CHAPTER ONE DIEGO #3
The next moment, we’re pulling up in the driveway, and my chest tightens.
My mom and sisters are the only people tying me to Blue Ridge and, even though they’re all extremely supportive of me and my career, the sense of guilt consuming me in this very instant is unnerving.
While Gaby turns the engine off, I try not to think about the way I left them behind to pursue my dreams.
Then, she unbuckles herself and turns to me, a grave expression taking over her features. She looks so much like Mom – dark hair that reaches her shoulders and equally dark eyes, a round face but beautiful nonetheless.
“What’s the matter with you?”
I shrug, keeping my gaze on the red front door. “Can’t I just come and visit my fam?”
Yep. I haven’t told Gaby nor my mom why I’m back.
“For three months?” she asks, in disbelief. “When you come back it’s for, like, two days. Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanksgiving is in two weeks, so . . . What did you do, D?”
Pulling out a long sigh, I shake my head. I don’t want to tell them the truth because they’re going to be disappointed. So, I stay silent – for now.
“I just missed you.” I reach over, applying pressure on top of her head with my knuckles, messing up her hair. She huffs, fixing her locks.
“You’re full of shit,” Gaby mumbles, before opening the door.
“Let’s just get inside and sit down. I don’t want to repeat myself, so I’ll tell you and Mom all at once.”
My sister can be sweet when she wants to be, so she offers to carry my suitcase inside.
Of course, she knows about the injury. Of course, she knows I’m not remotely close to being okay.
Gaby is my whole world, I tell her everything – well, almost. With only two years between us, we’ve always been close.
The moment I step foot in the foyer, Valentina launches herself at me, knocking the air from my lungs. I chuckle, enveloping her in a tight, warm hug.
I grin against my youngest sister’s hair. “Hey, Val.”
The force of her embrace tells me everything she doesn’t say out loud – I miss you. Why don’t you come home anymore? Please don’t leave so soon. I press a kiss to the top of her head, knowing my affection means the world to her.
“You don’t look so good,” she says, when we pull away, a frown to her brows when she studies me, even though I’m grinning down at her.
“Jeez,” I breathe. “You’re as sweet as ever.”
She gives me a once-over and turns on her heel. “Mom is in the kitchen.”
Flabbergasted, I look over to Gaby as she pulls her coat off. “When did she start having this much attitude?”
“Since she turned sixteen.”
Valentina has grown so much since the last time I saw her.
She’s always been the quiet one between us three, but it seems her personality is coming out little by little.
Though she has never openly spoken about it, I think she’s still having a hard time coping with the loss of our dad.
He passed away when she was only nine, but they were really close and had a unique relationship.
She likes to find solace in books and journaling, but I love seeing her bloom like a flower.
Dad would be beyond proud of her.
He’d be so fucking proud of Gaby too. She’s just graduated from college and landed a job in marketing that she’ll start in the spring.
But he’d shake his head at me. He’d ask me why I keep on being reckless. Why I try to impress the people around me when there’s no need.
My feet drag me into the kitchen where delicious aromas whiff in the air – onions, garlic, herbs I can’t name for shit.
The scent of dried chiles and toasted cumin rises like a memory, stirring my appetite and something deeply nostalgic.
The cocktail of spices takes me back to afternoons in my abuela’s kitchen in Mexico, where I’d steal spoonfuls straight from the simmering pots, too impatient and hungry to wait.
I love that Mom still cooks like she never left Puerto Vallarta – her devotion to keep every single flavor alive is something I quietly admire.
My parents moved here to Blue Ridge Springs for Dad’s job when I was barely a year old, so I don’t recall living and growing up elsewhere.
But still, they’ve held on to where we came from, to who we are.
And I don’t say it often . . . but damn, am I grateful for Mom’s cooking, and for everything else that our roots carry.
Fuuuck, yes. I almost fall to my knees when I realize Mom is making her famous tacos al pastor. She notices me after putting the lid back on the pot in which the meat is slowly cooking. Her entire face lights up, and, fuck, if that doesn’t crush my heart a little bit more.
“All of that for me? You didn’t have to, Mamá.”
She rolls her eyes in amusement before wrapping her slender arms around my waist. I close my eyes, marveling at the feeling of being home.
When we part, she cradles my cheeks. “Let me look at you,” she whispers. I can’t help but smile down, studying the lines of fatigue on her face, the greying hair by her temples. Her eyes are full of joy, though, and that makes me happy. “Guapo.”
“He looks so much like Dad,” Gaby comments softly from the island, where she has taken a seat on a stool.
I swear to God, if my sisters try to make me cry today, I’m going to pull a prank just to piss them off.
Mom’s eyes are brimming with emotion when she releases me. “Go sit next to Gaby and tell us what happened and why you’re here.”
The stern tone she uses makes me obey in a heartbeat. All these years in Blue Ridge have softened her accent to a whisper, but sometimes, in the hush between syllables, it returns like a warm memory. Whenever she’s upset or angry are usually the times she sounds as if she never left her hometown.
Valentina reaches into the pantry to retrieve a bag of Takis, only to have it swiped away by Mom. “We’re eating soon.”
“But I’m hungry!” Valentina whines, before seating herself on my other side, her bottom lip jutting out in the most dramatic way.
While they bicker, I look around. The fridge’s door is littered with pictures from not only our childhood but also recent shots.
I spot an article from my latest tournament, where I won the silver medal, drawings from Valentina from when she was younger, and postcards from the cities Gaby has visited.
When I spin on my stool, I notice the door leading to the hallway is open, and my eyes land on a family portrait that makes my heart squeeze.
Valentina is only three years old in that picture and she’s propped up on Dad’s shoulders.
Gaby is smiling widely, holding a cup of hot chocolate in a gloved hand, foam sticking to her upper lip.
Mom has her arm looped through Dad’s, her other hand gripping my shoulder.
My grin is broad, my cheeks flushed, my hair sticking to my forehead, and my snowboard is tucked to my side.
This was taken on my twelfth birthday during the town’s amateur snowboarding competition. I had achieved third place – it’s my happiest memory. It was right then that I knew I wanted to go pro, and that nothing would ever make me feel the way snowboarding does.
“Diego.” Mom snaps her fingers, and when I turn to her, she has her hands on her hips. “?Qué onda?”
I let out a long breath, then rattle off everything that happened – from the doctor’s opinion to Coach’s plan to keep me at Blue Ridge for the next three months.
Mom nods in understanding, Gaby watches me with that pitying look that I can’t stand, and Val doesn’t say anything. But when they all tell me that everything will be okay, that I’ll be able to bounce back easily, I have to dig deeply inside me to find that sliver of hope they possess.
And I don’t find it. Not even a minuscule piece. Not even a crackling ember.
Because nothing can convince me that I’m going to be okay.
Nothing can convince me this is the way to salvage myself.