Chapter 8 #2
"Just that I'm in town for a while. We have... unfinished business." She turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh, and Sandra? Enjoy your little romance while it lasts. Diesel isn't the settling down type. Trust me, I know."
Before I can respond, she's gone, the bell jingling cheerfully in her wake. I stand there, rooted to the spot, her words echoing in my head. Who is she? An ex-girlfriend? Something more?
I try to return to work, but my concentration is shattered. I keep replaying her words, the confident way she spoke about Diesel, the implication that she knows him in a way I don't.
When Diesel returns fifteen minutes later, sandwiches and coffee in hand, I'm still distracted. He notices immediately, setting down the food and crossing to my side.
"What's wrong?" he asks, concern etched on his face. "Did something happen?"
I hesitate, unsure how to broach the subject. "Someone came looking for you while you were gone. A woman named Vanessa?"
His reaction is immediate and alarming. His entire body tenses, face hardening into a mask I haven't seen since our first meeting. "What did she want?" His voice is flat, emotionless.
"She said you have unfinished business." I study his face, trying to read what's happening behind those suddenly shuttered eyes. "Who is she, Diesel?"
He turns away, hands braced on the workbench, shoulders rigid with tension. "Someone from my past. Before I came to Crimson Hollow."
"An ex?" I press, needing to know.
"Among other things." His vague answer only intensifies my unease.
"What does that mean?"
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's complicated, Sandra."
"Then uncomplicate it for me." I move to stand in front of him, forcing him to look at me. "Because she seemed pretty confident that whatever you and I have is temporary."
Something flashes in his eyes—anger? Fear? "She has no idea what we have."
"And what exactly do we have, Diesel?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, but Vanessa's visit has rattled me more than I want to admit.
"You know how I feel about you." He reaches for me, but I step back.
"Do I? Because we've been careful not to put labels on this, remember? Your suggestion." The hurt I'm feeling leaks into my voice despite my efforts to contain it.
"Sandra, don't let her get in your head. That's what she wants." He tries again to touch me, but I maintain the distance between us.
"Then tell me who she is. Tell me why she thinks she knows you better than I do. Tell me what 'unfinished business' means." My voice rises with each demand. "Just tell me something, Diesel, because right now I feel like I'm completely in the dark about a major part of your life."
His jaw clenches, internal conflict plain on his face. "It's not something I'm proud of. Not something I talk about."
"Well, maybe you should start." I fold my arms across my chest, a physical barrier between us. "Because I'm falling in love with you, and I just realized I know almost nothing about your life before Crimson Hollow."
The L-word slips out before I can stop it, hanging in the air between us. Despite the tension, his expression softens momentarily.
"Sandra, I—"
The ringing of his phone cuts him off. He glances at the screen, face darkening again. "I have to take this."
"Of course you do," I mutter, turning back to the Mustang, frustration building. I busy myself with the engine, trying to give him privacy while still within earshot.
His conversation is terse, one-word responses and tightly controlled anger. When he finally hangs up, he looks years older, weight settled on his shoulders that wasn't there this morning.
"That was her, wasn't it?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
He nods, jaw tight. "She wants to meet. Tonight."
"Are you going to?"
"I have to." His tone leaves no room for argument. "It's the only way to end this."
"End what, exactly?" I press, needing something concrete to hold onto.
He's silent for so long I think he won't answer.
Finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping slightly.
"I used to do street racing in Vancouver.
But while in the circuit, I got involved with some people.
.. did some things I'm not proud of." He meets my eyes directly.
"Vanessa was part of that life. When I left, I cut all ties, started over. She wasn't happy about it."
It's still vague, but it's more than he's shared before. "And now she's here. Why?"
"Money, probably. Or leverage." His hands clench into fists at his sides. "It doesn't matter. I'll handle it."
"Let me come with you," I suggest, stepping closer. "Whatever it is, we can face it together."
He shakes his head firmly. "No. This is my mess, my past. I need to deal with it alone."
The distance between us suddenly feels like miles rather than feet. "So where does that leave us?"
"It doesn't change anything," he insists, reaching for me again. This time I let him pull me into his arms, though tension still thrums through me. "What I feel for you is real, Sandra. More real than anything I've felt in a long time."
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "Then don't shut me out. Whatever happened in Vancouver, whatever Vanessa wants, it doesn't change who you are now."
"You don't know that," he says softly, pain evident in his voice. "You don't know what I did."
"Then tell me." I pull back to look up at him. "Trust me with your past the way I've trusted you with mine."
Conflict wages across his face. "After tonight," he finally says. "After I deal with Vanessa, I'll tell you everything. I promise."
It's a compromise, not everything I want but better than nothing. "Okay," I agree. "Tonight. But I'm holding you to that promise."
He kisses me, a desperate edge to it that wasn't there this morning. Like he's afraid it might be the last time. The thought sends a wave of unease through me.
