Work Text:
Marisol left the Villa in near tears, everything she worked for and everyone she’d grown to care about gone in a single terrible instant, and it hadn’t even been her fault that time. She hadn’t been unwilling to commit or said something stupid, she hadn’t gotten distant or broken it off because she got nervous. She had been on her best behaviour, been the best partner she could be just to prevent something awful from happening.
But it still did. It still happened and it still ripped her heart from her chest and stomped on it mercilessly, crushing the mass of muscle and tissue into a pulp on the Villa’s lawn. She tried not to break down, to lose herself when cameras were trained on her, but the second she was free, she snapped and sobbed and drenched her sleeves in tears and snot while Bobby tried to calm her down.
They were sitting in her hotel room, drinking all the alcohol in the minibar and mourning their failures in the Villa. Mourning Bobby’s inability to find a relationship that wasn’t platonic and mourning Marisol’s failed, shattered, disastrous relationship. A relationship she actually thought would work out, thought had a bright future, thought was one of the best things that had ever happened to her. But she also thought it would all turn out to be a crazy, unbelievable dream that’d disappear as she woke up alone in her flat like any other day.
Only it wasn’t just a happy-go-lucky dream, it was a nightmare, a horror movie that took forever to get to the action, a slowly building fire that hit something important and sparked it to life, blowing up an entire complex in one go. It was her worst nightmare come to life, and just as horrifying as she always imagined.
Dahlia had cheated on her.
Dahlia had cheated on her with Elisa. She kissed her on the roof terrace and almost broke down when she told Marisol that night. Her voice cracked and her eyes sparkled with tears as Marisol stared blankly, not a single coherent thought in her head as everything fell apart in her hands, everything that was so close to being perfect.
Then the anger came, the frustration. It wasn’t even Marisol’s fault this time, there was nothing she did wrong, so how could it just collapse like this? That wasn’t fair, she’d done everything right, she didn’t do anything major so horribly wrong that Dahlia needed to escape. Which left the only answer: she just was wrong. She was wrong for Dahlia, she was wrong for Graham, she was wrong for Rocco. Even if the latter two took her some time to figure out why she’d run from them so quickly, she soon understood that she was wrong for all of them. She was wrong, in general.
She wasn’t Elisa, with her followers and confidence. She didn’t like stupid jokes, she didn’t like boats, she didn’t like travelling, she didn’t like cranes, she didn’t like golf, she didn’t like anything they did. And she didn’t pretend she did, she didn’t care to humour them, she didn’t want to waste her time on pointless conversations and discussions.
And so, they drank. And drank and drank until Bobby was delirious and Marisol’s heart was too numb to hurt for a little while, and then they drank some more. Marisol thought her skull was going to split in half the next day, but she didn’t care. She had to get through the plane home before she could waste more time caring.
---
Ten years later, and Marisol gets an invite she really wants to decline. Not necessarily because she doesn’t want to go - although, she doesn’t - but because she’s got work to do and Saturdays are date night and she doesn’t like travelling and she’s supposed to take her nephew to see a movie he’s been excited about for months that Sunday and - okay, she just doesn’t want to go.
It’s not like she even kept in touch with everybody. At most, she’ll chat with Bobby when he reaches out, or catch up with Priya if she’s in Manchester, maybe FaceTime with Chelsea when the blonde’s on one of her kicks to chat with someone random.
She was too caught up in school and work to bother with most of them after the finale, and the rest she wasn’t exactly on good terms with. She’d gotten in fights with most of the girls, dumped Graham, moved on from Rocco maybe too quickly, never even clicked with Gary or Ibrahim, and Dahlia… Dahlia had cheated on her.
So not the best terms, no. And Marisol isn’t very eager to reopen old wounds just to see people that are all happier and better off than her. Hope’s absolutely loaded, Lottie’s an actual celebrity, Gary somehow has a bunch of kids, and Dahlia? Dahlia’s actually not done much, stayed at the foundation and hasn’t managed to hold onto a relationship, but she never wanted to do much in the first place, so maybe that does count as wildly successful.
Marisol drops her phone to the counter, the email still open on the screen and frowns at the device, her foot tapping against the kitchen tile. She huffs, turns away from the counter, and yanks open the fridge, scavenging for something to eat; it’s why she came in the kitchen in the first place.
“Everything all right?” James’ voice calls into the kitchen, his head peeking around the corner with furrowed eyebrows.
