Wild Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  “That’s a good idea.” I nod to my backpack at Banks’ feet. “A notebook and pen are in there.”

  Banks looks at me like I’ve lost it. “Really?’

  “Yeah, she should make this decision with a clear head.”

  “This isn’t a spelling test, Akara,” Banks snaps, but he’s already unzipping the backpack. “There should be some emotion behind it.”

  “I didn’t say there wasn’t. And it’s a spelling bee.”

  He flicks me off.

  “Hey,” Sulli puts a hand on our shoulders. “Remember, you two could just choose each other. That’s another option.”

  Banks and I exchange a tense look. Yeah, that is an option, but in that scenario, Sulli loses the most. That hurts to think about, so I push the thought back.

  Banks passes Sulli the notebook and pen. “Only if you want to.”

  She flips open a page and slides back in the seat. Clicking the pen over and over.

  “You can take your time, Sul,” I say. “Don’t stress about it.”

  “No, I’ve got this.” She scrawls down on the notebook for three minutes, and I try to concentrate on the road.

  What is she writing?

  I have no idea how the matchup between me and Banks is faring. So I pry. “How’s it going?”

  “Lots of pros on both columns. Zero cons.”

  I smile.

  Banks is smiling too.

  I tell her, “Come on, Banks has a ton of cons. He definitely farts in his sleep.”

  Banks tells her, “And Akara’s feet smell like spoiled sour cream and chives.”

  She laughs, “Fine, alright. I’ll put the sleep-farter and feet-smeller in your cons, but they’re just going to equal each other out.” She scribbles, then pauses, sniffing loudly. “Do you smell that?”

  “My feet have no scent,” I defend.

  “No, Kits…”

  I already see it. Severity crashes against me as the front hood of the Jeep engulfs with a thick layer of smoke.

  Shit.

  44

  BANKS MORETTI

  The Jeep smokes and backfires. A rhythmic, repetitive popping sound that I recognize. And I’m thinking, too easy. I packed some tools and cleaner in case of any mechanical issues on the road trip. I’ll give the carburetor a clean and we’ll be good to go.

  So we pull over on the side of the road in the dead of night. I pop the hood, and I’m inside her for fifteen minutes, finding problem after problem after fucking problem.

  “Is it bad?” Sulli asks, shining a flashlight for me while I check the camshaft and remove the valve covers. Akara is further away, trying to locate a fucking morsel of cell service in a dead-zone.

  “She’s running lean,” I explain to Sulli as I work, “which means too much air is flowing in the engine. The air intake boot has ripped, and it’s causing unmetered air in the engine. Plus, the main vacuum hose broke.” I remove another valve. “It’s the power brake booster feed line. And the spark plugs are worn out.” I did a routine check before we got on the road, and none of this shit looked this fucked.

  “Can it be fixed?” Sulli asks.

  I wipe sweat off my brow with my bicep. It’s cold outside, but I’m running hot. “Anything can be fixed. It just depends on the parts I need to fix it.” I crank the engine and then motion her closer to me. “Shine the light over here.” The valve spring windings are harder to see.

  She presses up to my side and angles the light downward. I observe the intake and exhaust valve operation opening and closing, and I check the spring windings.

  Fuck.

  “It’s bad,” she realizes off my scowl.

  “We can add broken springs to the list.” I glower at the pushrods. Fuck. “And a bent pushrod.” I expel a coarse breath. “It’s restricting the movement of the valve.” If I had a towel, I’d throw it right now. I reach into her and do a final carburetor assessment.

  I back up, my chest collapsing in realization. “I think she needs a new carburetor.”

  “So you can’t just clean it?”

  I shake my head. “There’s no point wasting time trying. She already needs a new air intake boot. It can’t be fixed out here, but if we get her to a shop, they might have the parts we need.”

  Akara comes back, hearing that last bit. “No service. I can’t say how far away the nearest town is.”

  “Where are we?” I ask him while I lean back into the car and return the valves to their original spots.

