No time for showers. Just a quick swipe of deodorant and a swish of mouthwash. My hair is piled into a bun, and I’ve lost the ability to catch our scent hours ago.
I’m sure I smell just fucking wonderful.
But none of that matters. Every second we miss the reception is another memory gone.
“Screw this maze,” Banks grunts as we end at a fork in the hall. I peek into the grand ballroom where the ceremony took place. Littered with colorful dahlias, bright-blue cornflowers, and baskets of baby pink verbenas. Flowers I couldn’t name if it weren’t for Jane showing me the floral list.
My heart pangs, seeing the venue’s staff take away stacks of chairs. I can almost picture the romantic, sentimental ceremony. The smiles, tears and tissues, and Jane smiling so brightly up at her groom that her cheeks turn a rosy pink.
Banks opens a door that might be an exit.
It’s a broom closet.
He groans, “Mother of Christ.”
To reach the gardens, we have to go through the venue. Perfect for privacy and security but fucking hard for three latecomers who just want to be there already.
Akara switches a knob on his radio. He must hear something because he says, “Take a right.”
Banks blazes ahead, and I’m right behind him.
Seconds later, we find stained-glass double-doors that lead to the outdoor gardens. Chilly tonight, guests wear coats since the sun has just disappeared. Fairy lights are strung up between trees, and the dance floor is crowded.
As soon as the three of us exit the stone building and enter the party, the song switches. It’s in that sudden moment of silence that someone from Banks’ family spots him and yells, “BANKS IS HERE!”
A giant metaphorical spotlight shines down on us.
If I didn’t feel out of place in my jeans, T-shirt, dirt-smudged cheeks, and messy bun—I definitely fucking do now.
Banks grumbles, “Aunt Tami.”
Thank you, Aunt Tami.
One good thing comes from the immediate attention, Thatcher and Jane are running towards us. Jane hikes up her wedding dress to gain speed.
My eyes immediately well when I see my cousin in her wedding gown. The bodice is a pastel baby blue with multi-colored, glittering rhinestones. Baby blue tulle upon tulle fills the bottom of the dress with more gems sewed throughout.
She looks like a fairy princess.
And when her arms fly around my shoulders, it’s hard not to burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Jane,” I say at the same time she says, “I’m so glad you made it.”
I wipe roughly at my face. “I didn’t make it.”
We break away and she brushes the remaining tears off my cheeks. “You’re here, aren’t you?” She must see the guilt in my eyes. “It’s not your fault, Sulli.”
It is my fault. I could have finished climbing a day earlier. A week earlier. Fuck, the trip could have been postponed until after the wedding. Until next year. Banks would have made it in all of those scenarios. I would have made it. Akara would have made it.
It will always be my fault.
No matter who tells me any fucking differently. No matter how many times Banks professes that it’s not, the guilt will stay in my heart where it belongs. I’ve learned a lot over this trip. How forgiveness is hard for me. It’s going to be even harder to forgive myself.
“You’re going to regret coming,” Thatcher tells his brother. Jane and I both catch their conversation and look over. Thatcher has an uncharacteristic smile on his face. “Everyone wants to hear this story. You’re going to end up talking to more family than me.”
Banks grimaces. “How about we do another twin-switch for a couple hours?”
“Hell no. I’m going to be the one dancing with my wife.” Thatcher grins wider and then his face grows more serious. “You were right.” He takes a beat. “I felt him there.”
Banks nods more than once, too choked to speak. He must be referring to Skylar. I watch as Banks pats the necklace against Thatcher’s chest: two gold horns.
And then Thatcher brings his brother into another tight hug.
Right as they pull apart and Thatcher hugs Akara, Jane squeezes my hand. Grabbing my attention as she says, “Your parents have been worried about you.”
I suck in a tight breath. My parents. I had a quick phone call with them at the airport, so I know their worry is at the top of Mount Everest right now.
I give Jane a smile and squeeze her hand back. “Congratulations, Mrs. Moretti.” It’s been wildly speculated in the media if she’d take Thatcher’s name.
She told me her decision weeks ago.
Jane Eleanor Moretti.
She dropped the Cobalt. But in her words, “Being a Cobalt isn’t in name. It’s in blood and heart.” I believe that as much as being a Meadows is in spirit.
My cousin lights up at hearing me call her a Moretti, and I hope to feel that happiness one day. Completely swallowed up in someone else that you love sharing everything. Time, companionship, clothes, down to a name.
But a prick of anxiety nips at me. My ribs tighten thinking about that choice.
A name.
Kitsuwon
Moretti.
I’m not talking about marriage. That’s not even on my fucking radar. I just want the feeling, the relationship, the romance, and I definitely wish I could just detach from the doom and gloom of losing one of them and enjoy Jane’s wedding.
So I try my best to forget.
Jane and I give each other another hug before I leave her side to hunt down my parents. As soon as I shift away, I’m surprised when Akara doesn’t follow me. Instead, a temp bodyguard edges closer like he’s been silently instructed to take my detail.
Glancing around for Kits, who’s left Thatcher and Banks’ side, I find him speaking to an older-looking man who’s well over Akara’s six-foot-two height.
Michael Moretti.
Akara is finally able to formally greet Banks’ dad.
49
BANKS MORETTI
Cousins swarm me, and thank Christ I’m great at brevity because I fling cliff-notes versions of what happened every which way.
While my brother and Janie make rounds thanking guests, I position myself near a cluster of red rose bushes. As far from the outdoor heaters as possible, which warm the three fully stocked bars, the packed dance floor, a three-piece orchestra playing Italian classics, a crooner singing way too much Sinatra (Sorry, Grandma)—plus a DJ, four dessert tables, and several round, wicker tables for guests.
I’m hoping to shake off some of the extreme talkers, but apparently, everyone wants to freeze their ass-cheeks to come hear my story.
Staying in one spot isn’t working, so I just slip between chatting guests. Moving like a shadow throughout the gardens. And my eyes return to Akara and my dad. They speak near a pond where pink rose petals float across the water.
Really looking at my strict, hardass dad stops me in my tracks.
My nose flares.
I was twelve the night my brother died. Twelve the night that my gutted, grief-ridden dad looked me in the eye with this dark hollowness and said, “You’re the dispensable one. It should’ve been you.”
It hurt to hear when I was a kid.
But as an adult, looking back—for my dad to tell his twelve-year-old son that he wished he died over his fifteen-year-old…it’s unthinkable to me. I’d never do that to someone, let alone a kid.