmate.
Sometimes, you created chaos to spice up your isolation. Interacting with others, even if it was the right thing to do, made you want to curl up in a corner and rip all of your hair off.
Your husband was the only one you’d speak to. No jokes, no banter. Just lists: of groceries, things to do, things to buy.
The cattle in your ranch was the closest thing to innocent stupor in your life.
Gosh, you must have looked a mess. All polished, hair tied up, some flour on your trusty apron that accompanied you everywhere.
Your mother would be proud. Your father would be more interested in your booze cupboard.
There you were, an old fleeting memory of a soldier, a woman that was upset over things she never had, moving back and forth on this swinging chair your husband enjoyed so much. For which reason, you never understood. It made an unbearable noise, and was indented because of his weight.
It was past the point of being comfortable, just like you.
Also, you started smoking. Because it cured some of the restlessness. Or added onto it, but new habits die harder than old ones.
Last week, you smashed part of the barn. The reason? Wanted to spend some time watching your husband fix it. You wondered why, instead of communicating, you retorted to ambushes or tricks. Another habit, maybe.
You baked a cake. Never did it before, saw it on a book. Looked fancy. If it came out bad, you’d smash it all over the kitchen counter. Or give it to the pigs.
You turned into the carbon copy of your mother. But if your husband cheated on you, you’d kill him. You promised yourself that.
Speaking of which, you saw a figure in the distance. He came home early today, so he probably didn’t cheat yet.
Why was he dressed so… Unusual? You didn’t remember him leaving the house dressed like that.
The squeaky chair stopped moving. The only sound was that of hooves, and your heart beating again, after a very long time.
‘Nice spot you got for yourself, missy.’
You dropped your cigarette, and almost passed out.
Your heart wasn’t just beating, you were having a cardiac arrest.
Diego stopped his horse, resting one hand on his hip. Still smug, still unphased. Still alive.
You knew that damn ‘still’ had to mean something.
Noticing you weren’t even close to whispering a single greeting, he got down, and stepped towards you.
He looked older, a little tired, too. Not as sharp as back in the day. Dusting his pants off, he leaned towards you.
‘Can you see me, or did you get blinded by the smoke?’ He waved his gloved hand in your face. From this distance, you could see he was unsure, but still went for it, for proximity, for contact.
You flinched, mouth agape, acting like you saw the grim reaper. Maybe the house caught fire and this was your imagination creating something joyful before burning alive.
He didn’t move. Your husband would have, but he didn’t.
‘…The cake.’ That was all you had to say. If this was a dream, his ghost would vanish because you found the link to come back to the real world.
Diego squinted, concerning himself whether he let too much time pass before coming back, that your latent insanity finally won over your rationality.
He stood up hastily, and ran into your house. After some clattering, silence.
You didn’t leave your spot.
This couldn’t be true. Just when you found a routine in your loneliness, when you accepted that your life was going to be that way, he comes back and prevents your whole house from burning down to a crisp.
Few moments later, he comes back triumphant.
‘You should keep living solely on canned food. You know, for everyone’s sake.’
How was he so… Not bothered?
Could it be this was just… A one-sided despair, this whole time?
You wanted to go back to this morning, and never wake up.
He took a seat in the chair next to you, with a small table in between the two of you, and rested his forearms on his thighs, looking at the beauty and serenity of your ranch.
You curled up a little, not too comfortable with him being in your space after so long.
He better say something now, or that was going to be your last straw, for good. You were so done with everyone hiding, running away, taking something from you and never giving it back, lying, deceiving—
Oh. Well, your husband’s work boots. Who could they belong to? Was he dense? Why couldn’t you bring yourself to say it?
Again, you pursed your lips, and hugged your body close. Best psychological response to this attack.
Wh—No, no you didn’t. Maybe something was wrong with you, or your husband, but you couldn’t. And right this very second, it seemed the universe had much more foresight than you could give it credit for.
You were looking around, waiting for someone to interrupt and smack him in the head. This is not the right way to greet… an old friend.
He took your packet of cigarettes, rolled it in his hands for a second, and then crushed it.
‘Smokers are not great horse riders.’
You thought about what he said for a second. He seemed a little… Uneasy. Discouraged. He probably didn’t like what he saw.
‘Plus, if you can’t ride a horse, and clearly can’t cook, what do you think—’
‘Why are you here, Diego?’
Finally. Words came out. Tense, and fighting the nausea in your stomach, but you spilled them.
He raised both of his eyebrows.
His own physical response, to finding out you were alive, and well.
You stared at each other. From the outside, one could see you were both fighting the urge to jump on the other. Because you were both prideful, stubborn, practical, willing to give up everything for survival. Two similar people, who don’t know how to deal with the same emotions at the same time.
He moved first. Of course.
Grabbed your hand, and squeezed it. Then let it fall back on your lap. Even the almighty Diego, could be overwhelmed for once.
‘Came to pick you up, what else?’
And smiled, like a damn reptile. A predator. A small one, like a ferocious lizard.
