“I called your dad. It took him a while to answer, but he answered. He’s on his way over.”
“He is?”
He nodded. “He’s worried about you. He’s going to take you home.”
I moved to stand up. “I want to see Connor.”
“He’s resting, Jack.” He patted my shoulder and I sat back down. “Just relax. It’s going to be okay.”
When my dad arrived, he didn’t look drunk or slovenly, just confused, like an actor who’d walked onto the set of the wrong movie. He’d managed to shave and put on a decent shirt. A nice one. A button-down.
And when he saw me, he walked over so fast and pulled me into a hug. I was too shocked to respond, to hug him back.
I don’t remember much about the drive home. I think I dozed off.
All I remember is Dad didn’t ask me anything, didn’t yell at me, didn’t say a word, and for that I was grateful. And he played the radio softly, my favorite station, and hummed along softly as he merged back onto the freeway.
51.
It was all over the news—local, even national.
One of the biggest drug busts the police had seen around here in recent years.
D’Angelo and Gabriel and the uncle and most of the men from the garage, all of their mug shots were displayed. The newscaster’s voice was low and rumbling, telling us that these local drug ring leaders had finally been caught after “what police believe to be a brutal gang-related attack on a local teen.” A reporter standing in front of Toby’s crumbling house, all blonde hair and white teeth and an approved-for-TV face of concern, telling us about this unassuming house in an otherwise quiet neighborhood. Yellow caution tape surrounded the property. DEA officers were everywhere.
The police wanted to talk to me again the next day at the station. This time, Dad went with me. He asked me if I wanted a lawyer, but I said no. I didn’t need one. I didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t question me. He just sat in the waiting room, reading a newspaper while I ratted out the boy who’d called me his brother to the local sheriff and a detective.
I told them everything I knew about that night, about Toby, about his family and the bits and pieces that I knew of their drug business. Things I’d seen over the years, things I’d witnessed. I left out my own involvement, of course. But it felt good to just talk, to let it all out.
And as it turned out, all of my stories corroborated with Toby’s. He’d ratted out his entire family to the cops, told them everything he knew. My testimony might actually help him.
I should’ve hated Toby. I had every reason to. I should’ve wanted him dead.
But I didn’t.
I told Alvaro everything too, as quickly as I could, standing in the station parking lot while Dad went to pick up a six-pack at the corner store next door.
I thanked him for saving our lives, for giving me his number.
“Seriously, I owe you.”
“Anytime, kid,” he said.
“When can I see him? How is he?” Connor’s phone had gotten smashed sometime during the fight. I’d called the hospital a few times and asked to speak to him, but both times they’d said he was sleeping.
“He’s alright. You can go see him anytime, Jack,” Alvaro said. “You don’t need my permission.”
52.
I didn’t think I would cry, but I did when I walked into his hospital room. I just broke down at the sight of him.
His face and arms were bruised, his hand was bandaged, one eye was swollen shut, and everything was covered in hospital white, a white of death and loss.
He reached out to me, and I collapsed into him, my body wracked with sobs, crying even though I wasn’t the one who should be, feeling humiliated and relieved all at once.
“Hey,” he said, pulling my face to his. “Jack, It’s okay.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said between gasps for air. I felt exposed, stripped to the bone, like all my wounds were naked and raw in this cold and uncomfortable room. “I shouldn’t have taken you there.”
“Jack,” Connor’s voice broke through my thoughts. “It’s not your fault. Just sit down and listen to me for a second.”
I sat down on the side of his bed, but I couldn’t look at him. “Seriously, look at me,” he insisted. He touched my face and turned it towards him. “It’s not that bad. I know it’s grisly, but just look at it.”
I felt like I was out of my body, looking at the scratches on his neck like something had clawed him, the deep purple bruise on his collarbone, his one open eye glittering green.
“You can’t be afraid of this,” he said, gripping my arms, shaking me a little. “You have to let go of the fear. You can’t live like this. I told you. You’re letting them win. Look.” He grabbed my hand and put it on his chest, right over his heart.
“Do you feel that? It’s still beating. I’m alive.” I nodded. I laid my head down on his chest and closed my eyes, letting him run his fingers through my hair, letting him comfort me, even though he was the one with the beat-up face and body. I could’ve stayed like that forever. “I have to tell you something,” he said. “About me.”
I waited while he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath me.
“I have this…compulsion, for lack of a better word. I do things sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. Really dangerous shit. I get into these situations where I could die, where everything could fall apart at any minute, and it’s almost like, that’s when I feel the most alive.”
I didn’t speak. I just listened.
“I almost just ended it all, a few years ago. I wanted to kill myself.” I swallowed hard. I’d known about the cutting, the burns on his wrist, but I hadn’t known he’d wanted
