Banks says to me, “We’d arrive at oh-six-hundred.” He passes his cell to Akara.
So…6 a.m. The venue is only a half-hour from Philly. Wedding is at 9 a.m.
It’s perfect.
“I’m booking it,” Akara says.
I slow the car to the speed limit. We have time then to make it to the airport. But if I wreck this Honda, I really will never forgive myself.
46
AKARA KITSUWON
The drive to the airport is painful. Like being in a slow-moving train that I know is about to crash. And it has nothing to do with being late to the wedding. I’m confident we’ll be there with hours to spare. Even without a private jet.
We did visit that avenue. Sulli called her uncle, but Connor couldn’t find a pilot available in our area. At least not in the window we’re working with.
But I’ve pinned down four other possible commercial flights with short layovers that we could take at last minute. Just in case our current flight is delayed.
Sulli is in love with Banks.
The thought crawls over me every few minutes and digs into my flesh.
Be happy for them, Nine.
How?
How can I be happy when I love her too? I love Sullivan Minnie Meadows, and I don’t want to let her go. I’ve even contemplated whispering the words in her ear. Shouting them with all I have. Making sure she knows how much I love her, so I’ve put everything on the table.
If she chooses him, I don’t want it to be because she’s unsure of how I feel.
But the timing isn’t right. I’m not alone with Sulli. Banks is here too. And I’m more aware that going back to Philly feels more brutal than it should. The closer to the airport we are, the less relieved I am.
Sulli parks on the third floor of the parking deck. Only a few cars dot this level, which gives us plenty of privacy as we climb out and pop the trunk of the Honda. Sulli is digging in the backseat, gathering her backpack and things.
I scope out our surroundings, and as Banks pries a duffel from the trunk, I take the bag from his hands—something’s wrong.
He cinches one eye closed, wincing at fluorescent, parking deck lights that flicker on as dark clouds roll across the sky.
I solidify. “You’re in pain?”
Banks roots a hand to the side of the car.
I drop the bag. “Banks—talk to me.”
He hunches over, gripping the side of his head. “Fuck,” he grits through his teeth.
My pulse spikes. I dig into my pocket, about to call 9-1-1.
“Banks?” Sulli crawls out of the car and races to him, a hand to his shoulder. “Is it your head? Just sit down. Sit down.” She helps him lower against the tire of the Honda.
He rests his head back against the car. Both eyes cinched shut.
I tell him, “I’m calling an ambulance—”
“No,” he chokes, breathing hard through his nose. “Don’t.” He reaches a floppy hand out to steal my phone. I easily hold it out of his clutch.
Sulli squats next to him. “What do you need? Tylenol?”
He nods stiffly.
Sulli races back to our bags and starts digging in them.
Panic has already shot off in me. “Your head hurts?”
He nods. “Like a nail-gun to a…” He can’t even get out the words. He turns his head and pukes on the concrete. “Fuck,” he groans and spits.
“I have water,” Sulli calls out, rolling the bottle to me while she keeps searching for Tylenol.
I grab the water and crouch down to him, my hand on his shoulder.
He bangs his head back, face stuck in a grimace.
“Can you drink something?” I ask, popping the plastic lid to the water bottle.
Banks feels for the bottle, but I put it in his hand. He squirts some water in his mouth, swallows hard.
I grip my phone again. “You need a doctor—”
He shakes his head.
“Banks, I can’t just let you sit here and mask whatever’s happening with pain meds.” My voice is shaking. I’m angry that I haven’t pushed him to see a doctor earlier—like Farrow. Farrow. We’ve been around a fucking doctor for weeks, and I never brought up Banks’ headaches.
And I’m afraid that this is just a symptom of something bigger that’s happening right now.
Banks opens one eye to glare. “My brother…”
He knows if I call an ambulance, he’ll be stuck in a hospital, and he’ll miss the wedding. We all will, because there’s absolutely no way I’d leave him.
He’s one of my men.
But it’s more than that.
“I can’t let you risk your own life to make a wedding—”
“My brother,” he forces, his eyes bloodshot.
“Thatcher would understand,” I retort.
He shakes his head. “I can’t do that—”
“You could die,” I cut him off hotly, standing up. “You could fucking die, Banks. Your migraines could be a symptom of something bigger, and you could end up flat on your back unconscious and seizing. And I love you too much to let you die out in the middle of fucking Minnesota!” My pained voice echoes through the parking deck.
Shit.
I look around quickly for strangers.
Sulli is safe.
No one else is here.
I told Banks that I loved him before telling Sulli I love her. Awesome.
So very awesome.
I push my hair back. My heart rate accelerates even faster, and Banks tilts his head, looking up at me from his slouched spot against the tire. His knowing, understanding gaze just punctures me more.
Very gently, he says, “It’s not a brain aneurysm.”
Sulli comes back, kneeling beside Banks. She helps him with the pain meds, but she eyes me like I’m the one barfing on the ground and in need of assistance.
I lick my dried lips, then go to massage my knuckles, but my phone is in my fist.
They both know my mom has been in the hospital for brain aneurysms. She’s had six over the course of her life. Surgery for three. Same symptoms that I just saw from Banks right now.