  “Minnesota.”

  “Fuck,” Sulli mutters, smacking her flashlight that flickers out.

  Akara points his cellphone flashlight at Booger, helping me see. My oil-stained hands move around her innerworkings. I pry off the tracker her parents placed on her car—and it’s dead. Battery must’ve died, who knows when.

  “I can run down the road,” Sulli offers. “Maybe I’ll find a town or gas station, or even cell service. Then we can call a tow truck and get Booger to the nearest shop.”

  My muscles are flexed, seeing holes in her plan before Akara points them out.

  “We’d have to run with you, Sulli,” Akara reminds her that we’re not just two guys she’s dating—we’re her bodyguards.

  “Then run with me.”

  “That means leaving the Jeep on the side of the road, which we can’t do.”

  Her Jeep isn’t just any old car. It belonged to Adam Sully. Fans have even created an Instagram page for the thing. It’s famous. It’s sentimental. Akara and I know what the Jeep means to Sulli—what it means to her dad—what it means to the Meadows family and the public.

  Leaving it behind is like deserting another person attached to Sulli.

  We can’t.

  I shut the hood, and Akara tells her and me, “Three options: we all three push the car to the nearest shop, or Banks pushes while Sulli and I run ahead, or I just run ahead and you two push.”

  I hate making the tough calls, and luckily, it’s not my job to choose. “What do you say?” I ask him.

  “We don’t need two people to run, but you’d gain more ground having two people push the car. So Option 3: I run. You two push.” He looks to Sulli. “You okay with that?”

  “I wish I could be the one to run, but I fucking get it.” She nods, knowing she can’t run alone like us, even if she’s the fastest runner. It’s the fuckin’ pitfalls of fame.

  With the plan in order, we get to work.

  Hour one, sweat drips off my brow. Muscles ache, but I fucking push next to Sulli. Barely any cars pass us in the middle of the night on a mostly empty, deserted road. The few vehicles that stop only cause Sulli anxiety. I always block her. I always talk to them, and when they acknowledge they can’t help, they take off.

  Hour two, we worry about Akara.

  “He could’ve tripped,” Sulli says between her teeth, pushing the back of the Jeep next to me, “and broken his ankle or something,”

  “We’d pass him,” I grunt. “We’re going the same way.”

  Hour three, my legs start cramping. My fucking back throbs. I grit down, using all my force as I shove forward. The longer we keep at it, the Jeep feels heavier, like we’re trying to move a Humvee, then a tank, but I never stop.

  Sulli never stops.

  I’d push through any hell if I needed to, but the question is, is all we’ve got even enough?

  “How many miles…” Sulli pushes the Jeep with her back, using her quad muscles, “do you think we’ve gone?”

  Five klicks. “Maybe 3 miles.”

  I check the time on my watch.

  Zero four hundred hours. The sun isn’t close to rising. It’s early on October 31st. An Unhappy Halloween. Because my brother is supposed to be getting married bright and early at zero nine hundred hours tomorrow.

  We have only a little more than twenty-four hours to make it back to Philly, and I’m currently hundreds of miles away.

  Sulli takes out her phone. “No service.”

  Dammit. Sweat drips down my temples
, my jaw.

  She switches around, using her hands again to push. Sulli grunts and bites down, her biceps cutting sharp as she shoves harder.

  She knows.

  She knows how important being back in Philly is to me. She’d probably kill herself to get me there.

  “Pace yourself,” I say in a heavy breath.

  “We can make it,” she grits down with all the force she exerts.

  My eyes burn, holding something back. “Don’t hurt yourself doing it.”

  She only applies more effort, her face reddened, shirt caked with sweat. “Let’s go…faster.”

  I breathe harder.

  Hour four, she glances over at me with reddened, glassy eyes.

  “We still have time,” Sulli says, voice choked, “…if we just ditch Booger, we can run, meet up with Akara, call an Uber, book a flight—”

  “No.”

