I find the mic button, the one I’ve seen Banks and Akara press a thousand times. Choking on my words, I say, “Sulli to SFO, Thatcher has been shot. He’s been shot. We’re behind a tour bus.”
Muffled voices come out next, but I abandon the mic to keep applying pressure to the wound. Thatcher puts his blood-stained hand over my hand, and he chokes out, “Call Jane.” He’s fighting consciousness.
There’s so much fucking blood.
I’m shaking as I drop the gun and frantically dig in my pockets for my phone. Call Jane. Call Jane. I struggle to dial the number, blood smearing on the screen. And I keep one hand on Thatcher’s wound, not letting him bleed out.
“Call Jane,” he repeats weakly, desperately, like he knows he’s losing time. Like this is it. “I want to hear her voice…” He chokes down a strange, pained noise.
Jane…Jane.
My beautiful, lively cousin. Thatcher’s wife. The love of his life.
She can’t survive this.
Banks can’t survive this.
Please.
The Morettis can’t lose another son.
I finally hit the call Jane. And I have no signal. I have no fucking signal. “Thatcher,” I’m bawling. “Just stay with me. Stay strong. Hold on.”
“SULLI!” Farrow yells.
Thank God.
“Help is coming,” I say through tears.
Farrow skids down to the ground, trauma bag in hand. “Can you talk to me, Thatcher?” He checks his pulse with his gloved hand, and to me, Farrow says, “Don’t move, Sulli.”
I nod frantically, over and over. I’m not moving. I’m not moving.
“Check Sulli,” Thatcher chokes out, “I had to push her…”
Farrow briefly glances to my belly.
I’m pregnant.
“I’m fine,” I almost snap frantically. “Pay attention to him. Don’t worry about me.” I would shove Farrow towards Thatcher, but he’s already working fast, assessing Thatcher under his clothes while also grabbing supplies from the bag—I barely make sense of what he’s doing with the readiness and intense pace at which he moves.
“No exit wound, Thatcher,” Farrow says with calmness, but there is palpable urgency in his eyes that scares me. “I’m going to lie you on your back.” He pulls Thatcher away from the tour bus, so he’s supine. “You did great, Sulli. I have this now.”
I can’t move.
Someone touches my shoulder, and when I glance over, I realize it’s Moffy. My cousin. My big brother. “Sul.” His tough green eyes soften on me. “You can let go. It’s okay.”
I exhale a staggered breath and scuttle backwards on my butt to give Thatcher room. Hands stained red. I can’t tear my eyes fully off Thatcher. Like if I blink, he’ll disappear.
Maximoff kneels beside me, and I’m gripping the life out of his hand.
Farrow has already taken over, putting pressure on Thatcher’s abdomen with some sort of special dressing and bandage.
I stay beside Thatcher. “Hang in there,” I speak through an avalanche of tears and sharp breath. “You’re doing fucking great.” I’m using the words Farrow said to me. I don’t know what else to do. He’s losing a fuck ton of blood.
Thatcher is barely responsive. He blinks slowly, staring up at the night sky, then at Farrow.
“EMTs are on their way,” Farrow says, applying a lot of pressure to the wound. “You have a chance here, so stop looking at me like you’re saying goodbye. You’re the hall monitor. Write me up later about all your little rules I broke.”
Thatcher’s chest rises in a strained laugh. I swear I hear him say the word, friend, to Farrow.
Farrow has pain in his eyes.
And then Thatcher stares up again and chokes out, “Banks.”
I turn, and I let go of Moffy. Standing up, I see Banks and Akara running towards us at full speed. “He’s coming—Banks is coming.”
“THATCHER!” Banks screams.
And when I glance back at Thatcher, I stagger like I’ve been kicked in the gut. His eyes are shut—he’s no longer awake. Farrow looks as destroyed as I feel, but he’s checking his pulse. His airway.
Banks lurches backwards, as though he’s being shot. He sees his twin brother unconscious on the bloody grass, and Banks can’t even reach the tour bus where Thatcher lies. His legs buckle, and he drops to his knees. Wrenched in anguish, and Akara is holding onto Banks.
My heart is being shredded. I manage to find balance on my feet. I float towards them and then collapse to my knees beside the men I love.
Akara’s arms are wrapped around Banks as he cries into Akara’s chest. Guttural sobs from somewhere deeper than here. I press my forehead to Banks’ back, wanting to take the agony from him. To soak the pain up inside me.
Akara keeps whispering to him. Keeps talking.
“Just breathe….breathe.”
Tears spill down my cheeks. A darkness burrows through me, hollowing the light out.
Thatcher Moretti took a bullet for me.
He’s going to die protecting me.
All because I had to leave the concert early. Because I was scared of fucking fireworks.
Because I’m a coward.
I want to rewind time. Take it away. Tear it from history. Please. Fucking please.
55
BANKS MORETTI
I hate hospitals.
I hate that I’m back here, worrying about my brother. Last time, his dumbass ran into a burning building for Tony Ramella. This time, he took a bullet for the love of my life.
My eyes are bloodshot. Raw. Everything feels raw. Hell, if someone touches me, I just might crumble and turn to ash. How do I explain being an identical twin? Loving someone for all your life. How pieces of you are a part of them, and if they die, you die.
The waiting room is crowded while Thatcher fights for his life in surgery.
Every chair is filled; every space to stand is jam-packed. With SFO, the guys from Triple Shield, and Morettis, Piscitellis, Ramellas, and Cobalts. Some Hales and Meadows—all would’ve come but hospital staff said we were already past capacity for visitors, so they agreed to go back and watch Jane and Thatcher’s cats.
Sitting on either side of me, Akara and Sulli are quiet comforts that I’m grateful to have. Just feeling Sulli’s hand on my leg, feeling Akara’s arm on my shoulders—I remember to breathe.
I can’t do a thing for my mom. Even if I was fully-functioning.
She grips her knees and speaks to my grandma, Uncle Joe, and Nicola, “He’ll be fine. He’ll pull through. He always does.” She’s pushed away my aunts who try to console her. “I’m fine, Carmela.” Her pained eyes meet mine across the waiting room. “He’ll be fine, Banksy.”
Her denial is killing me fuckin’ slowly.
Janie.
She keeps pacing back and forth, hand on her belly. Hair frizzed and wild and cheeks tear-streaked. I want to tell her it’s going to be okay, but I don’t have the fucking words. I don’t feel like it is.
Of what I’ve seen, Jane only says more than a few words to Maximoff. The rest of her family, she just nods like she’s somewhere else. Gone into the operating room with her husband. Rose will walk over to her daughter and squeeze her hand every so often.