Chapter 11
For three nights in a row, you return to the graveyard. You know by now that your father suspects something, but you don’t care. You have to see Octavius again, and you’re terrified that you’ll miss your chance. Hell, what if you already have? What if you never see him again?
You wish you’d been more honest, wish you hadn’t let so many things go unsaid. But even if you had been honest, who’s to say he would have been open to listening? The last words he said to you still echo in your brain. You care too much. Ugh, it all makes your head spin.
Who’s to say he’s the man you thought he was? He never promised you anything. You wanted to run away with him, but there was never a guarantee that he wanted company. You wanted the man himself of course, but perhaps you wanted more than the man too. Perhaps you wanted his carefree lifestyle, his lack of inhibition. But maybe he was right, maybe that’s something you aren’t capable of being. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t returned. Or, perhaps he’s bled out somewhere in the vast desert. You shudder at the possibility, a lump forming in your throat. You have to see him, at least to know that he’s ok.
At least the cool air is nice. It clears your head. You appreciate the quiet too, away from noise and opinions and into solitude. Maybe this is part of what draws people to the West in the first place, wide-open spaces, a world away from society.
Your mother is buried here, in this graveyard. Her grave is small but delicately carved. The inscription reads, “Mary Lou Winters, forever in our hearts.” Underneath, there’s a carving of a desert rose. You wish you could ask for her advice, she’d absolutely know what to do. Knowing what you know of her, she probably would have ridden after Octavius, refusing to be sidelined in her own story. But then again, you aren’t her, even if you wish you were. And so you sit under the chestnut tree, paralyzed with inaction, for a third long, cold night.
You don’t realize how much time has passed until the sky begins to turn pink, light dancing over the landscape. You start to stand slowly, stretching your stiff joints, with a melancholy sigh.
Then, hoofbeats. You perk up, inspecting the quiet, still asleep town carefully. Who could possibly be out at this hour? Luckily, you aren’t left in suspense for too long.
“Y/N? What on earth are you doing?” calls Bill from across the road. You’re beginning to formulate a response when you see him, slung over the back of Bill’s horse, hanging limply. Otto.