Page 24

T he blue glow of the clock read 3:47 AM. Sleep remained stubbornly out of reach despite the bone-deep exhaustion weighing down my limbs. Xavier lay beside me, his breathing deep and even, one arm flung possessively across my waist even in unconsciousness. The weight of it should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like an anchor tethering me to a reality I wasn't ready to face.

My body still hummed with the aftereffects of what we'd done earlier. Xavier had been almost desperate when we returned to our room, claiming me with a ferocity that spoke of his need to affirm life after staring death in the face. I bore fresh bruises beneath my borrowed t-shirt, marks that would join the collection already decorating my skin, each one a testament to the darkness we shared. The darkness I'd come to crave.

I shifted carefully to avoid waking him, turning to study his profile in the dim light filtering through the curtains. In sleep, the hard edges of his face softened, making him look younger than his twenty-three years. Only the thin line of stitches at his temple marred the illusion of peaceful slumber. A reminder of how close I'd come to losing him.

My fingers hovered over the wound, not quite touching. I'd nearly lost him. Again. The thought hit me with fresh intensity, making my chest ache. While Xavier had been fighting for his life in that compound, I'd been safe in the Sentinel, helplessly listening as communications failed and chaos erupted. I'd never felt more useless.

The clock ticked to 3:48. Another minute lost to circular thoughts that led nowhere. My mind refused to settle, jumping between jagged fragments of worry. What if Phoenix attacked again? What if next time Xavier didn't come back? What if I lost everything for a third time?

"Go back to sleep," Xavier mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. His eyes remained closed, but his arm tightened around my waist.

"Sorry," I whispered, settling back against the pillows. "Just can't turn my brain off."

He made a noncommittal sound, already drifting back into unconsciousness. The ease with which he could slip between states had always fascinated me, another mark of the control that defined everything he did. Even after the chaos of the night, the near-death experience, the loss of Algerone, Xavier could simply decide to sleep and then do it. Meanwhile, my mind raced on without permission, spinning scenarios and possibilities that grew increasingly dark with each passing hour.

It had been this way since childhood. While others slept, I'd stare into the darkness, unable to quiet the perpetual hum of my thoughts. Abuela used to find me sitting by the window in the early hours, counting stars or tracing patterns in the night sky. She never scolded, just sat beside me with her rosary beads slipping through gnarled fingers, prayers whispered in Spanish that washed over me like gentle rain.

The memory of her voice sent an unexpected wave of longing through me. It had been three years since I'd walked away from my family, leaving behind everything familiar to preserve the one part of myself I couldn't deny.

Three years of silence.

Were they still in the same house on Mariposa Street? Did Mom still tend her garden of native plants, sorting them by medicinal properties just as her mother had taught her? Did Dad still coach little league on weekends, his booming voice carrying across the diamond as he encouraged his team? Did they ever think of me, their only son, the boy they'd raised with such care, only to discard when he failed to meet their expectations?

I closed my eyes, but instead of darkness, I saw my father's face the last time we'd spoken. Not angry, as I'd expected, but devastated. As if I'd personally attacked him by being who I was. "This isn't just about you," he'd said, voice low and controlled despite the tears standing in his eyes. "This is about our family's place in the community. About your mother's reputation at the school where she teaches. About the example you set for your cousins."

My mother had been worse, in some ways. While Dad had been direct in his disappointment, she'd retreated into prayer and silence, as if speaking to me might somehow contaminate her. "We'll pray for you," was all she'd said as I packed my things. "God can heal this if you let Him."

Even now, years later, the memory stung. Their love had been conditional all along, contingent upon me fitting into the narrow mold they'd constructed. And I had tried. Dios mío, how I had tried. Years of church youth groups and confession. Attempted dates with girls from the parish. I even joined the Army. But it had never been enough. I had never been enough.

Xavier's breathing shifted momentarily before settling back into its steady rhythm. I envied him his certainty, his unshakable sense of self. Xavier never apologized for who he was, never tried to contort himself into shapes that might please others. Even with Algerone, he'd held firm to his own boundaries, his own identity. He'd taken the man's resources, his protection, but had never surrendered his autonomy.

Maybe that's why Algerone had saved him. He’d recognized and respected that steel core that refused to bend.

My phone sat on the nightstand, its dark screen reflecting nothing. How many times had I picked it up over the years, my mother's number still memorized, my thumb hovering over the keys? How many times had I composed messages I never sent, apologies for things that weren't my fault?