  “We have to leave her, Banks!” Sulli shouts tearfully, standing up and letting go of the Jeep for the first time in four hours. “I’m not letting you miss your brother’s wedding because of a stupid fucking car.”

  I’ve never heard Sulli insult her Jeep before. It means something more to her than I can even understand. “It’s not a stupid fucking car,” I snap back. “Akara said you cried when you were sixteen and your dad gave you the one thing he had left of his best friend. You cried snot-nosed tears, and you’ve told me multiple times that you promised your dad that you’d take care of this car—Adam Sully’s car. You promised him.”

  She’s crying now. Fighting more tears, she rubs a hand under her running nose. “And that’s your twin brother,” she retorts. “The guy you shared a womb with. The guy you went to war with. You’ve spent twenty-nine years of your life with your twin, and you’ve told me multiple times that you can’t wait to stand next to him on his wedding day. Your brother. Your twin.”

  We’re both breathing even harder.

  And I’m falling more and more in love with her.

  “One is a memory,” Sulli says in tears. “The other is a person who’s still here. Please don’t miss his wedding to save a Jeep that might be fine on its own. Please.”

  I’m used to taking the selfless roads where duty is concerned.

  I’m bound to Sulli’s needs. Not my own, and she’s trying to throttle me, shake me, to place myself above her. I think about how much it’ll break my brother if I’m not there, and that just about breaks me. I’m placing him above the Jeep.

  I’m about to step away from Booger when we hear a ding ding of a bicycle bell. Dawn is nearing, but even through the darkness, I make out Akara.

  He pedals harder on a pink child’s bike, fit with a basket and ribbons out of the handles.

  He’s in one piece. It’s one of the first times I almost smile.

  Sulli exhales relief. “What happened? You’re alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. You both are good?” He jumps off the bike, coming next to us and assessing our ragged states. Sulli nods enough that Akara doesn’t press, and he just explains, “The nearest gas station had cell service. I called a tow truck, but the closest one available is really far away. It’ll take four hours to get here.”

  “Fuck,” Sulli and I say in unison.

  Akara seems less concerned. “The shop is actually closer. It’s only another mile away. I called them already. It opens in an hour, but no one picked up. So I bought a bike at the gas station—it was the cashier’s nieces, and I went to the shop, banged on the door, and got ahold of a mechanic. I told him the Jeep’s model, and he said he has the air intake boot and carburetor we need.”

  Now I really smile. “What are we waiting for?”

  Akara smiles, and we share a bigger one with Sulli before we all return our hands to the Jeep. One more mile to go, and we push together.

  All three of us.

  For once, the Jeep feels light as air.

  45

  SULLIVAN MEADOWS

  We reach the small Minnesota town after pushing Booger for five hours. Exactly twenty-four hours until the wedding, I feel hope surge knowing that we can still drive to Philly in time.

  Pumpkins are set out beside a burnt-red garage. Ghosts hang from the trees, and fake cobwebs are stretched between toolboxes inside. The sky lightens to a morning blue, but the sun is still hidden.

  It’s quiet in the garage. The doors are open to the lonely road while we wait near Booger. After the mechanic brings out the parts, Banks pops the hood, and they talk and start to work their magic.

  I’m exhausted. My whole body is sore, but I’m less physically spent and just emotionally wiped out. Akara pockets his phone so he can hold my hand, but before our fingers even clasp together, everything comes crashing down again.

  Banks comes over to us fast. “It’s the wrong carburetor for this older model. He thought they would match, but it’s not gonna fit.” He uses the bottom of his white tee to wipe grease off his hands. “We can order parts, but he said they won’t be here for another two days.”

  I butt in, “Booger stays here. She stays here.” I convince myself that nothing bad will happen to my Jeep if we desert her. She’ll survive, and I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t do everything possible to make it to Jane and Thatcher’s wedding.

  That’s my cousin. My big sister. I can’t miss her walk down the aisle. Banks can’t miss his twin brother get married.