Marisol turns, meeting his bright blue eyes, “Yep,” she forces a smile. “Everything’s fine.”
He forces a smile back, she can tell he either doesn’t believe her or isn’t that interested, “Alright, then,” and turns, disappearing further into the flat.
Marisol sighs, her eyes falling shut as she pulls in a steadying breath. She grabs yoghurt out of the fridge, turns and drops it on the counter and pulls out a spoon from the silverware drawer. She slides into a kitchen stool, pulling her phone closer and staring at the invitation again.
She really doesn’t want to go.
---
She went. She’s here. At the reunion. With the other ex-Islanders. And their families. In London.
She’s here in the closest replica she could find to the outfit she wore at her second to last recoupling, the one where she picked - actually, that doesn’t matter. It’s just one of her favourites, a sharp suit with nothing underneath the blazer.
She steps inside all on her lonesome, feeling out of place as the other early guests chat and drink and mingle. She fidgets with her outfit, fixes her hair neurotically, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She starts reaching for her phone to give her something to do just as she’s accosted, arms slipping around her neck from the side.
Chelsea chatters excitedly in her ear, hugging her tightly before pulling her further into the venue before Marisol can even get a word in, her grip on Marisol’s arm like a bear trap, biting and tearing her skin apart as her nerves simultaneously destroy her organs. Chelsea drags her over to Lottie, Hannah, and Priya mingling together near the bar before striding over to it, Hannah’s arm looped through Lottie’s as she beams goofily at something the goth said.
“Hey, babes!” Priya chirps, wrapping her arms around Marisol and squeezing tight, air-kissing her cheeks as she pulls away with a wide grin. “Ohmigod, I missed you! It’s been too long since you came up to Manchester!”
“Yeah, definitely,” Marisol smiles back, whiplash shaking her as she finally finds her voice, her hands gripping Priya’s forearms as she meets her eyes.
“So… you’ve been up to some stuff, huh?” Lottie’s voice draws their eyes, a warm smile on her lips as she glances to the ring on Marisol’s finger.
She raises her hand with a blush, an extravagant engagement ring sitting below her knuckle, “Oh, uh, yeah.”
Chelsea returns and passes Marisol a drink, still bouncing on her toes as she glances around the group excitedly. “Is he your prince charming?” Hannah chimes, smiling wide as Lottie chuckles beside her.
Marisol laughs, “I guess so. Don’t really believe in that, though,” she shrugs.
“Tell us about him, babes, you’ve barely told me anything,” Priya encourages, nudging Marisol’s shoulder with her own.
She laughs again, “Alright, okay. His name is James and he’s in law, too. He’s really nice and all that, and I kind of hated him at first but, y’know, here we are,” she forces an amused smile. She really did hate him back then.
“Is he coming tonight?” Hannah leans forward, eager to learn. That first day in the Villa may have been ten years ago, with countless triumphs and failures scattered throughout the decade, but Hannah’s somehow gotten right back to her wide-eyed, excitable self. It’s kind of nice, Marisol decides, that she was able to find herself again.
She smiles gently at the excited redhead, “He didn’t come. He’s still in Portsmouth.”
“Aw, boo,” Lottie jeers. “Should’ve dragged him along,” she sips her drink.
Marisol’s dark hair shifts, glinting in the light with a halo reflecting off her as she shakes her head, “He had some work to do this weekend and he hates putting it off.”
Lottie’s features shift in sympathy, “Don’t tell me you just found a male you, Marisol.”
She laughs again, already feeling like she’s laughed more since she got here than in months, maybe years. She just works too much, but she loves it, she rationalises. “Okay, we’re a little similar, but it’s not that bad.”
Lottie doesn’t appear convinced, but she doesn’t get the chance to comment further, “What did I miss?” Shannon steps up to the group with a smile, a drink already in her hand.
“Marisol was just telling us about her fiancé,” Lottie winks to the woman in question, urging her to spill.
“Not that much to say, honestly, we’re pretty basic,” she shrugs her shoulders and sips her drink.
“I’m sure Marisol’s life is plenty eventful,” Hannah grins at her, Lottie pulling her arm from Hannah’s to wrap it around her waist. Hannah beams at her, leaning into her side happily, now 31 but as bright-eyed and content as 21 year old Hannah. Marisol really likes seeing her like that; Lottie’s good for her.