I sat up carefully, sliding out from under Xavier's arm. The loss of his warmth made me shiver as I padded barefoot to the window, easing the curtain aside to look out at the predawn darkness. The Sentinel's grounds spread below, perfectly manicured and meticulously patrolled. Even now, I could see security personnel making their rounds, flashlights swinging in precise arcs as they checked the perimeter. All that protection, and still Phoenix had breached our defenses. Still, Algerone had fallen.

The thought of Algerone brought me back to Xavier. To the question of fathers. To the complexity of blood ties versus chosen bonds. Algerone had given his life to save Xavier, had sacrificed himself without hesitation. A final, incontrovertible proof of... what? Love? Obligation? Strategic calculation? Some complex mixture of all three?

Meanwhile, my own father, who had held me as an infant, who had taught me to ride a bike and throw a baseball, who had bandaged scraped knees and checked for monsters under the bed, had chosen dogma over his only child. Had let me walk away rather than accept who I was.

Which was the greater betrayal?

I moved to the desk and opened my laptop, the screen's glow painting the room in ghostly blue. My fingers hovered over the keys, uncertain. Then, before I could overthink it, I navigated to Facebook. I hadn't logged in for years, had abandoned social media along with everything else when I'd left home. But the platform remembered me, cheerfully welcoming me back like a long-lost friend.

My profile picture was still the same, a filtered shot from my last year of college, smiling nervously at the camera, already hiding who I truly was. Notifications piled up, hundreds of them accumulated over the years of absence. I ignored them all, my attention fixed on the search bar.

I typed "Maria Astrada" and hit enter.

My mother's profile appeared immediately, her familiar face smiling back at me from her profile picture. She looked older than I remembered, new lines etched around her eyes and mouth, her once dark hair now streaked with silver. The photo showed her in the garden I'd grown up with, surrounded by plants.

My chest tightened as I scrolled through her recent posts. Mostly shares from the church group, inspirational quotes overlaid on sunset backgrounds, announcements for parish events. Her life continuing in exactly the same patterns, only without me in it.

And then I saw it. A post from last month, a shared memory from years earlier. The photo showed me at my high school graduation in my cap and gown. My father stood beside me, one arm around my shoulders, his face split in a wide grin of paternal pride. Mom had captioned it simply: "Missing you today and always. Happy birthday, mijo."

The air left my lungs in a rush. They remembered my birthday. After everything, after three years of silence, they still marked the day. Still acknowledged my existence, even if only in the digital shadow world of social media where I wouldn't see it. Unless, of course, some part of her had hoped I would. She had left it public as a message in a bottle, cast into the digital ocean with the faint hope that someday, somehow, I might find it.

The tears came without warning, hot and sudden, blurring the screen before me. I wiped them away roughly, angry at myself for still caring, for still hoping after all this time. But the evidence was undeniable. They hadn't forgotten me. Hadn't fully excised me from their lives. There was still... something. A thread, however tenuous, connecting us across the years and miles of silence.

"Leo?" Xavier's voice, rough with sleep but alert with concern. I hadn't heard him get up, hadn't sensed him moving across the room to stand behind me. His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and solid. "What's wrong?"

I gestured helplessly at the screen, unable to find words. Xavier leaned closer, reading the post. His fingers tightened slightly on my shoulder as he absorbed the implications.

"Your mom," he said simply.

"They remembered my birthday," I managed. "After everything. After three years, they still..." I couldn't finish, the words caught in my throat.

Xavier was quiet for a moment, studying the screen with that intense focus he brought to everything. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "What are you going to do about it?"

The question hung in the air between us, weighty with possibility. What was I going to do? After three years of silence, of building a new life, of finding a new family with Xavier and the Laskins, what did I want from these people who had rejected me at my most vulnerable?

"I don't know," I admitted. "Part of me wants to reach out. To see if maybe... maybe things could be different now. But another part..."

Xavier's hand moved from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair in that possessive gesture I'd come to find so comforting. "You're afraid they haven't changed. That they'll hurt you again."

"Yeah." I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from the contact. "And honestly? I'm afraid of hurting you. You and your family have been more of a home to me than they ever were. I don't want you to think I'm... I don't know, being disloyal or something."

Xavier made a dismissive sound, his fingers tightening slightly in my hair. "That's bullshit, Leo. Your relationship with your blood relatives has nothing to do with us. With what we are to each other."

His certainty steadied me, as it always did. Xavier never wavered, never equivocated. His absolutes could be terrifying in their intensity, but they were also a refuge from my own endless questioning.

"I just keep thinking about Algerone," I confessed. "About what happened tonight. About fathers and sons and what family really means."

Xavier’s fingers continued their gentle exploration of my scalp. "Algerone chose to die for me. Your parents chose their religion over you. Sometimes the choices people make tell us everything we need to know about who they really are."

