Dear heart you screwed up

Chapter three

Two years had passed since the night Grace left for college since it was in another state, a lifetime in the currency of my obsession. I was fourteen now, and the world had grown sharper, more defined. My body was changing, stretching into a shape that felt less like a child’s and more like a tool, a vessel for the singular purpose that guided my every waking thought. Then, the impossible happened: Diego was back. He had returned to our small, suffocating town for a month long break from the grueling demands of the professional hockey circuit, a month that I had already mentally partitioned into a series of strategic engagements.

But the victory of his arrival was poisoned by an unforeseen obstacle. Grace had returned, too. She was on a week long break from college, ostensibly to collect materials for a research project, but it was clear to me that her true purpose was something entirely different. She was back to serve as the warden of my morality, a watchdog tasked with ensuring that no spark could jump the gap between Diego and I.

The house was no longer the sanctuary I had cultivated in her absence. Every interaction became a battlefield. If I walked into the kitchen when Diego was having his coffee, Grace would suddenly appear, her presence a loud, discordant noise that shattered the fragile equilibrium we shared. If I tried to sit on the porch while he was smoking, she would invent a reason to drag me inside, her hands gripping my arm with a desperate, patronizing force. She was everywhere, a constant, flickering shadow that worked tirelessly to stop every single interaction between Diego and I.

The tension was so thick it felt like I was breathing mercury. Diego, ever the professional, navigated this minefield with a stoicism that only deepened my reverence for him. He was polite to Grace, he was jovial with my father, Joe, but whenever his eyes found mine, there was a momentary flicker of recognition, a silent acknowledgment of the blockade that had been erected between us.

I watched him from the shadows, learning to interpret the subtle shift of his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw when Grace interrupted us. He was a man accustomed to dominance, to forcing his will upon a chaotic environment, yet here he was, constrained by the social niceties that Grace weaponized with such surgical precision. It infuriated me, this game of cat and mouse, but it also fueled the fire. I realized that Grace’s frantic attempts to keep us apart only confirmed what I already knew: she saw what I saw. She recognized the potential for a catastrophe that would consume our entire family, and she was terrified.

The week long break became a war of nerves. I grew adept at navigating the house, learning the creak of every floorboard and the timing of every ritual. I spent nights staring at the ceiling, plotting the moment I would finally be free of her supervision. I was fourteen, and I knew how to wait. I knew that Grace was a temporary complication, a fleeting glitch in a design that had been set in motion years ago.

There was a particular afternoon, heavy with the heat of late summer, where I caught Diego alone in the study. I had slipped away from the living room, successfully evading Grace’s frantic surveillance for the first time in days. He was standing by the window, his back to the door, the late afternoon sun illuminating the hard line of his profile. I didn't say anything, I just stood in the doorway, waiting for him to sense my presence. He didn't turn around immediately, but the air in the room grew heavy, the atmosphere thickening with the weight of everything we were forbidden to say.

"You should be outside, Amy," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that settled deep in my bones. "It’s too hot to be inside."

"I like the quiet," I replied, my voice steady.

He turned around then, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made the floor feel unstable beneath my feet. He saw everything, the frustration, the longing, the burgeoning, cold blooded resolve. He saw the woman I was becoming, the creature who would eventually demand that he choose.

"Grace is looking for you," he remarked, his tone devoid of judgment, yet threaded with a subtle warning.

"She won't find me here," I said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me. "And I don't care if she does."

The silence that followed was the longest, most exhilarating moment of my fourteen years. It was a declaration of war against the domestic peace my father had built, a silent agreement that the boundary between us was not a wall, but a threshold we would eventually cross together. I was fourteen, I was patient, and I was absolutely, terrifyingly ready for the month to unfold.

The next day, the tension that had been simmering finally boiled over into a full scale confrontation. It was a humid morning, and the house felt tighter than usual as the breakfast table became the primary battlefield for Grace’s relentless campaign of separation.

Diego was sitting at the head of the table, his presence as imposing as always, while Joe chatted aimlessly about local politics. I sat to Diego's right, my focus entirely on the way he gripped his coffee mug, when Grace suddenly slid into the chair directly between us. It was a calculated move, a physical barrier intended to disrupt the invisible thread that connected us. She immediately began firing questions at me about my studies, her tone sharp and performative, designed solely to force me into a conversation that would render me deaf to whatever Diego might say.

I watched her, my eyes narrowing, feeling the cold, familiar rise of a rage that I was becoming expert at concealing. Diego, however, did not miss the maneuver. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting from Grace to me, a faint, unreadable smirk touching his lips, la signal that he knew exactly what she was doing.

"Grace," Joe laughed, "let the girl eat in peace. She's not on a deadline like you are."

"I'm just being a good sister, Dad," Grace retorted, not breaking eye contact with me. "I want to make sure Amy is staying focused on her own life instead of... wandering."

I stood up abruptly, the sound of my chair scraping against the floor cutting through the room like a gunshot. The breakfast conversation ceased instantly. I didn't address Grace; I didn't acknowledge her existence. I looked straight at Diego.

"The library is quiet today," I said, my voice steady, challenging him to look past her, to acknowledge the invitation I was extending.

Grace’s hand shot out to grab my wrist, her grip firm and desperate. "You're not going anywhere near the library today, Amy. We have things to do for my project."

I stared down at her hand, then looked back up at Diego. He stood up, his tall frame dwarfing the room, and the air shifted, turning thin and sharp. He didn't look at Grace. He looked at me, his gaze heavy with a dark, terrifying intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

"Let her go, Grace," Diego said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that commanded total obedience.

Grace hesitated, her eyes darting to Diego in shock. The man who was her father’s best friend, the man who was supposed to be a neutral, elder fixture in our lives, had just issued an order that rendered her attempts at control completely futile. Her hand dropped from my wrist, her face pale as she realized the dynamic had irrevocably shifted.

I didn't wait for her to recover. I turned and walked out of the dining room, leaving the silence to hang heavy behind me. I knew Diego was following, and I knew that for the first time, Grace was powerless to stop us. I had spent years waiting for him to pick a side, and in that breakfast room, he had finally made his choice. I was fourteen, and the siege was over; the real work was just beginning.