Shannon clears her throat, “Well, if anyone ever wants a vacation, I’m still playing and can hook you guys up with a break,” she looks around the group, earnestly meeting everyone’s eyes.
“I might have to take you up on that offer,” Priya sighs, Marisol placing a hand on her arm in concern. She smiles, “Kids are just… so exhausting,” her eyes are wide as she shakes her head in faux exasperation.
Chelsea bounces on her toes excitedly, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, how is the little guy?!” She looks like she might explode from cuteness that isn’t even in front of her.
Priya pats her shoulder to try and calm her, “Ri’s doing well. Not much going on outside of daycare. Benny’s been home with him since last night so I could come, and I really hope they haven’t burnt the house down by now.”
Laughter ripples through the group, but Chelsea seems oblivious to it, “Do you have pictures?!” she claps her hands eagerly.
Priya laughs and pulls out her phone, “Of course!” She pulls up her camera roll, Chelsea leaning over her shoulder to watch her flick through pictures, squealing every few seconds.
“So the engagement’s new, right?” Shannon addresses Marisol as she takes a drink.
Marisol hurries to swallow, “Oh, yeah! Uh, two? No, three months ago he asked,” she nods.
“What’s the ring look like?” Shannon prompts. Marisol obliges, lifting her hand to show her the massive diamond that she thinks cost too much. Shannon nods approvingly, “Nice. Expensive. He must make bank,” she smirks, popping her eyebrows.
Marisol laughs once again, a sound that feels oddly unfamiliar nowadays, “Lawyer, remember?”
Shannon whoops, “Smart woman.” Marisol chuckles, sipping her drink as a shout rips her eardrums.
“Hope!” Priya shouts, tearing the group from their smaller clusters as she embraces the woman, a well dressed man beside her as she laughs in Priya’s ear, the others looking on curiously.
Hannah stiffens next to Lottie, glancing between the two nervously, “Um, don’t you guys, uh, hate each other?” she asks cautiously.
Priya laughs, Hope chuckling lightly with her, “Not anymore!” Priya grins when her breath is caught, “We’re both bad bitches, and bad bitches gotta stick together!” she throws her arm over Hope’s shoulders to emphasise their newfound camaraderie.
She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t pull away, “She’s just a gold digger.”
“Does this mean you’re finally on board with being my sugar mama? I swear it’s worth your while,” Priya winks, bumping her hip into Hope’s. “I won’t even say anything about Isaiah,” she winks at Hope’s husband, too, who appears to be properly confused.
Hope shakes her head at Priya with an amused smile on her lips, exhaling through her nose. She glances over to her husband, slipping her hand into his larger one until he relaxes at her side.
“Hey, if Hope won’t treat you right, I’ll happily volunteer,” Shannon joins, smiling at the antics.
Priya removes her arm from Hope’s shoulder quickly, skipping across the gathered circle to loop her arm in Shannon’s, “I’ll take it!” Shannon laughs, throwing her head back as the women dissolve into tipsy giggles, Isaiah stilled at Hope’s side.
Another shout disrupts the group, “Dahlia!” Chelsea shrieks like a banshee, already sprinting for the woman in question, tackling her in the tightest hug she can. Dahlia hugs her back eagerly, lifting Chelsea off the ground with a laugh and swings the blonde around lightly, Chelsea giggling into her shoulder as she does. She sets her down, Chelsea immediately dragging her over to the gathered crowd by the bar, ignoring the trepidation sparking in Dahlia as she gently resists.
Marisol watches the entire interaction, dread settling in her stomach, swirling and mashing her insides as panic explodes in Dahlia’s eyes as she draws nearer and nearer. Chelsea tugs her to a stop beside Priya, the older woman immediately wrapping her in another hug.
She moves through the group, sharing greetings with Hannah, Lottie, Shannon, Hope, even Isaiah, before skipping over Marisol with a nervous glance. She lands beside Chelsea again and accepts a drink from her, sipping it as the group restarts. Marisol can tell that the conversation’s continued, but she doesn’t hear any of the words, all she can hear is her heartbeat pounding against her eardrums like fists on the bars of a jail cell. She can see their lips moving whenever she glances at them, can see them laughing and smiling, even Isaiah chuckling along to a few jokes.
