Because the more territorial I seem over Akara, the worse I feel. He’s not mine.
We’re not dating. We’re barely even friends at this point. Whatever we were is dangling on a cliff by a cheap friendship-bracelet string. The kind that frays after one hot summer.
I tuck my water bottle under my arm. Step away from the freezer. And try to salvage what’s left here. So I nudge his arm. “I hope you gave her an orgasm. Rocked her world. Stroked her clit. All that good stuff.”
Banks hangs his head, eyes on the ground with a soft smile.
Akara is trying to read my features. Maybe to see if I’m sincere. His eyes are asking, you’re okay? We’re better?
Banks lifts his head. “Yeah, Akara.” Humor laces his voice. “You stroke that clit?”
Akara smiles, flips off Banks, then turns to me. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rethinking. Before he says, “If you really want to know, I made her come four times. So you can stop worrying about that.”
I’m really not worried about it.
Just trying to re-knot the friendship bracelet of our friendship.
It feels like a little too late.
“Yeah, I won’t worry anymore,” I tell him.
He frowns. “We’re okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “You tell me, Kits.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re allowed to have a girlfriend—”
“She’s not my girlfriend—”
“Friendly casual date, whatever.”
Akara sighs, hating this place we’re at, but of the few times we’ve fought or entered awkward territory, he’s always tried his hardest to repair the damage. It means a lot to me. Because at the very least, I know he doesn’t want to lose me completely.
Maybe that’s why his silence after the funhouse felt so fucking different. I’m usually the one who avoids and he’s the one who insists on working through the mess.
“Can we just start over?” I ask him.
He massages his hands, but his eyes never leave me. “How far back? Do I need to reintroduce myself to you?” An attractive smile inches up his face. “Hi, I’m Akara.” He extends his hand. “Born and bred in Northwest Philly, fourth-generation Thai, son of a broker and of a former-pro Muay Thai fighter. I hate people who walk too slowly on sidewalks, and I’ve had the honor of protecting a competitive string bean.”
It makes me smile.
And I shake his hand with a firm grip. “Sulli.”
“Just Sulli?”
“You can look me up on the internet.”
“Ouch.” He touches his heart.
I pat his sweaty shoulder. “I do have to tell you something that can’t be found online.” I look around for Banks. He’s tossing his paper plate in the trash, about to leave. “Wait, Banks,” I say fast. “You should probably hear this too.”
He leans a hip on the stove.
Akara grows more serious. “This is why you texted me?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I want to leave for the mountains today. The earlier, the better. And you can’t tell my parents.”
It’s going to be a covert road trip out west. With Akara.
And most likely Banks.
There’s no running away from this one.
4
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
My dad has been on the cover of National Geographic more times than I can count. He’ll be the first to say it’s a stupid fucking accomplishment—that the personal goals are the ones to strive for.
Personally, I thought he wouldn’t have taken it so hard when I told him my new goal. That I wanted to free-solo climb his old routes.
He taught me how to climb before I even learned how to read. Plastic anchors and footholds spindled up my childhood bedroom wall like I lived and breathed inside a jungle gym. I loved the difficulty, the challenge, and the euphoric feeling when I reached the top.
My dad would swoop me up in his arms, and we’d cheer together.
As soon as I was old enough, I gripped real rock and ascended. While I trained for swimming in my teens, I climbed as a way to condition on dry land.
Rock climbing has always, always been a part of my fucking life. Swimming is my first love, but climbing is something else. If families gather around the TV every night to watch Survivor or The Amazing Race, my family gathered around cliff faces. It brought us closer. Bound us together.
For me and Winona, climbing became a part of our DNA.
Our dad taught us how to sport climb, using preplaced bolts.
He taught us how to trad climb, placing our own safety gear as we ascended.
He taught us how to free-solo when we craved to learn. No rope, no harness. No safety equipment. Just your body, the rock, and a sack of chalk.
My dad—Ryke Meadows—is considered the greatest free-solo climber in the world. He’ll be the first to say, it’s not true. That others are better out there. He’s just the most recognizable. The one who’s shown his face to the media.
But at the thought of his daughters learning to free-solo from someone else, he caved under our wishes and longing. He taught us the safest way. To never put ourselves in a situation where we couldn’t accomplish the task.
Because if you fail at free-soloing, you’re either gravely injured…or you’re dead.
Due to the high-risks, I’ve only attempted to free-solo smaller faces. Mostly, I’ve spent a good portion of the past few months speed-climbing. Breaking new personal records. Clocking in faster and faster times. Until the allure slowly fizzled out, the challenge completed, and I needed to set another goal.
So a couple days after the carnival—on my dad’s fiftieth birthday—I told him, “I want to free-solo climb all of your old routes.”
After the words left my mouth, he just stared at me for a long moment and then said, “Fuck no.”
Despite my dad’s public reputation as a foul-mouthed, aggressive dude, he’s actually a soft teddy bear at heart. I can count on my hand the number of times he’s actually told me no.
My throat closed that day. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead fucking serious. You’re not climbing all my routes.”
“I’ll put in the time and work up to the more advanced ones—”
“Sulli, it’s not fucking happening.” He shot up from the couch, brown eyes blazed with heat.
“Dad—”
“Do you even realize who you’re named after?” His voice rose and he paused quickly to breathe through his nose.
In his silence, my veins iced. “Adam Sully.” I said his name.
My namesake.
I watched my dad’s eyes glass. He took a full minute to formulate words. “I’m not losing you to the mountain, too.”
I touched my chapped lips. “I’m not going to fall. I’m smart. I’m calculated. You know this about me. I’d never take a risk that I couldn’t complete.” Injuries were death knells for me growing up. Being careful is something that Meadows aren’t known for, but I broke that mold a long time ago.
“You wouldn’t do the ultra-marathon without Moffy, but you want to go do this?”