Turnips and a scapegoat - Chapter 8

As the months passed, Sebastian discovered that he was happy - truly, deeply happy. He missed Oliver, of course, but he knew that their parting had been necessary, a step on both their journeys. He began to see the beauty in the small things: the way the sunlight filtered through the cherry trees in spring, the sound of the church bells in the early morning, the laughter of the villagers as they gathered in the square.

He was no longer the man who had arrived in Piornal full of doubts and fears. He was someone new, someone who had faced the storm and come out stronger on the other side.

He sat, as he often did these days, on the weathered bench outside his flat, a half-empty glass of local red wine resting on his knee. Guitar propped against the wall beside him that he would strum when the mood took him. The sun was dipping behind the jagged peaks, casting long shadows across the narrow streets of Piornal. The village was quiet. He felt the cool evening breeze against his face, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, the silence didn’t feel oppressive. It was a comfortable silence, like a warm blanket on a cold night.

He took a slow sip of his wine and smiled at the absurdity of it all. The last few months had been a whirlwind, a madcap adventure that felt more like a fever dream than reality. He had followed Oliver to Spain, more out of habit than conviction, letting his partner’s enthusiasm sweep him along like a leaf in a river. And then, in a moment of drunken audacity, he had decided to throw himself headlong into the very heart of the village’s most sacred tradition, putting on that damn Jarramplas costume like some kind of cosmic clown.

He hadn’t planned to lose Oliver. He hadn’t planned anything at all - that was always Oliver’s department. But here he was, alone, drinking wine and pondering the philosophical implications of being pelted with root vegetables.

Sebastian chuckled to himself, thinking about how ridiculous it all was. Life, with its endless twists and turns, seemed less like a well-plotted novel and more like an elaborate cosmic joke - a joke that no one, not even the universe itself, fully understood.

And then, as if on cue, the punchline of that joke walked back into his life.

Carlos. The sexy Spaniard from Waitrose. The man whose offhanded suggestion had upended Sebastian’s entire existence. Carlos strolled up to him with the same easy confidence that had captivated them back in Dorking. The sight of him stirred something in Sebastian - a mix of nostalgia, attraction, and something else, something bittersweet.

“Sebastian,” Carlos called out, his voice rich and warm like honey. He grinned as he approached, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re still here.”

Sebastian raised his glass in a mock toast. “Still here, Carlos. You, on the other hand, seem to have made a habit of disappearing.”

Carlos laughed and sat down beside him, the bench creaking under their combined weight. “Well, life is all about timing, no? I’m just here visiting my parents, thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

Sebastian looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, he saw past the charm and the good looks. Carlos was the embodiment of everything that had once seemed so tantalisingly out of reach - a life lived on one’s own terms, full of adventure and possibility. But now, in the twilight of his Spanish adventure, Sebastian felt a different kind of pull. A pull not toward something new, but toward himself.

“I’m doing alright, actually,” Sebastian said, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice. “Things have... changed.”

Carlos nodded as if he understood more than he let on. “Yes, they often do. I heard about the festival, about you becoming something of a local legend. El Espíritu Salvaje Extranjero, right?”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the last rays of the sun stretch across the sky. The conversation, when it resumed, felt natural, easy - like slipping into a comfortable pair of shoes. They talked about the village, about life in Spain, and about the Jarramplas incident that had made Sebastian something of a local legend.

“And what about Oliver?” Carlos asked, his tone careful as if he were stepping on thin ice.

Sebastian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s back in England,” he said, feeling the words settle between them. “He... couldn’t handle what I did. Who I became.”

Carlos nodded, his expression unreadable. “And you?”

“I’m... still figuring that out,” Sebastian admitted, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “But I think I’m getting closer.”

They sat in silence again, and Sebastian could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. The old Sebastian - the one who would have bent over backwards to keep Oliver happy, to keep everything ‘neat and tidy’ - would have been too afraid to ask the next question. But the new Sebastian, the one who had been pummeled by turnips and survived, was different.

“What about you, Carlos?” he asked, his voice steady. “Are you happy?”

Carlos looked at him, his dark eyes softening. “I am, yes. I’ve found someone who... completes me.”

The words hit Sebastian like a gentle slap. He knew what was coming, but it still stung.

“Oliver,” Sebastian said, more a statement than a question.

Carlos nodded. “Yes. We found each other again, back in England. It was unexpected, but it felt right.”

Sebastian felt a pang of something - jealousy, maybe, or regret - but it was quickly followed by a strange sense of relief. Oliver had found what he needed, and maybe, just maybe, Sebastian had too. It wasn’t the happy ending he had imagined, but then again, life rarely played out like the movies.

“Good,” Sebastian said, and he meant it. “I’m glad.”

Carlos reached out and placed a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity, of friendship. “You’re a good man, Sebastian. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Sebastian smiled a genuine, unguarded smile. “I think I’m starting to.”

They finished their wine, and as the evening deepened into night, Carlos took his leave, leaving Sebastian alone with his thoughts. But this time, the silence didn’t feel lonely. It felt... full. Full of possibility, of new beginnings, of a future that was entirely his own.

As he sat there, he realised something important. Life wasn’t about finding someone to complete you. It wasn’t about following someone else’s dream or even living up to someone else’s expectations. It was about being true to yourself, even if that meant taking a few wrong turns, getting pelted with turnips, and losing someone you thought you couldn’t live without.

The universe, in all its infinite wisdom and folly, had given him a gift. It had forced him to confront the truth of who he was, to strip away the layers of fear and doubt, and to embrace the messy, unpredictable journey that was his life.

As he stood up to go inside, Sebastian felt a lightness in his step, a sense of freedom he had never known before. He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time, that didn’t scare him. He was ready to face whatever came his way, not as half of a couple, not as someone living in the shadow of someone else’s dream, but as himself - whole, imperfect, and gloriously free.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point of the cosmic joke all along.