He couldn’t be fucking serious.
Great. Your brain decided to respond to his questions with a two hours delay. Damn cigarettes.
He blinked, not understanding if that was rejection, or you were a little mad. He could explain to you the lengths he had to go to in order to reach you over here, if you asked. But it seemed that now, when he was finally ready to tell you everything, you weren’t willing to listen.
Well, of course you’d get a man. After the race fiasco, he hoped you’d use your brain and make the best out of the situation. Still, it should’ve been a temporary solution.
‘Sweet.’ He replied in a monotone voice.
You felt like you were the one cheating. Just not on your husband.
All you had to do now, was stand up, grab a broom and shove him off of your property. Then, you could go back to stitching a centrepiece.
As if. Your sewing skills were reserved for dire situations, like mending the blonde idiot in front of you after a shooting.
How much of your current life still revolved around him? Even if the setting had changed, everything you did, or said, was influenced by the memories you spent together.
That’s what the older women in your village warned you about, all the time. Young love.
It just never disappears, even if what you currently had was more convenient and bearable.
You laughed, then. Hiding your face in your hands, and pushing your hair back a little.
Nothing in your life ever worked out.
He didn’t move a muscle. Just this once, you could react however you pleased. Only on this occasion, he felt like he made a silly mistake. Leaving you like that. There’s only so much a person can bear.
‘Why’d you destroy my cigarettes?’
He tightened his jaw. You could’ve asked him something else, for example, if he was doing alright. He swallowed his irritation. If some parts of who you were back then, buried underneath years of pretending to be a good civilian were still alive, you should have appreciated his effort.
Just then, you noticed he didn’t have Silver Bullet anymore.
The realisation gave you chills. No way that poor animal got caught up in this storm.
Seemingly, Diego was able to leave pretty much anyone behind.
When you asked him, it wasn’t to snap you out of this melancholic haze you carried for the past three years. You wondered how he got to be alive, when his horse perished, and whatever you were doing was beyond just surviving. It was a complete downfall and hitting the ground so hard, you could feel your ribcage pierce your lungs.
He sighed deeply. Well, he had to fully disclose the narrative, if he wished you’d stop being so defiant.
‘Someone else took the fall.’
You snickered. Yeah, they sure did.
He gave you a sideways look, with a tinge of concern. You weren’t just upset this time. He knew that, but he still wished you’d share the same excitement he was feeling upon seeing you.
You were correct. Men are stupid.
‘Don’t think I—’ ‘Shut it.’
Diego immediately stopped talking at your command.
He observed your pensive expression, staring at his new horse.
He could keep his mouth shut, but it wasn’t what you needed right now. You needed to know, he went through hell and back. Just because he didn’t look miserable, it didn’t mean the only one who felt loneliness and their stomach turning was you.
You stood up abruptly, and headed inside.
Shortly after, he followed.
Your house was… Modest. Very woody. Impeccably clean.
Shit, you had nothing else going on, besides sweeping?
You sat down at the dinner table, waiting for him to take a seat.
If your husband barged right in, would he shoot you or him first?
Before he could get himself comfortable, you raised one hand.
‘There’s some alcohol in that cabinet behind you.’
With a pointed look from you, he turned his back and fetched the liquor.
Damn, being a wife turned you into a sergeant.
Pouring a small amount in a glass, he handed you what he thought could at least soften your hardened shell, even if he wasn’t a fan of you having all these vices.
You were so off-putting right now.
Finishing your drink in a gulp — to be fair, to put on a show— you decided to speak.
‘How did you find me over here?’
Sitting down, thinking you must’ve been calm enough by now, he took his hat off and placed it on the table.
‘Went back to San Diego. Asked your villager friends. Told me you moved to Manhattan. Then, I just got lucky.’
Oh, so that was one of those instances where he found you as soon as you stopped looking for him? Like when you lose a hair clip?
You weren’t impressed. Took him a while to get to Connecticut, unless he was thrown into the ocean by the President himself and swam all the way back up shore.
‘Did you lose your compass ten years ago? That’s why you didn’t show up in San Diego earlier?’
Diego looked offended, puzzled. For all he knew, you came all the way over here to hide and he let you…settle, and adjust. Until it was safe for him to come out.
‘If this is about that letter, I clearly stated I needed to lay low for a while, you cannot hold that against me.’ He pointed one finger at you. His composure started to falter.
What mattered was that he was here. You were there. He didn’t believe he was the only one who wanted to set this silly reconciliation aside, squeeze you, and take you away from this humble abode.
You looked around, waiting for the punchline.
‘You didn’t write a damn thing. The only thing in writing I have from you is an article stating you went missing. And some rumours you were dead. Which, can’t be true because, corpses don’t retain the ability to lie.’
He leaned back on his chair, raising his hands in perturbed confusion.
‘I sent you some money and a letter. I thought you could read!’
Your heart skipped a beat, which made you turn a deaf ear to his witty little remark.
‘Where’d you send it to?’