But Marisol doesn’t know what they’re laughing and smiling at, doesn’t understand what could be funny right now, with Dahlia right there. Dahlia right there smiling along, draining her drink, answering questions that Lottie the Interrogator proposes. Dahlia right there, the lights playing off her hair and her green eyes crinkling as Chelsea says something to her. Dahlia right there, with the group’s recent addition of Lucas’s arm slung around her shoulders affectionately.
Ugh, Marisol feels gross, like black sludge is filling her veins and lungs, weighing her down as she turns in a daze, walking across the venue to the washroom. They’re at the start of a long hallway, but Marisol doesn’t step into the women’s room. She keeps walking down the hallway until there’s a bend, and she follows it, turning the corner and hitting an exit door, red letters indicating as such.
She throws it open and retreats into the cool night, walking a few steps away and slumps against the brick wall as her head falls back to meet it. Dahlia had cheated and broken her heart, yet Marisol can tell that she still holds a few of the shards. Which is exactly why Marisol shouldn’t have come. This was stupid, this was a mistake. She could have stayed home and just made dinner with James and watched a movie, why did she have to come? Why couldn’t she do something simple and basic, like she has for a decade now? Why did she have to submit herself to this?
She huffs, drags a hand through her hazelnut locks, and stands straight, intent on removing the sludge from her system. She turns to the door and tugs on the handle, but it doesn’t budge, and she feels frustrated tears building behind her eyes as she collapses against the wall again, sinking to the ground this time. She stares into the dark night, a few street lights lighting up the alley she’s found herself in. She’s angry and frustrated with every decision she’s ever made, every step she’s ever taken, every bit of progress she’s ever accomplished.
She spins her ridiculously sized engagement ring on her finger, fidgeting and slipping it on and off as she maps out an escape from this house of horrors. She should just call a cab and go back to her hotel, pack her bag and find a train to Portsmouth; she can sleep at the station if she needs to.
‘You doing okay out here?’ shatters her bubble, freezes her in place, short circuits her nervous system as that familiar voice she somehow hasn’t forgotten in a decade rings in her ears, an alarm telling her to run as far and as fast as she can.
“Y - Yeah,” she stammers. “I’m okay,” she dips her head, circles her outrageous ring on her finger, and stares at the pavement beneath her as footsteps draw near.
Dahlia stops beside her along the wall, eyes focused on the part of the street they can see from their position as she faces forward, “You sure? You kinda, um, bolted. But er - you know what?” she steps away from Marisol, backing away carefully, “I’m gonna leave you alone.”
Marisol finally glances at her, finding Dahlia retreating back to the reunion that she’s now locked out of, “Why?” she utters without realising, somehow hurt by the instantaneous change in Dahlia.
She seems taken aback by the question, “Um, It’s really not my place…” she backs away further, fingers tapping her hand held in front of her chest.
“Why not?” Marisol pursues, intent on hearing her say it, hearing her say it’s her fault, not Marisol’s. Maybe if she says what she did again, Marisol can finally forget it, let Dahlia keep those shards and move on. Yeah, that’ll fix things, won’t it?
Dahlia halts in her tracks, “I -” she glances to the ground beneath her heels, “Well, I cheated and we broke up and it’s not my place to be in my ex’s business, so…” she states matter-of-factly, that bluntness that got her in so much trouble in the Villa shining through.
Marisol doesn’t feel better hearing her say it, she doesn’t feel like she got closure, she doesn’t feel content and pleased, it just feels like those shards are bigger than she thought, more than a few scraps, closer to a heavy chunk than tiny crumbs, a gaping whole in her chest. All right, new plan. “We don’t have to be exes, right? Can’t we be friends or something?” Marisol proposes. Nothing else has worked, time to take a risk, she internally reasons.
Hopeful green eyes land on Marisol’s, “Can we? Do you want to be? Can we?” she takes a step forward, eyes boring into Marisol’s as they unconsciously plead for the affirmative.
“Yeah,” Marisol shrugs and shifts her weight, “Why not? We’ve both grown and it’s been a long time. Might as well bury the hatchet.”
Dahlia nods ferociously, “Yeah. Yeah,” she forces her excitement down, “Might as well.” She sinks to the pavement beside Marisol, knees bent as she sits on her heels, hands still clasped together.
“So… what have you been up to?” Marisol asks awkwardly, spinning her ring incessantly.
Dahlia laughs, the tension in her shoulders disappearing as Marisol’s heart lightens at the melody, “Not much, honestly. I think I’m kind of on a date with Lucas, but he met up with Henrik earlier and I had to come alone,” she frowns, her lips twisting.
