IT WAS A PERFECT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA EVENING. The sun seared down the neck of my t-shirt as I walked the route to Flocks. Newly built homes gave way to canyons, and across from that, sporadic trailer parks and landscapes dotted with cacti and aging palms. Perfect, if it were not for the fourteen-foot realtor's billboard of my father's face beaming at me with his porcelain-capped teeth, arms crossed over in a power pose.

It was an unfunny joke that everyone was privy to. Every crosswalk and intersection for fifty miles had one. Nadine would have bust a rib laughing if not for the target it put on my back. I hitched my backpack further up my shoulder and continued to walk.

Bumper-to-bumper cars lined the street. Derek Benitez slipped out behind a stationary mustard-colored Pontiac with a 'Jesus is my airbag' bumper sticker. Not one to cross, I regretted that decision when his friend Tyson followed behind.

He bore no physical characteristics of his famous namesake other than a shitty face tattoo of a blackbird at the corner of his eye. Derek lurched the second I was in spitting distance, driving his shoulder into my chest in a technically flawless football tackle.

Jesus wasn't my airbag because my head hit the dirt hard.

Derek narrowed his eyes, studying me for a moment. I could see the gears turning in his head. Two against one was never going to be a fair fight. There was no love triangle at the core of Derek's hostility. He hated my surname because it belonged to my father.

Just when I thought he would pummel me again, he stepped back and let out a bark of laughter. There was no opportunity to retaliate because Tyson pinned my arms back as Derek's foot lashed out and connected with my abdomen.

As he let go, Derek hauled me by my t-shirt until the fabric bunched in his fingers. I couldn't help but grunt in pain as his grip tightened on my shirt, then he said, "Don't even bother showing up at the party later, Tate."

I grinned, tasting blood; my ears still ringing because, for a moment, I thought he'd called me mate, which would be ludicrous given the circumstances, and he wasn't British.

Derek released his grip and pushed me away. My wobbly legs were grateful for the reprieve. I spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground and steadied myself. Derek and Tyson finally walked away.

For a moment, I sat as the sun kissed lower on the horizon.

Ten minutes later, I arrived at Flocks. One of my nostrils had started to bleed. Without knocking, I walked in and tossed my school bag onto the oak dining table. From there, I rummaged through Flock's refrigerator.

"Who happened to your face?" Flock reached, but I retracted. "You're lucky you don't need sutures, Tate—again."

"I'm too pretty for sutures. We're invited to a party." I neglected to share the particulars of the invitation because it felt irrelevant. I would go anyway, but even I questioned my own motives. The smart thing would have been to let Derek think he'd won one over me. However, his version of winning would recycle itself, dooming me to repeat until I taught him the lesson he seemed so eager to learn.

I closed the door once I found a bag of frozen peas and turned to Flock. My tongue probed my gum line, testing where I felt pain the most, before holding the bag in place. When Derek cornered me on the walk home, I hadn't anticipated it but wasn't surprised by it either, but a beating would never change our last names.

"End-of-summer semester parties are lame. Derek will be there, and if this is his handy work, why tickle the tiger?"

"They have beer," I added.

Flock's eyebrows inched up, taking a split-second to persuade.

We waited until the bleeding stopped, and I took a couple of Tylenol. Located two blocks away, the house could be seen from the street. As soon-to-be seniors started their summer break, bodies crammed into the cracks of the two-story home. While I sat in the corner, I reverted to my favorite pastime of watching Flock navigate the world of normal people.

A guy in a chest-hugging T-shirt tipped the remnants of his drink into his mouth. He could be Timothée Chalamet's double. I knew of him—Alex Benitez, but had never been closer than ten feet. He greeted Flock with more warmth than he'd ever done to me. I couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance as they exchanged a friendly embrace.

Suddenly, Flock turned to me, breaking me out of my thoughts. "Hey man, you remember Alex, right?"

Before I could nod, Alex said, "Surprised you showed your face. Does Derek know you're here?"

Flock looked between Alex and me and shrugged. Anthony Flockhart was America's Switzerland. Never making enemies, he moved between camps without hostility. He had the uncanny ability to fit in with any group and had made a career mediating between clashing sides.