Sensitivity to light.
Nausea.
The day she had her first seizure, I found her in the kitchen. I was eighteen. I’d just lost my dad a year before, and I thought I was about to lose my mom.
After she got a diagnosis, she chose to move back to New York. Family upon family are all there, cousins and aunties and uncles who are closer than close. Family that my parents left when they had me and ended up in Philly. Family that I didn’t grow up around.
It was always just me and my mom and my dad.
Thais look after their elderly parents, and even though she wasn’t old yet, I thought my mom would let me help her. Be there for her. Take care of her.
But she chose New York and her brothers and sisters a year after I opened my gym in Philadelphia. A year after I sunk my dad’s life insurance into a business that I couldn’t abandon.
A year after I committed myself to the city where she raised me.
She left, knowing that I couldn’t follow.
I was nineteen.
And she keeps me briefly in the loop about her health, but I hate feeling like she left because she didn’t want to burden me. Some days, I just miss my mom. I worry about her regardless if she’s a mile away or a hundred.
And now I’m afraid for Banks.
“You can’t be sure it’s not a brain aneurysm,” I tell him, “or something worse.”
Banks washes down paid meds, forcing his eyes open on me. “I’ve had migraines since I got back from my deployment.” He takes a sharp breath. “It’s been like this since I was twenty-two. There’s nothing more to them than this. I promise.” He’s not as pale. He’s able to speak.
“Have you ever seen a neurologist?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Banks,” Sulli says in shock. “I’d slug you right now.”
Banks tries to smile, but he�
��s trying not to puke again. “Doctors are expensive.”
“I pay for your health insurance,” I remind him. “And it’s fucking good and expensive for me.”
His lip manages to quirk. “Maybe I just don’t trust them.”
“That sounds more accurate,” I say, my phone still in my fist. If I let him get on a plane and something were to happen to him mid-air, I couldn’t live with that. It’d be the worse decision I’ve ever made.
But if it’s only a temporary migraine and I send him to the hospital where he misses Thatcher’s wedding…
Shit.
What am I going to do?
I flip my phone in my palm.
Trust yourself, Nine.
I pocket my phone. “Can you stand?”
Banks relaxes seeing the threat of an ambulance gone. “Yeah.” He weakly picks himself up with Sulli’s and my help. And once he’s able to stand on his own, we grab the bags. He tries to pick one up, and I shove his chest.
“What is it you always say?” I ask him, then snap my finger. “No way in hell.”
Banks cracks a weak smile. “That saying doesn’t work for you, Akara. You’d find some way in hell. That’s why I follow you and not the other way around.”
I almost smile back, but I won’t fully breathe until we’re in Philly and he’s standing on two feet. “Promise me, when we get back home, you’ll go see someone about your migraines.”
He gives me a nod. Barely a promise.
But I accept what I can. Right now, we have a plane to catch.
47
BANKS MORETTI
My phone is heavy in my hand. I stand at the huge glass window, overlooking a half-a-dozen idled planes. The sun has gone down; lights blink around the tarmac, and rain batters the glass and the pavement and my fucking soul.
The airport is packed with restless and sleeping bodies. Electronic boards read delayed, delayed, delayed. Sulli has been making calls to her family. Her sister steamed her pale-yellow dress and has been holding onto the garment bag. Every bridesmaid is going to wear a different pastel, cotton-candy color.
Every groom has a different pastel, cotton-candy-colored tie. My mom has my black tux, my mint-green tie, and Akara’s pastel pink. They’re helping us so when we arrive, we’ll just slip right in and carry on.
Except the storm that’s tearing through Minnesota isn’t letting up. Rain rolls down the glass I stare out of, and high winds thrash suitcases off carts, lying sideways on the tarmac.
This is going to be the hardest call I’ve ever made in my life.
And I don’t want to make it.
I wish to God I didn’t have to.
My finger presses his number, a thousand pounds of lead in my stomach. And I lift my phone to my ear.
He picks up on the first ring. “I’m looking at the flight tracker right now.” He’s been staring at it all night. I know my twin brother.
“What’s it say?” I ask, choked.
The line is loud with our pain.
“It might not be delayed for long,” he says, his voice just as tight. “It could pass through in enough time.”
“Thatcher.” My voice breaks. I pinch my eyes, my chest heaving. It’s too late. I can’t get the words out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I breathe out the apologies like a cathartic release, but it’s not enough to take away the iron fist around my vital organs.
Thatcher sniffs loudly, a sharp sound in his throat like he’s holding back tears.
I catch Jane’s soft, consoling voice in the background. “I’m here.”
I smear a hand down my face. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, shifting my weight. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Thatcher chokes out.
“What do you have to be sorry about?” I question, my nose flaring and eyes burning. “Huh? You’re not the one missing…” My face twists, chin quakes. This is happening. This is really fucking happening.
“It’s out of your control,” Thatcher says in a deep, shaking breath. “And I’m sorry if you think I’m pissed at you—I’m not. You know I can’t be, not for more than a second.”
I wipe the wet streaks off my face. “I want to be there.”
“I want you here.”
