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"No, it isn't. Some people are wired that way."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked as his eyes shifted from our joined hands to my face. I found myself looking away. That, in itself, was a first for me.
"You don't feel things in black-and-white. Cruz is like that too."
"And you're not?" Sam asked.
I shook my head.
"Give me an example."
I found myself meeting Sam's eyes. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him no. But the words that came out of my mouth were so much more than that simple single one. "Our father."
"What about him?"
I shook my head because that rage inside of me was starting to build again and I wasn't in any position to do anything about it. But then Sam's thumb began to move over mine again and he whispered, "Please tell me, Matias."
I stared at his fingers. His skin was so much lighter than mine. It was more delicate too, and clean. Not marked up with ink like my own. It was another reminder of how different we were. He was refined and classy and good. And I…
Wasn't.
"No matter how many times the fucker would hit Cruz, my brother still believed there was some goodness in our old man. He'd remember the one time we went fishing with him and he’d hold on to that. Didn't matter how many bruises the piece of shit left on his skin or what kinds of names he called him, Cruz still loved him."
"And you didn't?" Sam offered.
I shook my head. "Hated him. Still do. Always will."
Fire danced beneath my skin as rage lit up my belly. The image of Cruz huddled in a corner as our father towered over him, belt in hand, had me yanking myself away from Sam. I climbed off the picnic bench and automatically began searching for something to take my hate out on.
"Matias," Sam said gently, but I was too far gone this time. All I could hear were the sounds of Cruz's whimpers as the belt fell over and over again. No matter how quickly I moved, I couldn't get to him fast enough. I needed that piece of leather to cut into my skin, not his. But I just couldn't get to him…
My eyes fell on the hammer that had fallen off the picnic bench at some point. Probably when Sam had grabbed me and kissed me out of the blue. I tried to hang on to that image, but it was too far away. I couldn't reach it, just like I couldn't reach my little brother. I snatched the hammer off the ground and stalked toward the pretty little shed.
The noise in my head grew louder and louder the closer I got to the small structure. Cruz's pleas, Sam's grief, Ryan's fear… they all jumbled together until I couldn’t hear anything else.
But then, just like that, they were gone. And it was only his voice that I heard.
You’re just like me, Matias…
I shook my head but the evidence was in my hand. No matter how badly I wanted to drop that hammer, my fingers refused the command. I was just like him. I always had been, and I always would be.
I was about to take another step forward toward the shed when Sam suddenly moved into my path. Thankfully, he didn't touch me. Shame that he was seeing me like this warred with the fear of what I might do to him if he made the mistake of laying even a finger on me. I opened my mouth to tell him to get out of my way, but the words wouldn't come. Nor, surprisingly, did my body push past him so it could continue to its ultimate target. We stood there in this strange kind of suspended animation, our eyes locked and our bodies just inches apart. Why wasn't he moving? Why wasn't he running away?
Why wasn't I telling him to flee?
"Matias," Sam said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. My whole body began to shake with need.
But with the need for what exactly?
"Matias," the man before me repeated and then suddenly, his skin was on mine. It felt like I was moving in slow motion as I turned to watch his fingers slide down the length of my arm. His touch sent shivers through me. Not of rage, but of something else. Something stronger. I knew in that instant what I needed.
Sam's fingers trailed over my wrist and finally came to a stop over my fisted hand. "You don't need this," he murmured. My heart felt like it was going to slam out of my chest as he eased my grip on the hammer open until it landed with a thud in the grass. I expected Sam to step back at that point. To at least grab the hammer and move it away from me so I couldn’t use it on his beloved shed. But to my surprise, his fingers once again linked with mine like they had when we’d been sitting on the picnic table. “You don’t need it,” Sam repeated as he lifted our joined hands.