‘San Diego, obviously. You think I’d send money for you and your dear husband to spend in my honour?’
The defeated look on your face, crumbled his almost ten-year long assumptions that you disregarded his letter, took the money he felt he owed you, and ran away to marry some country bumpkin.
That’s what he believed, when he went back to your hometown, and the hostile villagers told him you vanished. The reason why he found you is because he made the right guess, thinking you’d be in New York.
You mimicked him, leaning back with a thud, looking to the side. Your pristine kitchen, the oven door still open. Everything smelling like you started a bonfire in the middle of the living room to celebrate the reunion.
Now that you think about it, your mother had been so shifty, few days before disappearing. As one would, when they decide to disown their kid. Because that’s what you do when your kid is all talk, and always falls back on square one.
You started crying again, silently.
Diego always hated people crying. He too, felt the familiar feeling of his throat closing up at times, but never lost himself into it.
To hell all of his beliefs. There was a fifty percent chance they weren’t true anyway.
So he walked over to you, got down on your level, and did the only thing he believed could be right. With a fifty percent chance, at least.
Cupping your cheeks, he collected some of your tears with his thumbs.
The pain in your chest was so piercing, you couldn’t even be upset with him for rubbing your face too roughly.
‘You’ll be fine. My father wanted to throw me in a river.’
Sniffing, and sighing loudly, you wondered how could some parents hate someone they brought into this world, unbeknownst to their knowledge, so much. A question worth 50 million dollars.
How did he always figure you out, without you needing to speak? How were you still two young fools, who never knew any better?
He lifted the corner of his mouth.
‘Presumed death after seven years of going missing. It was better for me to keep it that way.’
You nodded, because you always wished to be presumably dead.
Good. A clear picture at last. Maybe you’d get some sleep tonight.
Next to your oblivious husband.
At the thought of the latter, you put your hand on Diego’s forearm.
He needed to leave. If not that very second, in a couple of hours.
Because fine, yes, now you had your closure, and you were glad he was still alive, and you could stop feeling guilty about being a failure, and he came back to see you.
But realistically, life doesn’t work out that way. You weren’t going to crush everything you so strongly held together for the past years.
You understood why your mother stayed with your father for so long.
There are some duties one has to fulfil. Your duty was to keep fighting for your spot in life, not being stopped by the ghost of a man, not letting him decide your fate.
Diego resembled a statue. He froze so dramatically, lips parted, you fought the urge to close his mouth back up with your finger.
Now, both of you had lost.
‘I can’t because… This is my life. I built it without your help, even if you tried to get involved. I can’t let you have that satisfaction.’
Final. Decisive. A little unbelievable now that you said it out loud.
Diego took the hit. Moved after a good minute.
Then stood up, and walked towards the front door.
You watched him walk away. To answer your mother’s question back then, you were now a little satisfied.
But your body still moved to get a hold of the hat, and bring it over to him.
He was stomping, not minding the fact that he looked very emotional.
You opened your mouth to wish him well, at least, a civil farewell.
‘Do you really want to stay here making pies? For an idiot?’
What the hell did he know. To you, Diego was not much less of an idiot than your husband.
‘He is good to me! He stayed this whole time and look—’ you indicated the small vase on the cupboard next to the main entrance. ‘Gets me… Flowers.’
Both you and Diego didn’t buy your loyal spouse act for a second.
Shit. You should’ve said a roof, he put a roof over your head.
Diego snatched his hat out of your hands, and put it on to cover half of his face.
Resting his hands on his hips, he asked you one last question.
‘You’re staying here because he got you your favourite flowers?’
Who the fuck even has a favourite flower? Flowers are flowers! It’s the gesture that counts!
Besides, you couldn’t keep a plant alive for longer than an afternoon.
‘Wh—You know, you have some guts talking about what I should and shouldn’t do! How about you get back on your horse and write your wise little advice on a letter instead? Oh, make sure you don’t send it to my grandmother this time.’
You were puffing, since you delivered that last speech in a single breath. To get it out of your system.
What were you fighting against, exactly?
‘If you jump on my horse now, the only thing you will have to worry about from now on, is not making any more of those pies, if your wish is for me to stay alive.’
Incredible. No, actually. Insane.
Instead of doing everything for you, without giving you the opportunity to object, he gave you that freedom. A chance.
The chance that not a single being on this planet since you were born, had the courtesy to offer.
It had been 10 years since you rode with him.
Diego offered his hand to you. And his understanding, his apologies, all that was left of him.
You gave one last look at the wilted flowers.
They could come back to life in better hands.
It took you ten years to realise that you could have different spots in the world. That you didn’t have to choose a storyline to live in for the rest of your life. Some people don’t have that luxury.
Finally, this time, not holding him straight on his horse because he had been wounded, you circled his waist.
You just needed one final bit of reassurance, before crossing the fence.
‘What are my favourite flowers, Diego?’
He gave you a smug look, and tightened his grip on your hand resting on his stomach.
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