“Hey,” Farrow nods. “You okay?” He lowers next to his son and helps him flip a page that’s stuck together.
I upnod and try to vocalize my feelings. Not always that easy. “You talk to my brother recently?”
After Farrow bites into the apple, he leans back on one hand and swallows. “I talk to him basically every day. Hazard of our spouses being best friends.”
Farrow and Thatcher talking every day. I’ve seen stranger things, but clearly my brother has a new best friend that’s not Akara. I never would’ve thought it’d be Farrow.
Ripley giggles at an animal noise from the book.
Farrow smiles. “That one’s an elephant.”
His son babbles back.
Just so I go through with this conversation, I force myself to sit on the mod couch.
Farrow sees.
I speak before he can. “Thatcher never told me he planned to do the cheating leak with Jane. Probably because he knew I’d give him hell for even thinking about it. Let alone putting that shit into the universe.”
“He didn’t tell me either, and Jane didn’t even tell Maximoff. I don’t think they told anyone but each other.”
I nod, knowing that my brother and his wife only conspired together. Thatcher and I talked about the whole thing after the fact.
I crack a crooked smile at a thought. “My brother went rogue. You must be rubbing off on him.”
Farrow sucks in breath. “Not really. He pulled some Cobalt plot-twist shit, and man, that’s not me.” He tilts his head. “But clearly it’s in him.”
I bob my head again. “Thatcher loves implementing strategies and taking bullets. Always has. And Janie is his other half.” They’re teammates in this fucked up world.
Farrow assesses me in a quick sweep. “Okay, you didn’t come here just to talk about your brother, did you?”
Just say it. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”
His brows shoot up. “Everything okay?”
I nod, automatic, but then I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I scrape a hand down my tensed jaw. “No offense, Farrow, I fuckin’ hate going to the doctor.”
His lip quirks. “That’s a more common sentiment than you might realize, Banks. It’s okay.”
I grip my knee, not able to tell him how I grew up rarely going to annual check-ups. Not really wanting to sit here and describe how I don’t trust doctors because in my head, they never have anything good to say. Why go to a place just to receive bad news?
I’m going to live my life and one day, I’m gonna die.
So it goes.
Now, though, it’s different. I want to know that I’ll be able to wake up tomorrow and see her. I want to hold her in my arms a year from now. Two years. Longer.
As long as she’ll have me.
Farrow frowns harder. “The med team is open to Kitsuwon Securities, so you can talk to me about what’s going on.”
I nod several times. God, I hate talking about my pain. I’m not broken, and I want to be treated like I can do anything on security. Like I can keep up with SFO, because I know I can.
“Is it your back?” Farrow guesses.
“No.” I straighten up. “Maybe you can diagnose me here, so I don’t have to go in tomorrow.”
A bird squawks from the book, and Ripley giggles loudly. Farrow smiles before looking back to me. “I don’t even know one of your symptoms, Banks, so I can’t promise you a diagnosis. But I can give you my advice.”
Better than nothing.
I swallow hard before telling him, “I keep getting these migraines. After I came back from deployment when I was twenty-two, they started and haven’t let up that much since.”
Farrow doesn’t show anything past his expert-level poker face. “How often do they occur?”
I shrug. “It varies. Sometimes a few times a week. Sometimes once a month. But sometimes they’ve stopped for months at a time.”
“Do you notice any symptoms before the migraines start?”
“Like what?”
“Fatigue, nausea, depression, irritability. Anything like that?”
I yank at the collar of my shirt, feeling the cold metal of my dog tags. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe irritability?”
He flips another page for Ripley. “What about at the start of the migraine?” He looks to me. “Do you experience any sensory changes? Flashes of light in your eyes, spots in your vision, strange smells, hearing music when there is none, numbness or difficulty speaking?”
I shake my head. “No. None of that. My eyes just get ungodly sensitive to light.”
“The migraines are painful?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He pops something up on his phone and then hands it to me. “On a scale from 1 to 10, where’s your pain?”
I’m staring at a pain scale for migraines. Next to each number is a paragraph detailing pain symptoms. “I don’t think I’m anywhere near a 7, unmanageable pain. I can still perform daily functions.”
If I couldn’t, Akara would’ve sidelined my ass since he found out, not kept me on-duty. I’d be risking his company and Sulli. Hell, I’d sideline my ass at that point.
The casino was the first time I needed a bathroom puke break on-duty.
“I’m probably usually a 4 and verging on a 5,” I tell Farrow, passing him the phone back.
Farrow takes this in for a long second. “Does your brother know?”
“He knows I get migraines. But he thinks they’ve died down. He probably would’ve drop kicked my ass to the ER if he knew they’re back and getting worse.”
Farrow tilts his head to the side. “He wouldn’t be wrong. It’s not something that should be left unchecked for too long.”
I shrug. “I’ve survived.”
He pockets his phone. “How have you been treating it?”
“Advil, water, sunglasses, some Hail Mary’s, and prayers to Saint Gemma Galgani.”
His lips rise. “The first few most likely helped.”
“Don’t knock Saint Gemma. She’s come through for me a few times.”
