Page 103 of Burn It Down

These undeniable truths slam into me one right after the other. Jake may have had his future planned by his father, but I’m allowing mine to be derailed by my dead mother.

Finally, I drop my speed to coast along at the posted speed limit. All lights from homes and shops are behind us as I continue down two-lane country roads hidden through a series of turns. So close, yet so far, from the big city.

“If I agree to sell. You don’t have to be the one who buys it. I don’t want that part of town to become your problem if we’re trying to move forward,” I tell him, finding my voice along with some rationality.

“You’re forgetting I’m already invested in that building. The improvements that were made after that brick came flying through the window add value and if I’m completely honest, commercial real estate is rarely a bad choice.”

Those words hurt more than they should. That building is so much more than a piece ofcommercial real estate.I changed my first tire there. The picture of my mom and dad cutting the ribbon on opening day still hangs in our lobby. That shop ismyfamily’s legacy and it feels like they’re all bailing on it.

“I just couldn’t stand to see it become some shitty pawn shop or something,” I lament. “And the timing is fucking terrible. You’re probably about to be looking for a job of your own.” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. “I never wanted you to be some white knight riding to my family’s fucking rescue as if us Mexicans need all the help we can get.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head jerk back. He opens his mouth to say something, but quickly shuts it again.

I don’t know where that last comment came from, but apparently, it’s been rubbing me raw for a while.

“Before I can make an appropriate argument,” he starts, and I can tell he’s upset based on how measured his words are, “was that a dig at my skin color , my net worth, or the fact that I’m in love with you?”

I’m hurting. And when I’m hurting, I tend to make others hurt so I don’t have to bleed alone.

“All of the above,” I grumble, not really meaning it. At this point, I’mtryingto pick a fight.

“Pull over,” he commands in his boardroom voice.

“It’s dark and I’m tired. I just want to go—”

“I saidpull the fuck over,Dylan. Right here. Right the fuck now.” Jake means business.

We’re in the middle of nowhere about forty-five minutes outside the state’s capitol. There’s a tobacco field on our right and pine trees on our left. I pull onto the shoulder and drop my forehead to the steering wheel. I expect Jake to rip into me, but he gets out of the car and slams the door instead.

“Jake! What the fuck are you doing? Get back in the car!” I turn over my right shoulder to see where he went when my door is abruptly ripped open. Jake leans in and grabs me by the neck of my shirt with both hands and literally drags me out of the car.

I barely get my feet planted under me to stand when he shoves me against the side of the Corvette. The car is so low to the ground, I catch myself on my elbows on the roof.

While I’m bracing myself, Jake punches me in the stomach. Not hard, but hard enough to shock me because it’s a move I didn’t see coming and it makes me see red. I push off the hood of the car and he moves to the gravel shoulder squaring up to fight me.

What is he doing? I’ll fucking decimate him.

I bet the punch he just threw was the first one he’s ever thrown in his life.

“When will you stop fucking judging me because of shit I can’t change, Dylan?” he yells, shocking me again when he throws another punch toward my face. I block it by turning and he gets my shoulder instead. The punch is harder than I’d anticipated.“At every turn, I stand up for you. I showed you off in my world because I’m so fucking proud of who you are and all it’s done is make you resent me. And for what? For beingborn into a wealthy family? For being motivated and using the resources available to me to become successful?” He throws another punch and manages to catch my jaw this time.

I drop my shoulder and barrel into him, taking us both to the ground. We land with a thud, grappling for position.

He’s panting, but he’s still talking.

“I’m not…trying…to be…anybody’s hero. I…just…want to…help.”

Apparently, wrestling was one of those rich-kid sports he learned growing up because somehow, he’s managed to flip us, pinning me beneath him despite the weight discrepancy.

But my arms are free so I reach up and wrap them around his waist, using the momentum to roll us over again, gravel sticking into me everywhere. I end up sitting on his stomach, just above his hips and can feel his legs kicking out behind me.

Instead of hitting me again, he’s using his hands to try and move away from me so I grab his wrists in one hand and pin them above his head. He winces at the abrupt movement and starts. Fucking. Talking.Again.

“What are you going to do, Dylan? Keep running? Keep pretending shit’s not changing? The world never stops changing. You either adapt or you become irrelevant and you get left behind.”

I’ve stopped moving to listen to him when all of a sudden, he brings his right leg over my head and his calf comes down on my forearms, breaking my hold on his wrists. He then kicks that same foot out, the blow landing on my chest, sending me onto my back. Sweeping his legs underneath himself, he effectively switches our positions, placing him back on top.

How the fuck is he so agile?

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