Marisol’s head falls back to the brick behind her, “Sounds like they’re on a date instead.”
“...Yeah.”
Marisol glances over to her, finding her features fraught and elects to correct that, “What about your job? Are you still at the foundation?”
She beams, “Yep! You’re looking at the Director of Finance!” she announces proudly, and Marisol can’t help but smile.
“I thought you hated maths.”
“I do. But I don’t hate being the boss,” she winks with a grin.
Marisol laughs, “Fair enough. So you’re still in Sheffield, then?”
Dahlia nods again, “Yeah. Hard to leave, y’know? And I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”
“Would you? If you had somewhere to go, I mean.”
Her brow furrows as she considers, “I’d need a good reason.”
“What counts as a good reason?” Marisol presses.
“A good person.”
Marisol’s suddenly aware of just how close they’ve gotten in such a short time, just how little space is between them as Dahlia leans against the wall, meeting Marisol’s coffee eyes with her own sparkling emeralds. Marisol’s breath hitches as the distance seems to be getting smaller and smaller, those emeralds getting closer and closer. And Marisol knows she should pull back, knows those precious gems need to be as far from her as possible, but she just can’t.
Their lips brush, tender and sweet, a shiver running through Marisol at the contact. Marisol’s hand rises to cup her cheek, and she can feel her diamond ring on her finger, brushing the skin beneath her hand, but she doesn’t care about it, not in this moment.
Dahlia pulls away quickly, eyes flicking open as she immediately begins freaking out, “Oh god, I’m doing it again, oh god, oh god,” she groans, her face buried in her hands as she pulls away, stumbling to her feet to put as much cold space as possible between herself and Marisol.
Speaking of, Marisol’s absolutely panicking, eyes bugged out of her head as she reaches for Dahlia, struggling to her feet as well, “What? What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Her hand lands on Dahlia’s shoulder, but the other woman pulls away even farther, retreating towards the shadows of the alley.
“I can’t -” her breathing’s turned shallow as she rubs her temples, turning away and slowly sinking back to her knees, “I can’t - keep doing this. I - I did it in the Villa and I’m doing it now and it’s not fair and it always hurts and I’m supposed to be with him but he’s not even with me and it’s you but this is so messy and oh god, it’s happening again and it’s going to mess everything up again but - but this is different, right? But oh god, it’s not, it’s so not, it’s all the same again and I can’t do this and I’m so sorry,” her words trail off as she sucks in her first breath since she started rambling.
“Hey. Dahls,” Marisol urges softly, working to pull Dahlia’s gaze on her as she draws nearer, “Calm down, okay? Calm down.”
Dahlia shakes her head, “No. No, I can’t, I keep doing this, I’m always ruining things and I hate it and you hate me and I’m so sorry, and oh god,” she rasps a heavy breath, her back quivering with it.
“I don’t hate you,” Marisol finally reaches her and squeezes her shoulder, “I’ve never hated you. I don’t think I ever could,” Marisol murmurs, settling back beside a panicked Dahlia as calmly as she can, her own anxiety still skyrocketing.
Her eyes find Marisol’s coffee ones, earnest with a war within them, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that I - you’re engaged. I’m so sorry, that was so stupid and you -”
Marisol cuts her off with a wave of her hand, “I did it as much as you,” she reasons, Dahlia quieting at her words.
Her eyes drop to the ground, piercing into the dark pavement, the smallest amount of street lights reaching them, “Why’d you do it? I - I know I have a history of kissing people I shouldn’t, but… But you’re engaged,” she emphasises the word every time, like she still can’t believe it to be true.
Marisol glances to the silver on her ring finger, glinting in the low light, the egregious stone that James thought would impress her sparkling, somehow reminiscent of the emeralds beside her. “I don’t know. I just… it felt right, I guess. It made sense.”
Dahlia’s quiet for a long time, her index finger circling a point on her thigh as she thinks. “Does it feel right… right now?” she finally asks.
Now Marisol pauses, considering the question, considering her answer, considering the fallout, considering the buildup, considering anything and everything. “Yes.”
Dahlia nods slowly, her mind audibly whirring, “Does James feel right?”
