But my flippant bachelorette metaphor doesn’t mask the seriousness of what’s happening. What we’re embarking upon. A road where I’m in competition with my friend.
And one of us is going to be left heartbroken.
17
BANKS MORETTI
Sweet, sweet Montana. Alas, we’ve finally made it to Yellowstone Country.
Not that we see much in the dead of night. After parking Booger in a safe spot, we click on headlamps and hike to our backcountry campsite. A place much closer to the rock face Sulli plans to free-solo.
We set-up camp.
Working quietly, seamlessly—like the three of us have done this our whole lives together—we help each other pop up the teal tent, roll out the sleeping bags, and recheck our supplies. Through our exhaustion, we zip up the tent and start to pass out.
Three different sleeping bags. Enough room not to test any kind of waters. Too tired to even overthink how I’m not on an easy path to be with Sulli.
A miracle slams down to Earth to make that happen—because that’s all I’ve really been thinking about. How Akara and Sulli kissed. How I’m now competing for her affection against my best friend. Who also has history with Sulli that I don’t have.
He’s known her for what feels like forever.
How do I even compete with that?
And I knew a scenario where Akara and Sulli getting together could eventually come to pass, but fuck me that it had to happen less than 24-hours after I kissed her. Bad luck.
Bad at love. Throw out Roscoe, that should just be my middle name instead.
If I were smarter, maybe I’d just back off and let Akara jog easily into her heart, so I wouldn’t be here pulling her in another direction. But if chasing after Sullivan Meadows is the foolish thing to do, I’m gonna be the biggest fool this world has ever seen.
I’ve gotten this far. I’m not letting her go now. And whatever happens will happen.
Come what may.
It’s the thought I wake to.
Exiting the tent, I stretch my arms and yawn up at the morning sky. With the break of day, my surroundings aren’t just muddled in darkness.
So I look around while I rotate my sore shoulders. Spruce trees landscape lush, yellow-green grass, rolling into hills and valleys. Wildflowers grow near the bank of a lazy river. Which I heard trickling last night, but I thought it’d look more like a tiny stream.
I go still.
Three deer wander along the bank. Massive antlers crown the largest one. Head hoisting, beady eyes lie serene on me. Like I’m just part of the scenery.
Another animal among animals.
Wildlife is abundant here. Every which way, another woodland creature pops out. Hawks cut through the air. Chipmunks scurry beneath logs. Nothing that’d bother us if we don’t bother them. Though, I know the hierarchy in the animal kingdom, and I’d rather meet the peasants of Yellowstone.
No grizzly bears. No packs of wolves. No buffalo.
I’m not someone who really communes with nature. I grew up riding a bike through South Philly, not sniffing dandelions on a mountainside.
The city has been my home.
But I don’t mind the crisp air or lack of traffic noise. I just wish there wasn’t a fuckin’ symphony in my temple right now. The banging, the thumping, pounds dully but I know it’s gonna grow.
While I ignore the incoming migraine, I detach a radio off my drawstring pants and glance deeper out.
Mountains border the horizon. One cliff towers more closely and looms over our camp. That peak must be about ninety-meters high. 300-feet up.
What a long way to fall.
I unspool my radio cord, my muscles constricting the more I eye the sheer size. Looks more dangerous than the rocks in Pennsylvania.
And Sulli plans to climb that beast with no safety gear. It seems fucking impossible, but I remember why this cliff is on her list of climbs in the Yellowstone region. Ryke Meadows once free-soloed this same rock, this same route called The Bitterroot Buttress.
Her dad did it, so it is possible.
She can do it too.
I’d bet on Sulli, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be biting my nails to the fucking bed watching her up there.
I fit in my earpiece. Switch on comms to a frequency Akara set among Security Force Omega out west. Thatcher, Oscar, and Farrow are now in comms range, but they didn’t hike to the primitive campsite last night with us. They’re staying miles back at an RV campground with bathroom facilities—hell, even showers—and more importantly, they have easy access to the road.
My brother and the others choosing to go glamping is a saving grace, really.
I need them to be far away from me right now—or I could risk opening my big mouth to Thatcher and blurting out how Akara and Sulli already kissed.
I’m not gonna be the first to spill the beans. The three of us agreed to keep everything to ourselves for now. If we tell the others, it’d cause too much attention and pull focus from Sulli’s purpose for being out here.
To free-solo.
Comms on, I figure since I’m awake I can at least whip up something to eat. Pretty easily, I start a fire using a fire-starter, then I boil a pot of water and dig through our breakfast supplies.
Oatmeal, no thanks.
Instant eggs, not bad.
Pancakes, Sulli will love those. I leave out the add-water-only mix, and the longer I dig, the less I find any kind of meat. Looks like I’m gonna be a fucking herbivore.
Wait—here’s a pack of beef jerky.
I’ll take it.
I rip into that dried meat, biting off a piece while I sit on a rock and mix up some pancakes for the mermaid and eggs for Akara and me.
And I rub my thumping temple and glance too many times at the tent. I’m out here whipping up food for the girl I like, and she’s alone with Akara.
Good for them.
I try to think it, but my stomach roils.
Midway through cooking, Akara climbs out of the tent. “Need help?” He fits in his earpiece as he approaches.
Any heat in my soul just sputters out. Can’t resent Akara. Not when I’ve been a supporter of him getting with Sulli for so long.
“I’m good.” I fit a toothpick between my lips and flip the third pancake. I have to go one at a fucking time on this teeny-tiny fold-out pan.
Akara reaches for a pancake off a plate.
“Those are for Sulli,” I say fast.
He makes a face and points at me with the floppy, half-burnt pancake. “Who are you and what have you done with Banks?”
I chew on the toothpick. “I’m the same as I’ve always been.”
“You don’t cook. You especially don’t cook special breakfasts for anyone.”
My lip nearly rises. “You sure I haven’t cooked one for you before?”
“Thatcher has. You? Never,” Akara says. “If you cooked me breakfast, I would’ve marked the date on a calendar and stuck OMG stickers around the words Banks Loves Me.”
I hold his gaze. “What’s today’s date?”
“September 29th.”
I nod to him. “Go get your OMG stickers. I made you scrambled eggs.”
“Not pancakes?”
“Those are for—” Sulli. I cut myself off as Akara bites into the pancake.
Cringing, he spits it out in the sizzling fire. “Shit, these are bad, man. Like charcoal putty.”