  I’m a bridesmaid. Banks is the best man. Akara is a groomsman. We’re all in the wedding party and supposed to be a part of the ceremony.

  I add strongly, “And we don’t have time to argue about it. Salvaging her isn’t a part of the plan anymore.” It hurts when I think about the day my dad gave me the keys. How he started crying with me. My dad rarely cries like that—like something was torn open in him for a second and he was brought back to a place in the sky where he released the ashes of his friend.

  He gave me the Jeep because he said I’d get more use out of it. He didn’t want the car to languish in a garage.

  I still remember him saying, “Adam Sully took his car around the country, and he’d want someone to go on just as many adventures in it. It’s yours, Sulli. Just promise me you’ll take care of it.”

  I promised him, but no matter how painful, I’d break it for Banks.

  Softly, Banks asks, “Are you sure?”

  “I’m more positive than I’ve ever fucking been,” I tell him with everything in me, my voice shaking with emotion. “I love you more than that car.”

  His chest rises, lips parting at my declaration. I told Banks that I love him. It just came out. It came out in front of Akara. Fuck!

  Fuck.

  I’m dying inside, seeing Akara’s face contort in heartbreak. It hurts like a hundred knives stabbing my lungs. And I’m not that dense that I’d fling an I love you at Akara right now. Because he’ll just see the words as a pity thing.

  Even when they’re true.

  “Kits,” I start.

  “It’s okay,” he chokes, swallowing hard. “I’ll call a tow truck for the Jeep, so it’ll get back to Philly without us.” His eyes stay on me, mine stay on him, and he says, “It’s not a new realization, Sul. I’ve known how you feel about him.”

  “Do you know how I feel about you?” I breathe, my throat swollen.

  He nods with a sad smile. “Yeah.” He nods again. “You love me too, string bean. It’s why you haven’t picked yet.”

  Yeah.

  I sniff back snot that tries to drip down my lips.

  “We’re going to get through this,” Akara tells me and also Banks, and even though his words encompass our current car situation, it feels like he’s speaking about so much more too.

  We whip out our phones.

  Akara books a tow-truck to transport Booger, so the Jeep is set to arrive back home in a few days. But we need to find a way to get ourselves to Philly much earlier than that.

  “Nearest airport is a two-hour drive,” Akara says.

  I scroll through my phone, looki
ng for taxis, Ubers, Lyfts. Anything that will get us from point A to point B.

  Banks is looking for flights.

  Akara breaks away and speaks to the mechanic. I barely pick up their conversation as Akara asks, “Is there any local we can call to take us to the airport?”

  The mechanic chuckles. “If you find someone ‘round here to take you there, let me know. I’d like their number.”

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  “No ride shares are in range,” I tell Banks.

  He eyes Akara, who disappears into the back of the shop with the mechanic. “Akara will think of something. He always does.”

  Five minutes later, Akara returns and opens the glove compartment of Booger. He pulls out an envelope stuffed with cash—his cash that he brought for “emergencies”—and he jogs back to the mechanic. Vanishing again.

  One-minute later, he comes out and dangles a set of keys. “Let’s go.”

  “You bought a car?” I ask, my heart swelling up.

  “Yep.”

  I could kiss him, but I think the way I’m looking at Kits means more than any kiss. He smiles down at me, his eyes roaming over my features. He tells me and Banks, “I paid all cash and bypassed the paperwork. We can get out of here now.”

  Wasting no time, we all unload our crap from Booger. Transferring our bags to an old, black Honda with wrinkled and ripped, black leather seats.

  Before noon, we’re on the road.

  I drive first since they’re both on the phone.

  “Slow down, Sul,” Akara says in the passenger seat.

  “I’m only going fourteen-over,” I refute. “I won’t get stopped.”

  “It’s not going to matter,” Banks says from the backseat. I glance through the rearview. He’s looking at his cell. “There’s only one flight back to Philly. And it leaves tonight.”

  “What time does it say we get in?” I wonder.

  “Give me,” Akara leans over and holds out his hand for Banks’ cell.