Marisol sighs, her head dipping low and settling in her hands, face in her palms. Gentle fingers scratch along her scalp and tucks loose locks of hair behind her ears without prompting or hesitation. And that’s why it feels right. Because Dahlia never has to force herself to be kind and affectionate and patient, she just is, even if she gets caught up in her emotions, too. She doesn’t fight with Marisol for hours and hours until one of them gives up and leaves. She doesn’t set ultimatums and strict boundaries. She doesn’t tell white lies to avoid making things worse, she just accepts the consequences. She doesn’t get frustrated when Marisol drags up the past, because odds are she never forgot it in the first place.
She let Marisol be Marisol, let her take her time, let Marisol hurt her sometimes, a cut on her hand as opposed to breaking every bone in Marisol’s. She’s honest to a fault, she’s obnoxiously self-aware and apologetic, she even sometimes gave Marisol too much space. But Marisol likes all those things about her. She likes that she didn’t have to guess or sacrifice her freedoms. She just likes Dahlia, good and bad.
Unfortunately, she can’t say the same for James. She hates how much he forces himself to hold her hand or grits his teeth when searching for something to compliment her on, even if she knows he’s trying. She hates how argumentative he is, even if she knows how hypocritical she’s being. She hates how structured everything is with him, how it has to follow his specific schedule, even if she knows it’s hard for him to budge. She hates how red his face gets when she brings up a past fight, even if she knows it’s not in his nature to keep track of every squabble.
She doesn’t hate him, not by a long shot. She loves him, she really does, she just hates some things about him. She can’t bring herself to like everything about him, the good and the bad. She can’t bring herself to love his faults, not the same way she adored Dahlia’s without any effort.
“Sometimes,” she answers truthfully, the word stinging her mouth as it spills off her tongue.
Dahlia nods slowly, hand retracting and going back to tracing an invisible point on her thigh as Marisol lifts her head, “Um, good luck on the wedding?” she says, unsure of the words as they exit her throat.
And Marisol just gapes at her, gapes at the pained and embarrassed features on her face, watches her brows draw together tighter and tighter, “That’s it? I just, like, said that and you don’t care?!” There’s that anger again, that bubbling, boiling, simmering anger that made Marisol’s throat hurt and tears press against the back of her eyes on the terrace. That anger that was so strong it hurt and festered as she stalked off the roof terrace to hide from her nightmare under the covers. That anger that tore her into pieces until she was a hollow shell of herself, an empty husk letting the world pass her by.
But she won’t let it happen again, she won’t fall apart for years, she won’t chase someone that doesn’t want to be chased, she won’t sacrifice predictable stability for a decade old, few weeks long relationship. She won’t do something stupid and insane and ridiculous. She struggles to her feet, intent on leaving Dahlia behind again, but she can’t help herself from exploding, “Do you not care that I basically said I give more of a shit about you than my fiancé?!”
Now Dahlia’s gaping, staring at Marisol in disbelief, eyes wide and jaw hanging wide open, but she doesn’t form any words, Marisol’s hurt and frustration only growing at her silence. She knows she should just turn and run for her hotel, but she can’t, she can’t ever stop herself when it comes to Dahlia, “Did you ever care?! Did you ever regret it? Did you ever wonder what things would be like if you hadn’t kissed her?! Because I do. I have for ten fucking years, Dahlia,” she hisses, “But if you’ve never, then I’m just going to go.”
She starts to turn away, but before she gets the chance, Dahlia’s hands grab the front of Marisol’s blazer, fisting in the material and jerking her down, crashing their lips together in an explosion of lights and colours, Marisol falling into her with ease.
Dahlia breaks it after an electric moment, Marisol’s body humming with it, “Don’t go,” she sounds so desperate, so scared, so much like she did when she confessed and so much like Marisol felt walking away from the Villa, walking away from her.
“Okay,” Marisol whispers against her lips, two syllables but a thousand promises held within them, a thousand promises for 24 year old Marisol, a thousand promises she shouldn’t be making for her 34 year old self.
Dahlia nods, Marisol scooting closer and letting Dahlia’s head fall to her shoulder, an arm snaking around her back. After a long moment, Dahlia sniffles, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, I just didn’t think you meant it like that and - and -” she hiccups and sniffles some more, “I never should have - I just got caught up in it all then and she was being so nice, and just - I’m so sorry,” she repeats, head dipping down and fingers fidgeting her lap.
Marisol’s hand reaches out, gently grasping her twitching fingers to still them, “Do you regret it?” It’s the one question she’s never stopped asking, and the one she most desperately needs an answer for.
