And then add in Price, Wylie, and Greer in the locker room. I want that fuckin’ headache like I want to trigger an actual migraine.
Ryke tries to ease and nods. “We don’t need to rush the fuck out of here. Drink some water.”
Sulli relaxes more.
Akara unscrews the cap, and I take a second to peek at my phone. The missed texts.
A bunch.
From family.
I only have enough time to click into two.
SHE DID IT! Give your girlfriend a hug for me, Banksy. Tell her we’re all proud. – Mom
Did a gunshot go off? They cut the ceremony on TV. Are you okay?? Is she okay?? Is Akara okay?? Please call me when you can. I’m worried if you couldn’t tell. – Mom
Ma.
I wish I had time to ease her worries. But I don’t. Later, I’ll call her, but I think about my mom and how many times she must’ve worried about her sons.
Me and Thatcher—coming home in caskets.
How she must’ve been so happy when our time as active Marines ended. And then we go and sign-up for private security.
How much she must worry now.
Life as a parent sounds like shoveling mountains of worry out of a ditch. Over and over again.
And still, I’m the dumbass who’s going to say, give me the shovel. ‘Cause deep-down I want to be a parent.
37
AKARA KITSUWON
@eggzelent3: can’t believe you all thought it was a GUNSHOT at the #LAOlympics. Sounded nothing like it. Freak out over nothing.
@Vic!WhistlerFan: so security is gonna be extra tight at closing ceremony because of a fucking confetti cannon thing? lol so dumb #LAOlympics
@meadowsbabes20: there’ve been bomb scares at past Olympics before. Stop acting like it’s nothing!! #LAOlympics
@DeviousBulb12_9: sullivan meadows deserves to die, go jump off a building bitch no one would care if you killed yourself #LAOlympics
“Fuck him,” Banks growls under his breath, biting hard on a toothpick. We’re huddled together reading the trending Olympic hashtag while Sulli packs up her bathroom toiletries. Our duffels are already zipped closed.
“Might not be a guy.” Like Banks, I’m fixated on the worst tweet so far in our endless scroll.
“Fuck them,” Banks rephrases, and he’s about to snatch my phone, but I do the honors and pop up our anonymous fan account.
“At DeviousBulb12_9,” I say out loud while I type faster than Banks could. “I care if she dies.” I post the tweet.
Banks breathes easier, but he watches me pocket the phone. “You aren’t waiting to see if they reply?”
“No.” I grip his frosted gaze. “We already know the response will be something like, so what? She should still go jump off a bridge.”
He massages the back of his neck, aggravated over the hatred. He lowers his voice. “I hate these nameless, useless shitbags. For the death threats, the rape threats, for thinking she deserves to die, for trying to goad her to take her own life. For getting the nerve to type out those fucking words. Who does that, Akara?”
It seems unbelievable.
That anyone would post that crap, but they do. All the dang time.
We’ve seen it since our early days in security. This has always been a part of the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts’ lives.
And now it’s a part of ours.
I can’t see Banks ever becoming desensitized to this stuff when Sulli is the target and the topics include death, rape, and suicide. And a part of me keeps envying Banks. For not being as jaded as I’ve become. Because I’ll look past it all eventually.
But the bigger part, the more important part, knows that his soft heart is an easy place to pierce. And in the end, they’re only hurting Banks.
They haven’t touched Sulli and they won’t.
“…they said it’ll be safe during the Closing Ceremony, Beckett.” Sulli must be speaking to her cousin on the phone. The bathroom door is cracked. “…you stay safe too. Alright…yeah, I feel better. Less morning sickness for fucking sure…”
I pry my attention off Sulli, just to focus on Banks. I can’t let this go yet. “Social media is never changing,” I say quietly to him, and he watches me more than Sulli again. “It’ll always be like this, Banks.”
“I know opening the fuckin’ thing is like a gateway to hell that I’m willingly entering.”
And I’m letting him.
Shoot, I’ve encouraged it at this point. “We should stop.”
“No. If I can’t deck these fuckheads, then this is the best release.” His muscles are flexed.
“Because you look so very released right now.”
He rubs his tensed jaw. “What happened to giving no fucks?”
“I give a fuck about you.”
Banks inhales a stronger breath. “Then what do you suggest I do?”
The bathroom door creaks.
Sulli appears in the doorway in the Team USA track suit. Phone turned off. “I have a suggestion.” She turns to him. “Hold me. Fucking kiss me. Remember what’s real. I’m real, Banks. Whatever stupid shit you’re reading online—that’s imaginary. It’s not what matters, and I know it takes practice to get there—but you have to get there. Or else they’ll take some of the best pieces of you.”
His eyes redden. “And what’s that, mermaid?”
“Your light.”
“Your levity,” I add.
Banks blinks a few times, and then he leaves my side to trek towards Sulli. Bridging the distance between them, he wraps his muscled arms around her broad shoulders and tucks her against his chest.
He’s okay.
She’s okay.
And then I decree, “No more social media security checks, Banks. I’ll handle it from now on.”
I think he’ll agree, but his head whips to me. “No—you’re not doing that shit alone.”
“It won’t affect me after a while.”
“You say it won’t, Akara, but maybe it will.” He pulls away from Sulli to come over to me. “The whole point was to be in the trenches together. And I’d rather get to a place where we can both joke about those accounts than to a place where you’re suffering alone.”
Our hot gazes are latched in tensed silence.
Sulli stands on edge. “Are you two fighting?”
“No,” Banks and I say in unison.
He isn’t letting me carry the weight or pain alone. It’s what I’ve known how to do. My dad dies and then my mom leaves for New York, and then I’m left gutted and grieving at nineteen alone.
So alone.
So very alone.
At some point, you tell yourself, I’m not suffering anymore. You tell other people, I’m fine. And then you forget to ask yourself if you’re okay.
Because you’re so convincing that you’ve convinced yourself you are.
And no one asks if you’re doing alright. If you feel okay. If you’re sad or happy or angry or hurt or upset—and then you surround yourself with people who care.