𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART TWENTY FOUR

Almost cried writing this chapter fr

Word count; 2,519

Tomás

Five hours came and went like a leaf taken in the wind. We'd struggled to talk for the majority of it, the night in Monaco weighing over both of us, though it didn't seem to matter. Especially as we pulled up in front of an old, derelict country house, having navigated the streets of Cardenete for the past ten minutes. Turning off the engine, I took a deep breath, examining the front of the house, the chipped bricks, covered in peeling paint - like most of the buildings in the village, though much, much worse. At least, I told myself that was the reason for my hesitation; to survey a property I hadn't visited in a year.

Oscar was watching me. Maybe that was the reason I eventually got out, because I knew if I waited any longer, he'd ask before I was ready to answer. Slamming the door behind me, my shoes kicked gravel with every step, until I reached the stairs to the entrance, and I heard Oscar's door shut behind me. Sourcing a pair of rusty keys from my pocket, I sifted for the right one, nearly dropping the bunch in the process. I excused that it was just clumsiness, my sweaty palms, as if my fingers weren't trembling with each breath I took.

Pará la mano, Taz.

Unlocking the door, I stepped inside, welcomed by the stench of old air and mildew. Almost everything was the same, barring a layer of dust on every uncovered surface; the staircase rails, the naked tables, the mantlepiece shelves. I looked left, my stare lingering down the corridor for a moment too long before I pivoted, heading for the kitchen. Picking a chair off of the table, I placed it down, doing the same for the other, Oscar appearing in the doorway behind me, still cautious. Of what, I wasn't too sure.

What did he have to be scared of?

It's not like he had lived here for five years.

I took a seat, digging into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes, glancing at Oscar for permission, who shrugged in return. I lit one quickly, hoping it would soothe the shaking of my hands, but not even that worked. In fact, it made it worse, and I rubbed my brow with my thumb, allowing my eyes to briefly shut.

Pará la mano, pará la mano, pará la mano...

The chair opposite me creaked as Oscar sat down, and my eyelids shot open, reminding me of where I was, who I was. Blowing smoke over my shoulder, I cleared my throat.

"Go on." I said, a croak. "Ask."

He stared at me, wondering if there was a hidden joke in my statement.

"Come on," I said. "You know."

I watched the thoughts cross over Oscar's mind as he inhaled, not wanting to make the wrong move, say the wrong thing, sensing all of this was way more delicate than I was letting on. But the questions were eating him alive, the need to know why we were here.

"This is it." He said after a moment. "This is the place."

I nodded, "Bingo."

In fact, it was a part of my history that the whole world knew about. The fact I was only twelve when I left Argentina on my own, in search of a better future in Spain, for me, to become a Formula 1 driver, for my family, who had always relied on me to fix the roof over their heads. I was the boy who had come from nothing, and made a whole lot of money doing something.

"Why?"

I shrugged, "Just felt like a drive."

Who was I fooling?