"But people can change, right?" I looked up at him, searching his face for answers I knew he couldn't give. "They remembered my birthday. That has to mean something."

"Maybe," he allowed, his expression softening slightly. "People surprise you sometimes." A shadow crossed his face, and I knew he was thinking of Algerone again, of that final sacrifice that had rewritten everything he thought he knew about his biological father.

"Do you think I should contact them?" I asked, needing his guidance even as I knew this was a decision only I could make. "Or am I just setting myself up for more pain?"

"I think," Xavier said carefully, "that you need to decide what you want from them. Reconciliation? Closure? Just to know they're okay? Figure out what you're looking for, then decide if it's worth the risk."

His pragmatism cut through the emotional tangle in my head, creating a path forward where before there had been only confusion. "I don't even know where to start," I admitted.

"A message," he suggested. "Something simple. 'I saw your post. I'm doing well. Hope you are too.' No pressure, no expectations. Just an opening if they want to take it."

I considered this, the simplicity of it appealing. Just a message. A small step back toward something I'd thought permanently lost. "And if they don't respond? Or if they respond with more of the same religious condemnation?"

Xavier's hand slid from my hair to cup my cheek, turning my face toward his. In the blue glow of the laptop screen, his eyes looked almost supernatural, pale and intent. "Then you'll know. And you can move forward without wondering. Without this hanging over you."

The logic was impeccable, as always. Xavier might appear cold to those who didn't know him, but his reasoning was never cruel, just ruthlessly clear. "You're right," I said, placing my hand over his. "Better to know than to keep wondering."

He nodded, satisfied. "Write the message now. Before you overthink it."

"Now? It's four in the morning."

"So? You're awake. They'll see it when they wake up." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, the gesture unexpectedly tender. "Stop finding reasons to delay. Just do it."

With Xavier’s hand on my shoulder, I opened Messenger. The blank composition window stared back at me, cursor blinking expectantly. I took a deep breath and began to type.

Hi Mom. I saw your birthday post. It meant a lot to me. I'm doing well, all things considered. I hope you and Dad are too.

I stared at the words, so inadequate compared to the storm of emotions behind them. But Xavier was right. Simple was better. An opening, not a novel. I hit send before I could second-guess myself.

It was done. The first contact in three years. A bridge, however tenuous, extended across the chasm I'd thought unbridgeable.

"There," Xavier said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Now we can go back to sleep."

But I knew sleep would continue to elude me, my mind now racing with new possibilities. What if they responded? What if they didn't? What would I say next if the conversation continued? Would they ask about my life? Would I tell them about Xavier? About the fires? About everything that had happened since I walked away?

"Stop," Xavier murmured, as if reading my thoughts. "You're overthinking again. Come back to bed. Whatever happens with your parents happens. You've done what you can for now."

I allowed him to guide me back to bed, settling against him as his arms wrapped around me, his chest warm against my back. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my spine should have been soothing, but my mind refused to quiet.

"What are you going to say to Maxime?" I asked, the question escaping before I could reconsider. It wasn't fair to burden Xavier with my curiosity when he needed rest, but the parallel between our situations felt too significant to ignore. Both of us facing conversations about fathers. About loss. About the complex tapestry of family.

Xavier was quiet so long I thought he might have fallen asleep again. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured. "The truth. That Algerone saved my life. That his last words were about wanting Maxime to be happy."

"Do you think that will be enough?"

"No," Xavier admitted. "But it's all I have to offer."

I nodded, understanding. Some wounds couldn't be bandaged with words, some losses couldn't be mitigated by explanation. Maxime had lost someone essential to his world, just as I had lost my family three years ago. The paths to healing were never straight, never simple.

"Try to sleep," Xavier murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Morning will come whether we're ready or not."

I closed my eyes, focusing on his heartbeat, on the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. On the knowledge that, whatever happened with my parents, I wasn't alone anymore. I had Xavier. I had this strange, dangerous, wonderful family we were building together.

And maybe, just maybe, I could have both. The family of my past and the family of my future, different but equally important, each offering something the other couldn't. The thought was almost too hopeful to bear, a fragile seedling I was afraid to nurture lest it wither under harsh reality.

But hope, like the tiny message now racing through digital space toward my mother's phone, had been planted. And despite everything, despite the danger still lurking in Phoenix's shadows, despite the uncertainty of tomorrow's conversation with Maxime, despite the precarious nature of everything we'd built, I found myself holding onto that tiny seed.

Sleep finally claimed me just as the first pale light of dawn began to filter through the curtains, my dreams filled with garden paths and rosary beads and the sound of my mother's voice calling me home.