He smiles a warm genuine smile. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“So what’s the diagnosis?”
“Are you seeing a specialist tomorrow?”
“Neurologist.” I don’t mention how she was fully booked and squeezed me into her schedule when she realized who I was. Her daughter is on the middle school swim team and idolizes Sullivan Meadows. Perks of having a talented girlfriend. Plus, Sulli was happy the appointment is only nine days after my Atlantic City migraine.
“Can I skip it?” I ask Farrow.
“No, you don’t want to skip. The neurologist might order you either an MRI or CT scan to rule out other causes of your pain. Once those are clear, she’ll go through medications that might help lessen the frequency and intensity of your migraines.”
I swallow hard. “What if they aren’t clear?”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Farrow says easily like it’s inconsequential. “Stay in the moment. No bad shit is happening until it happens, and it might never happen.”
I breathe in that philosophy. These days, I just feel like I have more to lose. More people will miss me if I’m gone.
More people need me than before.
My dumbass shouldn’t have gotten attached to more than just Thatcher before checking on my own health.
Farrow must see my stress. “The neurologist might not mention it, but there is something I can do.”
“What?” I ask. I’ll take anything.
“A Daith piercing.” He touches the inner cartilage of his ear. “There’s some evidence that this piercing helps with chronic migraines.”
“Sign me up.”
He smiles. “Okay, but come back to me after your appointment tomorrow. I’ll pierce you then.”
A lion roars from Ripley’s book and he lets out a sudden cry.
I almost laugh. “Someone definitely isn’t a Cobalt.”
Farrow nods. “I’m not sad about it.” His eyes meet mine once more. “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Banks. You’re doing the right thing.”
I’m doing the right thing.
It only took me seven years. It feels wrong to say I was scared, but what other excuse do I have? Tomorrow, I finally face a fear.
53
AKARA KITSUWON
Snow falls and covers the city streets of Philadelphia.
Bells rings from the temple, and I stand outside the opened doors. Family and friends dress in white and black as they gather around a casket draped with black cloth.
Even from back here, the smell of jasmine overpowers everything.
I look up. Yellow petals fall inexplicably from the sky off unseen trees, the Cassia Fistula flower native to Southeast Asia, and they flutter in gentle descent and pool at my bare feet. I stare ahead, through the opened doors. White flowers, my dad’s favorites, pile atop the casket.
Someone touches my shoulder.
I don’t see who.
They place a small flower in my hand. Petals made of birchwood shavings. I recognize the wooden flower immediately. I placed it under the casket before my dad’s cremation.
Laughter and smiles emit from the temple as everyone gathers to celebrate his life. For most people here, this isn’t the end of my dad’s life, but it still feels like it for me.
Monks chant, and I try to take a step towards the temple.
My feet can’t move.
I glance down. The yellow flowers are gone.
Snow compacts over my feet like cement. No.
My pulse spikes, and I watch as the temple doors begin to slowly close. NO! I try to scream, but my voice is soundless.
I can’t miss the ceremony.
I can’t miss it! I can’t!
You didn’t, Nine.
Then why am I living this nightmare?!
Tears prick my eyes, cold whipping around me.
I blink.
I’m inside.
But it’s not the temple.
I’m sitting on a metal chair on the outskirts of a boxing ring. Cellos play softly in the background—Bach. My mom stands in the middle, wearing a Mongkhon around her head. A symbol of respect and worthiness, gifted from her Muay Thai trainer. Handmade from rope and cloth. My mom always said her Mongkhon had special powers of protection that’d keep her safe. Before the fight, her trainer would take off the Mongkhon and place it on the top of her corner for good fortune. As a little kid, I believed in all of its symbolism.
Snow falls from the ceilings.
Damn snow. Flurries wet my cheeks like tears.
Seats fill around me and cheering crowds overtake and drown the classical music. My mom stands still like a statue, but she’s looking right at me. Blinking.
My chest rises and falls heavily. No.
Her opponent climbs underneath the ropes and enters the ring. Creeping up behind my mom with stealth.
“Mom, move!” I yell, this time sounds returns to my voice. “MOM!”
But my mom doesn’t listen.
She remains right there. Standing. Staring.
“MOM!”
The other fighter approaches quickly. In range for attack.
“MOVE!” I scream, spit flying. Lungs crushing with terror. It’s too late.
She lands a single deathblow to my mom’s face.
Lights out. My mom just collapses in a heap. Cheers around me are excruciating. People shake my shoulders in excitement like someone scored a touchdown.
I blink.
The room is pitch-black.
Sweat coats my skin.
My breath comes out in heavy waves, and I sit up only to careen into my knees. I cry. Choked sobs rumble through me.
Growing up, my dad and I would discuss my dreams. We’d talk through them, and each time, he’d tell me how intuitive I was. How, deep down, I know myself better than most. “Your conscience speaks to you, Nine,” he’d say. “Always listen to it.”
I didn’t listen to the cliff nightmares.
I shook those off.
Now I’m here. My guilt for disregarding my dad’s advice is apparent. I know that’s what this is.
Roughly, I wipe at my eyes.
