“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. Same ones we had on at the airport, then the plane, then our taxi ride here.