We try to return to work on the Mustang, but the easy camaraderie of the morning is gone, replaced by a strained silence punctuated by mechanical sounds and abbreviated instructions. By late afternoon, it's clear neither of us is focused enough to continue.
"Maybe we should call it a day," I suggest, setting down a wrench I've been holding for five minutes without using. "Pick this up tomorrow when we're both in a better headspace."
Diesel nods, looking relieved at the suggestion. "Let me drive you back to the lodge."
"I can walk," I say, not to be difficult but because I genuinely need some air, some space to think.
"It's starting to snow," he points out. "And it's getting dark early these days."
He's right, of course. Through the garage windows, I can see thick flakes beginning to fall, the sky already darkening though it's barely four o'clock.
"Fine," I concede. "But you don't have to babysit me all evening before your meeting. I'm a big girl. I can entertain myself for a few hours."
The ride to The Mountain Lodge is quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts. When he pulls up outside, he turns to me, expression serious.
"Sandra, whatever happens tonight... I need you to know that the past week has been the best of my life." He takes my hand, squeezing gently. "What I feel for you—it's real. Don't let Vanessa make you doubt that."
The intensity in his eyes steals my breath. "I believe you," I say, and I do, despite the unease still churning in my stomach. "Just... be careful tonight, okay? And come find me after, no matter how late."
He nods, pulling me in for a kiss that feels too much like goodbye for comfort. "I will."
I watch his truck disappear down the snowy street, a sense of foreboding settling over me. Whatever Vanessa wants, whatever secrets lurk in Diesel's past, I have a feeling our perfect bubble is about to burst in a spectacular way.
Inside my room, I pace, too restless to settle. I consider calling Sage for company but decide against it. This isn't something I can easily explain to someone else when I barely understand it myself.
Instead, I bundle up again and head out, letting my feet carry me toward Grandpa Joe's cabin. I haven't been there since Diesel and I visited, but suddenly I need the connection to my past, to family, to something solid and unchanging.
The snow is falling harder now, coating the world in white. The walk is longer than I remembered, especially in these conditions, but the physical exertion helps clear my head.
By the time I reach the cabin, twilight has fully given way to darkness, the woods around the property silent except for the soft shushing of snow among the pines. I find the hidden key, relieved when it turns easily in the lock despite the cold.
Inside, the cabin is chilly but not freezing, the faint smell of dust and memories greeting me as I flip on the lights.
I start a fire in the woodstove, grateful for the wood Diesel and I stacked on our last visit.
As warmth gradually fills the space, I wander from room to room, touching furniture, opening drawers, getting to know the place that could become my home.
In Grandpa's study, I find a photo album I missed on our first exploration.
Opening it, I'm greeted by images of a younger Grandpa Joe, his arm around a woman who must be my grandmother, who died before I was born.
Further in, there are photos of my father as a boy, then as a young man, then holding me as a baby.
The last section contains more recent photos—Grandpa with various people from Crimson Hollow, at community events, in front of his cabin. I'm struck by how happy he looks, how at peace. He found his place here, his community.
Could I do the same? The question has been lurking in the back of my mind since I arrived, growing more insistent with each passing day. Especially since Diesel entered my life.
A particular photo catches my eye—Grandpa Joe standing proudly beside a young man next to a motorcycle. I peer closer, recognition dawning. It's Diesel, looking younger, less guarded, but unmistakably him. They're both smiling, tools in hand, clearly having just completed some project together.
My heart squeezes. Here's tangible proof of the connection between two important men in my life, a connection neither of them has gotten to tell me about directly. Grandpa knew Diesel, worked with him, maybe even cared about him.
I carefully remove the photo from the album, turning it over. In Grandpa's spidery handwriting: "Me and D. Torres with the rebuilt Indian, summer 2020. Good kid with a rough past. Finding his way."
A rough past. Even Grandpa knew there was something in Diesel's history worth noting. But he also called him a "good kid." Grandpa Joe was an excellent judge of character, rarely wrong about people. If he saw good in Diesel despite whatever came before, that means something.
I pocket the photo, suddenly more determined than ever to hear Diesel's full story, to understand the man behind the gruff exterior who captured my heart in record time. Whatever Vanessa represents from his past, it's not the whole of who he is. I won't let it be.
The sudden ringing of my phone startles me. Unknown number. My heart jumps—maybe Diesel calling from someone else's phone?
"Hello?" I answer, hope coloring my voice.
"Is this Sandra Hemmings?" A woman's voice, unfamiliar.
"Yes, who's this?"
"My name's Ellie, from Crimson Valley Hospital. I'm calling about Diesel Torres. He doesn’t have an emergency contact but, but he asked us to call you.”
My blood runs cold. "What happened? Is he okay?"
"All I can say is that there's been an accident. Mr. Torres was brought in about thirty minutes ago."