Tears well up again. Heaviness bears down on my chest. “I physically can’t make it.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
I shake my head to myself.
Imagine growing up with someone from the first breath to twenty-nine. Sharing every milestone together. We’re bonded by something stronger than friendship or family. Something deep and unseen. For the rest of our lives, we’ll be tied together in this world. And I’m going to miss one of the biggest moments of his life.
I never imagined I wouldn’t be there.
“It’ll never be okay,” I tell him.
“I can postpone the wedding,” Thatcher says, and I hear Jane voice her agreement in the background.
I feel sick, worse than the migraine I endured earlier. “You aren’t doing that Thatcher Alessio Moretti,” I say in a whisper. “You can’t.” I go on and on about how there are too many people involved in the wedding. Too many family members. All the work Jane did. And I end with, “I’d never want you to change everything just for me.”
“I’d change my world for you,” he whispers back.
I’d do the same for you.
It all crashes into me. “You shouldn’t have to.” I wipe my nose with my hand. “I’ll be alright. You’ll be alright. Sky will be with you.”
Mention of our older brother breaks Thatcher. I hear him choke on a sob. I stare harder at the tarmac, fighting more tears. “I’ll see you and Janie when I can.” I take a breath. “I love you.”
Thatcher inhales. “I love you too. Be safe.”
I breathe in more and add, “Tell Ma and grandma I’m fine. And tell your future brother-in-laws to record everything. Every angle.”
“I’ll tell my future sister-in-law,” Thatcher says softly. “Audrey will do a better job.”
I wipe at my face again. “Good.”
Good.
We stay on the line for a moment longer, and then we say our official goodbyes and I hang up. I’m frozen solid for a second.
Gutted.
And then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Another on my waist. Akara and Sulli come to either side of me. They don’t say anything. The three of us just stand together. Looking out at the lights on the tarmac. The pain ebbs and flows inside me, and I feel them trying to carry it. To take it away.
Christ, I can’t imagine being here alone. With no one. The thought is more painful, so I hold onto the soothing reality.
They’re here with me.
It’ll be alright.
48
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
We reach the steps of the stone mansion, resembling some kind of royal, Tudor castle with roses etched into wooden arches. Stunning, fucking majestic, and perfectly fitting for Jane.
Brass knockers decorate the humongous oak double-doors, and they’re already cracked open. Inside, a white-gloved server greets us with a tray of espresso martinis, and I know the reception is halfway over.
Winona has been texting me updates so I can track how much we’ve missed.
The ceremony has ended.
Dinner has been served. Plates of sea bass, bread and butter, beef tenderloin, chicken marsala, cavatelli: a pasta that Banks pronounced gavadeel’, and more are eaten and washed clean.
So at least Banks, Akara, and I are heading to the outdoor reception without blindfolds. We know what we’re barreling into.
Not pausing to grab espresso martinis, we quickly pass the server and half-jog, half-walk down the long castle hallway. Oil portraits of historic, 1700s Philly are framed on dark-wood paneling. Chandeliers that probably cost more than a Rolls-Royce hang above our hurried pace.
We’re wearing the same grimy clothes we had on in Yellowstone. The same ones we wore when we pushed Booger down a deserted road. Sa
me ones we had on at the airport, then the plane, then our taxi ride here.
No time for showers. Just a quick swipe of deodorant and a swish of mouthwash. My hair is piled into a bun, and I’ve lost the ability to catch our scent hours ago.
I’m sure I smell just fucking wonderful.
But none of that matters. Every second we miss the reception is another memory gone.
“Screw this maze,” Banks grunts as we end at a fork in the hall. I peek into the grand ballroom where the ceremony took place. Littered with colorful dahlias, bright-blue cornflowers, and baskets of baby pink verbenas. Flowers I couldn’t name if it weren’t for Jane showing me the floral list.
My heart pangs, seeing the venue’s staff take away stacks of chairs. I can almost picture the romantic, sentimental ceremony. The smiles, tears and tissues, and Jane smiling so brightly up at her groom that her cheeks turn a rosy pink.
Banks opens a door that might be an exit.
It’s a broom closet.
He groans, “Mother of Christ.”
To reach the gardens, we have to go through the venue. Perfect for privacy and security but fucking hard for three latecomers who just want to be there already.
Akara switches a knob on his radio. He must hear something because he says, “Take a right.”
Banks blazes ahead, and I’m right behind him.
Seconds later, we find stained-glass double-doors that lead to the outdoor gardens. Chilly tonight, guests wear coats since the sun has just disappeared. Fairy lights are strung up between trees, and the dance floor is crowded.
As soon as the three of us exit the stone building and enter the party, the song switches. It’s in that sudden moment of silence that someone from Banks’ family spots him and yells, “BANKS IS HERE!”
A giant metaphorical spotlight shines down on us.
If I didn’t feel out of place in my jeans, T-shirt, dirt-smudged cheeks, and messy bun—I definitely fucking do now.
Banks grumbles, “Aunt Tami.”
Thank you, Aunt Tami.
One good thing comes from the immediate attention, Thatcher and Jane are running towards us. Jane hikes up her wedding dress to gain speed.
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