ON DEREK'S FOREARM is a delicate tattoo of a blackbird in flight. Feathered wings curled around a patch of otherwise bare skin. With Derek's father deported, mine had been the umbrella that encompassed him and taught him right from wrong, but at one point, he'd strayed into the rain.

The symbol on his arm now represented not only his absent nest but my father's injustice—an image that resonated with the unyielding determination that coursed through Derek's veins. Livid was a word that paled in comparison to the look on his face. For the hundredth time, Derek asked, "Why Tate Parker?"

The tension radiated off Derek's body as he glared at me, waiting for an answer. It was as if he was daring me to say something that would set him off. Derek's anger was palpable. His eyes were narrowed, and his forehead was creased in frustration.

My gaze drifted to Abuelita's empty chair. She had been feeling unwell earlier in the day and was resting in her bedroom, mercifully unaware of the storm brewing in the other room.

I shrugged my shoulders, feeling a little guilty. "Lo siento," I stammered, feeling the words catch in my throat. "I didn't mean for it to go this far. It just...happened."

Despite the size of our kitchen, Dad's eyes were lost in a thousand-yard stare. As a man of few words, I never thought I'd be as shocked when he had none for me. It was time my family understood my side of this story.

"You've both got to see that this thing is hurting him. It's hurting me."

Derek snorted in disgust, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. "No me jodas, Alex. Tate gives as good as he gets."

Fuck you too. "You're part of the problem, Derek. What has Tate ever done to you? To any of you?"

Dad's eyes flicked to me and then to Derek. "I have sat here for the last hour trying to understand what has happened, avoiding quick judgment. But, Alex, I am still at a loss to understand you. What were you thinking? And Derek, you've been fighting Tate. Why? I no more need your hands to speak for me than I need Alex's mouth. Your aggression grows too big and will only end one way. Alex, you can't trust Dean Parker. He only looks out for himself."

"Maybe," I conceded. "But Tate's not like his father. We can't keep living like this, always on the outside looking in."

My father sighed, his face softening slightly. "I understand that, but you need to be careful. The world is a harsh place, and sometimes, it's hard to know who you can trust."

Derek let out a low growl, and I could see the muscles in his jaw clenching. "You will get yourself hurt. We are not the enemy."

I sighed, my own anger starting to bubble up. "Tate was trying to help things—" My words were cut off when I clocked Abuelita standing in the doorway. Dressed in a robe and slippers, she rubbed the tiredness away from her eyes and proceed to the sink.

"I didn't think you needed help," Dad replied.

"I didn't have a choice," I replied, my voice breaking. "Tate was the only one who understood."

Derek leaned forward in his chair, his eyes piercing into mine. "Understood what, exactly?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. We were now all making a conscious effort to keep our voices low and out of Abuelita's ears. "That everyone else's life choices are sending me in a direction that I shouldn't be in. What happened to Dad is all I think about, and it's all people know me for."

Words continued to stumble out of my mouth as every set of eyes fixed themselves on me. I tried to form a sentence, but all I could do was stutter out, "Tate is... I mean, Tate..."

Abuelita threw a spoon into the sink, and it made a sound that caused everyone to stop and look up. "You like a boy, Alex? A boy?" Her brows knitted together, and I saw the realization come full circle in her eyes.

I rubbed a spot on my chest where my heart constricted. Trust Abuelita to see through all the words I had said and zero in on the ones I had not. This news was only new to her.

"Lita," Dad said, his voice warming but firm. "The subject is not for debate. It is Alex's business."

Derek threw his hands in the air. "But Tate Parker, Rafael!"

I ignored everyone except for Abuelita, who hurried for a step stool, positioned it in front of the refrigerator, and hoisted herself up to fetch the jug of water. The rickety steps wobbled as she regained her balance. Then, stepping down, she tipped the contents down the sink with a muttered "Ave María madre de dios," and refilled the jug with fresh water.

"Look what you've done," Derek whispered; his eyes, like mine, followed our grandmother around the kitchen. "You've angered her old spirits."

"Really?" I mouthed back. "Back in the day, they also used to drill holes in people's heads to let the headache demons out, but you're not unfamiliar with Tylenol. So don't tell me you buy this sh—." I stopped when Abuelita shot me a warning glare over her shoulder.

"Does your mother know about los chicos?" she asked. "Qué pasa con los nietos, Alex? I would be a good bisabuela."

That's what she was concerned about most—the chance to be a great-grandmother because of who I chose to make a bed with. There was hope for her yet if she just put the damn jug down. My mother worked as a respite nurse, taking all shifts she could. In her absence, Lita assumed the role of head of our house and the one I currently needed to talk down from the ledge she stood on.

"You would make the best of the best." I smiled.

The sound of my phone vibrating against the wooden table jolted me back to reality. I glanced down, hiding the screen from my father and Derek's view. It was a text from Tate, asking me to meet him at the beach. I stood up. We needed a new plan because the one I had initiated today had failed miserably.

"Where are you going now?" Dad asked.

"Um, I need some fresh air," I mumbled, "maybe the Beach—I need to clear my head."

"Está bien, Alex," my father replied. "Be careful."

Derek huffed and stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. He stalked off toward Tyson's, slamming the door so hard that the whole house shook.

I headed to the door myself. From behind me, my father added, "Life isn't fair, mijo. Sometimes we must make sacrifices for the greater good, for our family. You must stay away from Tate."

A knot formed in my stomach as I considered the implications of defying my father's wishes. But deep down inside, a part of me still longed for the freedom to spend time with whomever I chose, regardless of what Dean Parker or anyone else might think. The thought of seeing Tate again, even if it was just for a moment, overpowered my doubts. And as the silence stretched on, that longing only grew stronger.

Outside, the night air was cool as I stepped out. My feet pounded an angry rhythm on the pavement until I reached the ocean.

Family comes first. I repeated the mantra that had been ingrained in me since childhood. But as much as I tried to focus on the importance of loyalty, my thoughts kept drifting back to Tate. In his eyes, I saw the possibility of forging my own identity beyond the prejudices that sought to define me. And it was a temptation I couldn't resist.

As I reached the beach, I knew that the decision I'd made would have far-reaching consequences. For now, all that mattered was the here and now. But, forty minutes later, after waiting for ten, Tate was a no-show. Concern grew in the pit of my belly as to why.

Alex

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