"My goal is to surprise him. Return a favor." I tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace now that my jaw swelled to twice its normal size.

"I wouldn't have expected anything less from you unless it came in the form of an underhanded gut punch."

My look of shock was unmistakable as my eyes widened. Alex had already gone there. "Wait a minute," I said in disbelief. "This story keeps changing every time I hear it!" My gaze shifted to Flock, and it was clear that I now regretted coming.

"Guys, play nice!" Flock said, pointing toward the kitchen before disappearing into a wall of bodies to grab drinks.

"You're a bully," Alex continued once Flock was out of earshot. "You crushed a kid last semester. He landed so hard it gave him a snaggle-tooth."

Now that the sun had sunk over the horizon and a blanket of clouds had settled over it, I considered walking home, leaving Flock. Snaggle-tooth's orthodontist bill was not a concern of mine, and I grew tired of always having to explain myself. I sighed. "There are reasons. You haven't heard any."

"A scout will never look at him twice now. People hate you for that."

I'll be the first to admit I spiraled this spring. It was not uncommon for me to sneak out the back of my father's office block and haze my day away in a plume of happy smoke. No matter how obvious it was, I didn't make any effort to conceal it. However, I never had a vice of violence, as he was claiming now.

"This wasn't a kid but a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound linebacker. Don't wave the minor flag when you don't know what you're talking about. And no, they hate the idea of me. No one knows me. Do you trust Flock? Flock likes me. Be more Flock."

He looked puzzled, as if he didn't know what to make of me. In response to his silence, I added, "I understand we have a history. But a little empathy wouldn't hurt. Today has been a hard one, thanks to your cousin, Derek."

"History? You mean your father destroying mine? Derek is just protecting our family, and I can't possibly relate to the son of a monster like that."

My shoulders dropped. "Do you really think so little of me that 'monster' applies? Or am I just more flawed than the average person?"

He scoffed. "Call it whatever you want. We're not friends anyway, right? No need to worry about how I feel."

"You're right. I don't. But you seem uncomfortable with anything more than a one-dimensional view of me. Take serial killers; god forbid they hold a steady job, have pictures of their children on their refrigerator, and still wait for the parent who left them when they were five. Why can't you see people have more than one side? People are more than what they seem on the surface. We're both victims and villains here."

He nodded ever-so-slightly. "So, you want me to think you are multidimensional? Hero and criminal? Chicken or egg? One or the other, that's how I see it. Your dad fired mine for something he didn't do. We remember every time my family sees that goddamn billboard."

My mood tanked at the billboard. Having been caught alone with Alex Benitez, the son of Dad's former business partner and enemies by default, I was expecting this argument. He tucked a plum-streaked shaggy curl behind his ear.

Risky moves tested hunches, in my opinion, and I needed to determine if mine were correct. Did Alex feel the same way about their history, and was it always simmering beneath the surface? "If your dad was innocent, he wouldn't have been fired."

"Police charges were never brought. This town bought the lies once the gagging order gave my father no choice to defend himself."

The answer to both questions was yes. "That's my point. The court case is their story not ours. Aren't we more than that? What do you really know about me?"

He gave me a once-over. "Son of a property tycoon who has no problem ransacking the homes of the poor to build plush condos for his banker friends in the valley."

A frown formed on my face. "I asked you about me."

He shrugged. "You'll go to college and meet a supermodel, but life will still be disappointing because your bitterness won't ever find a new home."

While his words bruised my already fragile skin, they sounded better than where I was heading. For two kids who met in high school, my parents—quarterback and cheerleader, I should have scored top of the gene pool—but I didn't. Rather, my genetic heritage was more like that of Uncle Frank's; long, roman nose, sandy hair that lay above my jaw, and deep-set eyes that looked magnified if I wore glasses.

"At least we're talking about me now."

"While we're on the subject, how do you see me?"

My next words were measured with the same level of care as he'd given his. "People say you're the son of a criminal, but I think you're trying to shake a shadow that no more belongs to you than it does me."

Alex's next look was difficult to read, but I could tell I had met his expectations once again, and they weren't all that high. "It's an unoriginal theory. You are dangerous, like your father, because mine never saw yours coming."

