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Chapter One
March 17th - Lorenzo
Timehasceasedtoexist. I’m not sure how I ended up sprawled on the driveway, my hands and legs splayed out. My chest rises and falls in failed attempts to recover my breath. I alternate between staring directly into the sun until all I can see is black and squeezing my eyes shut until they’re filled with bright dots.
I need to dry these signs of weakness. I need to remember why I do this.
She knows. She knows. She knows.
“Zo, the fuck, man?” Santi’s voice is elusive and distant, and I can’t be sure it’s not a memory streaming from the depths of my mind. I’m certain I’m imagining the footsteps growing louder until there’s a nudge in my ribs. I force my eyes open, Santi’s tall and muscular frame blocking out the sky.
“What’s wrong?” The alarm in his voice should ground me, but I’m still spiraling in this foreign abyss.
I reply with the only words loud enough to be heard. “She knows.”
Santi and I are kindred spirits. While we may have different personalities, we understand certain things about this life that no one else ever will. That’s why it takes him less than a second to comprehend my meaning. Understanding flashes through his eyes and then—panic.
“I fucking told you it was idiotic. You put us at risk!” he yells at me, and I know he’s right, but I’m so numb I don’t care. I say nothing.
“Get the fuck up! We need to run recon on this! We need to contact Ted—”
“Control yourself.” My eyes cut to his. As frozen as I feel, I’m still acutely aware of what he just shouted in a somewhat public setting.
He lets out a maniacal laugh. “Me? Control myself? This wouldn’t be happening if you could keep your dick in your pants. But nooo, Zo has to go and fuck theonlywoman that poses a threat—”
“Shut yourfuckingmouth!” My body lurches, forcing me upright. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”
“You don’t know what the fuckyou’retalking about!” Santi roars back, yanking me by the arm and forcing me to stand. “You think you feel something for this chick, but you can’t even see through your own bullshit!” He points an accusing finger at my heaving chest. “This is an act of rebellion.”
Bile threatens to rise in my throat. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I get it, man. We’re in shitty positions. But that’s not an excuse to—”
My fist lands on his mouth and I can’t even say I regret it. He’s my brother in every sense of the word, but he’s pissing me off and pretending to understand when he doesn’t.
Santi smiles sickeningly, blood painting his pearly whites. “I’m going to let that one slide because you’re obviously going through some shit. But”—he cracks his knuckles—“lay so much as a finger on me again, and you’ll be seeing stars.”
Stars.
My breathing is erratic, and my fists are itching—begging—to lay into him again. But I know he means what he says. It’s not that I’m afraid; I know we can handle each other. But a brawl is the last thing we need.
Instead, I turn and grab the first thing my eyes land on—one of the two perfectly placed pots at the head of our driveway. They rest in front of the brick walls outlining the garage, manicured biweekly by the person hired to keep up our front. No one would ever guess that they have cameras built into them to protect us.To protect our mission.
The clay pot is heavy with dirt, but the anger fueling me makes it weigh as light as a feather. I slam it into the front bumper of my car, the resounding crack of shattered ceramic satisfying me, filling me with a sense of power.
Illusion.
The soil splatters everywhere. All over the hood of the car I used to love, the driveway filled with dirty secrets, and my chest housing a black pit for a heart. I drop the pieces and locate the microscopic piece of equipment that would stare through a hole in the pot. I pick it up and slam it into the brick wall of this brick house built on brick lies.
The camera falls to pieces on the ground that supports all our deceptions, so I dig my phone out of my pocket and keep slamming. Once it’s shattered, I pull out my pack of smokes, a sick satisfaction filling me as the cigarettes disintegrate and join the debris of destruction.
With nothing left to break, I repeatedly slam my fist into the house because I don’t know what else to do. There’s nothing else Icando. I can’t explain the truth to her. I can’t leave this all behind.
She knows. She knows. She knows.
I’m not sure how much time passes before Santi’s firm grip on my shoulder forces me to whip my head to him, my fist halting mid-air.
His eyes are filled with pity and sympathy, and that’s what does it. That’s what breaks me. It puts the last crack in whatever flimsy glue was holding me together.
