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Not physically. But deeper than that. So much of me wishes it was something so simple as a physical blow that broke us apart, but then, if it were, I wouldn’t be in this position. I’m stronger than that. I’d simply walk away and start again. But to give so much of myself to that man, to allow myself to see a life beyond grief — a life of moving on, a life with happiness, with love — and to have him so boldly and basely betray me is like experiencing a death all over again, except this time, it’s my own.
“Take your time,” Mateo says.
I do.
Because it’s one thing to cry yourself empty of tears and calm yourself enough that you’re not spending every breath weeping, it’s another thing entirely to form that breath into the words to recreate the deepest pain you’ve ever experienced.
Finally, I do.
“We found Marquez. He… he talked. He talked to Dixon… and Dixon says that he told him that…” Even those words take monumental effort, and I pause again, resting my face against Mateo’s shoulder while I try to figure out just how to say that the man that I used to love with what remained of my shattered heart tried to convince me that my childhood best friend and my father conspired to murder my brother. As I shake against Mateo, out of the corner of my eye, I see him take his cell phone out of his pocket and hastily swipe a few words across the screen.
“Alex, it’s OK,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “You’re safe here. Take your time. Do you want something to drink? There’s beer, water, I could even make you tea or coffee. Just relax, OK?”
I try. I even grunt something about water and Alex fetches me a cold bottle from the room’s sputtering fridge. It’s cold and tastes far better than water has any right to taste. It helps.
Though I feel stronger, Mateo doesn’t rush me. Time passes while I just sit, looking at the water bottle and taking the occasional sip, while he sits beside me, simply being there.
“Dixon says that Marquez told him you and my dad had Lucas killed. That Marquez was hired to watch over the meeting and make sure that Lucas didn’t leave alive and that all the violence could be pinned on the Road Kings.”
“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Mateo says. “I loved your brother, Alex. We grew up together. Prospected together. Earned our patches on the same fucking day. He was family.”
“I know. I couldn’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”
“Why the fuck that idiot ex-boyfriend of yours would even think that story would work?”
“He said that it was because Lucas found out that my dad was involved in all the drug dealing that was going on. That he’d cut you in, too, in order to make sure Lucas didn’t leave the meeting alive.”
“You know I’d never do that to your brother, right, Alex?”
In the process of nodding, I stop halfway. There’s a downside to knowing someone so well that simply looking at their face is like reading their soul. It's an imperceptible shift, but there it is — in the clench of Mateo's jaw, the too-quick flicker of his eyes away from mine.
“Mateo? What is it?” With each syllable that leaves my mouth, it’s like a part of me deflates. And when I close my lips around that plaintive question and see the flash in his eyes, I feel my heart drop.
He looks me over, coldly.
And, just as well as I can read him, he can read me.
“Alex, this is important. You know I’d never do anything to hurt your brother, right?”
The words come with an equal mix of desperation and threat.
I force myself to stand and look him in the eye; I can’t believe the boy I’ve known for most of my life, and had more crushes on than I can count, would raise such a reaction within me — fear, doubt, revulsion.
I have to find the truth.
“Mateo, you need to look me in the eye and tell me what happened to my brother.” He flinches at first, and tries to look away, but I don’t give him the opportunity to scan the ceiling for answers. I lean in, I grab him by the chin. “Tell me, Mateo.”
Then it’s like something snaps within him. His eyes harden, and he grips my wrist like a vise, squeezing so hard I release my grip on his chin and cry out in pain. He stands and then wrenches my arm behind my back, twisting so hard I can feel my shoulder pop within its socket. He pushes me face-first down onto the bed.
A hot, angry voice touches my ear with a simmering threat.
“You know, I really wanted to give you a chance, Alex. Because I really do care for you. Loved you like a sister. I wanted you to make the right decision, to say the right things, because I do not want to have to do this. But you’re not giving me a choice.”
It feels as if what remains of my world is collapsing around me into nothingness. Yet all I can do is scream in pain and cry bitter, helpless tears into the mattress.
“You killed him. Why, Mateo? He was your brother, too.”
“And he made himself into a fucking problem that had to be dealt with. Your father and I tried to cut him in. He had every opportunity to keep his fucking mouth shut and sit back and make more fucking money than he could even imagine, but he had to decide he’d rather be dead.”