"Like Derek? Just because you feel defenseless doesn't make me dangerous. I'm exhausted from having to navigate my place in their lives. It's not my idea of fulfilling teenage years when your family jumps me every other block."

The intensity of his glare increased. "You think there's a cycle to break? Make peace? You underestimate the impact your family has on mine."

Imagining everyone I loved under my dad's porcelain umbrella caused my chest to cave in for a moment. Granted, I had heard his story before, but from a different perspective. My dad's lawyer sought an out-of-court settlement to end their business ties, and Rafael Benitez agreed. Everyone knows you only settle if you have something worth hiding.

"Our parents are way past mutual forgiveness, like your multidimensional serial killers." He grinned, happy with himself.

I bit my lip to stifle a genuine smile, and my concern grew about how much I was enjoying our verbal sparring. I looked over my shoulder, not wanting to be caught off guard by Derek again if he appeared. I glanced down at my wristwatch. Derek should have caught wind of our arrival by now; it was 8 p.m. As I turned back, Alex started to walk off. I followed, unready to finish our conversation that easily.

"Yes and no. Psychotic mass murder makes atonement a long-ass bitch before those folks can round out all the karmic kinks that went wrong. But are you saying that it is always impossible to do? The possibility of forgiveness and redemption is unthinkable? You need it to happen just as much as I do. Whatever happened between them isn't our story."

Suddenly, Alex shot me with a gaze so powerful and penetrating that I was held captive and killed a little at the same time. Maybe the idea of redemption was just as all-consuming for him too.

It's funny the quirks you pick up on about a person when you take the time to notice, like how Alex now constantly began to brush the hair that flopped in his face or how when he thought of a question, his eyes would get this quizzical look before he'd even asked it. It's even funnier how attraction sneaked up on you.

He rubbed his bottom lip before responding, drawing my attention to it before I darted my eyes away. "Are you here to make amends? Is that why you came?" he asked.

"I came because I was invited—sort of. Let me rephrase that: Parents want the best for their children. What's the deal with ours?"

"Ours?" was all he said. "I shouldn't even be speaking to you."

Silence followed before I spoke again. "My father steers my life because of his baggage. Can't you compare the parallels between us because of them?"

Alex became quiet, his face wistful, and then he nodded slowly at first and then more urgent. If I could be in his head right now and know what series of events or incidents he's considering, I would give anything.

"Why do you feel the need to probe me so much?"

"Because I used to be one of those people, and that's exactly how I thought of you. Unless you change the narrative, the only story you will ever know about your dad is that he works as a janitor at our high school—he's a trained accountant! You'll view me the same way you did when I walked in. Our families will continue to distrust one another."

Alex's voice dropped an octave as he said, "You don't know me."

"What is the one thing you want most in the world?" I said.

Without a beat going by, he answered, "To see my dad love a job that doesn't break him when he sees me. I need my own narrative."

A sincere look emanated from Alex's eyes, and I could have been wrong, but there was an unexpected unity building.

"How about you, Tate Parker? How do you want the world to see you?"

I swallowed hard. "As something other than dangerous—other than the sum of my surname—to you and everyone else."

But it was more than that. Wasn't it?

My thoughts paused, reaching deeper than superficial desires and fleeting needs, right down to the invisible heart-shaped hole that still hurt when prodded. "For Dean Parker to know me as more than a fuck up..."

Because since she's been gone, I'm not sure if I'm worth knowing.

Something had changed in the way Alex looked at me. His focus wasn't on how my fingers knotted but bore straight into my eyes. Within his were the sweetest threads of caramel.

"Derek's incoming." Flock placed a firm warning hand on my shoulder.

I blinked away, realizing how intently I'd been staring, and I didn't blame Alex for what I knew he would do next.

"So go change your narrative. You don't need me for that," Alex said, stalking off toward the kitchen.

Derek slipped across the crowded room, a lithe cat among a herd of hulking rhinos. His mouth curled into a predatory smile, but Flock and I were the only ones who noticed. This is why I came. There was an itch in every part of me to take him down. But now Benitez sat in the corner watching.

And I meant my words.

If I were to change my narrative, I would need to start now. I clapped Flock on the back, announcing our departure, and ducked back through the crowds to the front door.