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.