Brothers Pt 4

Across the Fire and into the Light

The day dawned brightly. The sky was clear, with soft clouds lazily drifting across it. As usual, I took my morning shower and soak to work out the kinks in my old bones. But today those aches seemed to extend into my soul.

My time with Tristan had left me bruised. I could not help but feel his story and his pain as if they were my own. I knew there was still more pain ahead. My instincts told me we were not finished—and that to reach the other side, we would still have to cross the fire.

After dressing I went into the kitchen and prepared breakfast. Tristan had promised to come over for a few hours this morning so we could finish his interview. As I considered what to serve for breakfast I thought about what would be healing for his soul.

My Godfather always told me that food fed more than just the body. Food was about community and the love that people shared as family. To be invited to one’s table was the highest compliment you could receive. It meant acceptance. It meant belonging. It meant love.

I settled on creating a fusion of Latin staples that had always felt like home to me, from the years I spent with friends in the Bronx.

There was fried cheese, and mangú with pickled onions—two dishes that reminded me of my first real boyfriend. I remembered mornings at his house, his mother cooking us breakfast. That relationship, though closeted, lasted for eleven years until family pressures made him choose to end it and live a straight life. We lost touch, but I still think of our time fondly.

Fresh fruit—strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and oranges—brought a brightness to the table, a freshness in contrast.

There was strong Puerto Rican café con leche, and toasted pan de manteca with butter dripping from it.

Fried chorizo and delicately fried eggs rounded out the meal.

I was setting everything out on the patio when Tristan walked up the driveway.

He smiled as he looked at the food I had laid out. I knew I had made the right choices. Here was food that could heal—a safe space created in tastes and aromas that called the heart home.

We ate slowly, savoring the meal in quiet. The flavors carried each of us back to moments in our own histories—times of peace and happiness, filled with love.

There was no rush to continue the interview. That could wait. Now was the time for the healing that comes from being present at a table filled with good food, cooked with love.

Tristan took a sip of his coffee, savoring the strong caramel notes as he drank. He let his gaze linger on the clean, sunlit garden and the crisp early morning air.

I had the sense he was almost ready to return to the work at hand, but first he needed a moment to remind himself that—even in the darkness—one can still appreciate the light.

Tristan looked over at me and let out a sigh of contentment. I saw in his eyes that he was ready to begin again.

I waited, letting the moment stretch, allowing him to step back into the story at his own pace.

Tristan: I told you last night that I had hit Dara, and as soon as I did, I realized my mistake. Looking into her eyes, I saw it—the sweet, fun-loving, if a bit rebellious, socialite was gone. In her place stood a calculating, manipulative bitch.

Our little altercation had already drawn the attention of our group. Slowly, they began to make their way over to where we were standing. Santiago and Cristóbal were Dara’s primary muscle. They would do whatever she wanted—no questions asked.

Dara didn’t shriek. Her voice never rose. It was the monotone that frightened me more.

She said to me:

“Did you think because we had a few picnics on the school lawn and attended a few high-end social gatherings that you were truly one of us? You—with your good looks, straight A’s, and morality. No, sweetheart. You were just the bait we dangled to hook others. There’s a market for young, unspoiled, clean-blooded humans, and up until now you helped us pull them in. Tonight that little bitch you let go would have netted us a cool million. Now, who’s going to take her place? One of us?”

As I realized what was happening in his retelling, my heart began to race. I felt physically anxious—and then it struck me: Tristan was sitting across from me, absolutely fine. He had survived.

But knowing that didn’t make my panic in those few seconds feel any less real.

2260: Things had certainly escalated quickly. What did you do?

Tristan: I would be lying if I said that, in that moment, I didn’t think I was in over my head. I had lied to my father, telling him I was going to the movies with some friends. No one knew where I actually was.

Leo was out of the country—the bond stretched thin by distance. Oh, I could still feel him, but he was very far away.

At that moment, I was bargaining with God, the angels, and the universe: if I made it out alive, I would be a good boy for the rest of my life.

Then I felt it—as if, for a moment, the bond grew stronger, as though Leo had stopped what he was doing and turned in my direction. I could feel his concern, and in that moment, I knew he could feel my fear.

And then, there was a sense of peace. A sense of safety.

I took a moment. My head wanted to rush ahead, to ask what happened next, but I realized I needed to sit with this for a while—to consider the impact of what Tristan had just shared.

I looked up at the leaves of the oak trees fluttering in the morning breeze, the sun scattering golden flashes of brilliance across the grass below. And in that moment, I simply realized how grateful I was that these extraordinary people chose to share their stories with me.