These are harder to experience every night. Harder to wake up from. I understand I’m fighting against my own happiness and it’s tearing me apart from the inside out.
Reaching over to the nightstand, I switch a knob to a lamp. Sweat coats my bare chest, and the warm light illuminates the ink along my upper bicep, shoulder, and upper chest: a tattoo of a snake twisted around red roses and yellow flowers, the latter being the national flower of Thailand called golden shower, or Cassia Fistula.
I go to grab my phone but accidentally touch my wallet. Leaning out of bed, I curl my fingers around the brown leather and study the wallet under the lamp. My thumb runs over the burned number in the left corner.
9.
Banks gifted me the wallet for my recent birthday. I breathe in a strained breath. Grief rolling through my body, I don’t go back to sleep.
I climb out of bed.
Going through the motions, I leave my room, shower, put on my radio, and make a protein shake. By the time light hits the sky, I’m just waiting for Luna to text me when she’s leaving the penthouse.
Her Introduction to Economics for Business course meets on Tuesday and Thursdays, and I sit behind her assigned seat. I tried to talk my way out of paying a fee to sit-in on the lecture—I’m not really there for school, anyway—but it was a no-go. The price of auditing that class is now added into Kitsuwon Securities’ P&L sheet.
At the kitchen bar, I search through social media for any threats towards Luna.
Comms crackle in my ear. “Banks to Thatcher, I’m heading out to Jersey with Sulli.”
“Copy,” Thatcher says quickly over the radio.
I frown. New Jersey.
What’s Sulli doing in New Jersey? Are they going back to Atlantic City to gamble again?
I shouldn’t ask.
You can ask, Nine.
I take a tight breath and text Banks. What’s going on in New Jersey?
Casual. Very casual. I’m just a boss checking in on one of my guys and his client. That’s all this is.
Seconds later, I get a reply.
Neurologist. – Banks
Shit.
Shoot.
He’s finally doing it.
Instinct overpowers logic, and I quickly jump up and grab my jacket. With one hand, I text back: Where?
54
AKARA KITSUWON
Nerves are in overdrive when I show up to the doctor’s office. Especially when I see her.
Sulli pops up from her seat in the waiting room. Her green eyes tunnel through me with surprise and confusion and weeks I’ve missed.
I spent over five years protecting her. Years with Sullivan Meadows. Years at her side. Years hearing her laugh. Years feeling her knuckles press into my arm. Years seeing her climb to the top again and again.
Years with her love. Years with our love.
Whenever I screwed up and we fought, she was still there.
This time, leaving her detail has wrenched me away from those years. Left me looking to my left and right and there’s no Sullivan. No laughter, no playfulness, no competitiveness, no love. Just empty.
A void that I created.
A void that’s killing me slowly with every passing day. Each hour without Sulli is a brutal millennium.
The waiting room is mostly empty. Hovering near Sulli is a temp bodyguard that I employ. Seeing me, he arches his shoulders, lifts his chin. On his best behavior. He gives her enough space.
And he gives me space to approach.
I stop a few feet away. Resisting with all that’s in me not to step closer. Not to open my arms for her. Not to pick her feet off the floor and spin her around like we’re reuniting after forever.
She halts suddenly, mimicking me. “Hey,” she breathes softly.
I haven’t really heard her voice in a while.
I miss you, Sul.
Pressure bears down on my chest. Air is too thick to inhale. “Hi,” I manage.
Her green eyes carry longing and sadness, and I caused that. It cuts me up. Bleeds me out. I push my hair back and then put on a black beanie.
“I didn’t think you’d come.” She gathers her hair into a messy bun. “I mean, I fucking knew you asked where the doctor’s office was, but I thought maybe you’d just Google Maps it and stay home.”
“It’s a big deal. I want to be here.”
“Even though you’re not dating us anymore?” She snaps the hair-tie and crosses her arms.
I glance over my shoulder. Behind a desk, a receptionist is on the phone, back turned to us.
Sulli catches me looking. “You’re afraid she might hear?” She intakes a hot breath. “Kits, I’d scream it from the rooftops, if I could. It’s the fucking truth. We were together. I know you want to erase it from your memory like it never happened—”
“That’s the very last thing I want to do.” I cringe into a pained wince. “I don’t want to erase anything we had from my memory, Sul. I never want to forget you—even if it kills me.”
She threads her hands onto her head, like she’s coming off a marathon.
“I just don’t want anyone to know,” I say strongly. “That’s it. I’m trying to protect you.”
“By hurting yourself,” she snaps back. “By hurting me and Banks.”
“It’s temporary,” I try to convince myself.
“What is?”
“The pain.”
She shakes her head and wipes at her face. “And here I fucking thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”
I haven’t.
I won’t.
She deserves to live her life without being a public spectacle. To wake up and be able to breathe and not be suffocated by the world. I can give her that.
I swallow hard and nod towards the door. “Is he back there?”
She follows my gaze. “No, they took him downstairs to imaging. He’s getting an MRI.”
Without hesitation, I walk forward and take a seat in the waiting room. Right next to the chair she’d been sitting on.
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