“More than anything,” Dahlia answers without hesitation, eyes looking up to pour into Marisol’s coffee abysses.
“Then we’re on the same page,” Marisol smiles softly, the pad of her thumb gently brushing Dahlia’s knuckles encouragingly, comfortingly.
They sit there, frozen as the reunion carries on inside, the faint sounds of it floating to them as they sit together, tucked away from the action. At some point Dahlia’s arm wraps around her waist and Marisol falls into her. At some point Marisol starts telling Dahlia everything she’s been up to recently. At some point Dahlia’s fingers slip into Marisol’s hair, gently slipping through the tresses. At some point Dahlia laughs at something Marisol said. At some point Marisol laughs at something Dahlia said.
But the entire time, it feels right. It feels like they didn’t lose ten whole years, like nothing ever occurred and they’re still in the Villa, awaiting a text or a challenge or the explosion of some petty drama, hidden away on a daybed. It feels like Marisol’s woken up in Majorca again, curled up beside Dahlia, listening to her soft breathing. It feels like she hasn’t been chasing happiness for an entire decade, an entire decade where she almost found it, she really did. But it’s just not the same in some sick, twisted, horrifying and heartbreaking way.
Years with James have never felt as natural as those few weeks with Dahlia, and Marisol’s always hated that. She’s always hated how fixated she was on Dahlia, how long it took her to get over her when she’d never cared that much before. She’s always hated how weird everything felt when she started dating again, how nothing went as smooth in real life as it did in the disastrous Villa. She’s hated how much she romanticised Dahlia and the idea of her, making her ethereal and perfect in her mind, even if she always embraced her flaws. She’s hated the tilted perception she’s had since the words ‘kissed,’ ‘Elisa,’ and ‘I’ were strung into a sentence from Dahlia’s mouth.
And, most of all, she’s hated how she never got to find out what could have been, where they could have ended up, how things would be different with her. She’s never guessed with James, it’s always been black and white, laid out in front of her with him. They’ll date a while, he’ll propose, she’ll plan the wedding, she won’t want kids and maybe he’ll convince her because he wants a cheesy nuclear family to fill a big house and a backyard with a picket fence with.
But Dahlia’s a wild card, always has been. Who knows when they’d say the ‘l’ word, who knows when they’d move in together, who knows when she’d propose, if at all, who knows what a wedding would look like, who knows what kind of family they’d create, who knows where they’d live, who knows what would happen? It’s a mystery of what could have been, thousands of possibilities that Marisol would have a real say in, not just be pulled along for the ride.
A buzz rings from Dahlia’s bag and she pulls it into her lap, rummaging around for her phone. She yanks it out and scans her screen quickly, Marisol glancing over her shoulder to read it, ‘Did you ever find her?’ printed on the screen, Chelsea’s name above it.
“We should go,” Dahlia murmurs, retracting her body from Marisol and tossing her phone back in her bag.
Marisol pushes herself to her feet and offers her hands, Dahlia taking them with a grin and letting Marisol pull her to her feet, leaning into her as she steadies herself. She turns to her dress, brushing herself off and pulling at the fabric before turning back to Marisol, who’s been staring at her the whole time.
She has two options here. Two options with vastly different outcomes, two outcomes with countless consequences, countless possibilities, some significantly better than others, some more manageable than others, some more worth it than others.
Marisol pulls off her engagement ring and stuffs it in her pocket, taking Dahlia’s hand in hers and interlocking their fingers as she meets shimmering eyes, watching the way the light from the street plays in them, a million emotions shining within their colourful, precious emerald swirls. Dahlia swallows thickly, averting her gaze as she squeezes Marisol’s hand in hers, thumb brushing knuckles lightly.
Marisol has made her decision, selected her option, picked her outcome, and readied herself for the countless consequences and possibilities. Accepted the better option in her mind and has begun preparing herself for the least manageable, but no doubt the most worthwhile outcome.
Maybe it took ten years, countless tears, and crippling, debilitating heartache, but they’re back on track. They’ve got another shot at this, at the perfect dream that they’ve never been able to forget, not even when it became a horrific nightmare. But ten years later, the wounds have mostly healed, turned to unassuming scar tissue to be covered with the tattoos of new memories, happy memories that stain the skin for so much longer, pieces of art that last an eternity, that last so much longer than a mere ten years.