He grimaces. “Is that an order?”
“Partially, yeah.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Me caring about my metamour. I love you, Banks, but you don’t always take care of your health.”
Banks sighs out a rough breath, knowing I’m right. “Alright.”
“How’s your head?”
“Screwed on.”
We laugh, and he begins to smile. He listens to the crowd chant the band name again. His gaze is faraway, and I don’t have to ask. He’s telling me, “Skylar always wanted to go to one of these. Dad wouldn’t let him, but I swear he snuck out once.” He drops his gaze, something gnawing at Banks.
And I reach up a bit and hold his shoulder for a second. Remembering a while ago, how Banks mentioned Skylar telling him something before he died. Whatever Skylar said, Banks has been cradling the weight of his words for years. Dragging him down.
He looks at me.
He sees that I’m here, and I feel him grappling with the words. I nod to him, “You can tell me, Banks. What he said.”
Banks swallows hard, then lets out quietly, “He said, Banksy, I hate it here. I’d rather go jump off a bridge than listen to Dad one more day. That was a day before he died.”
“You were twelve,” I remind him just as softly. “You couldn’t have known what would happen, and maybe he was just exaggerating, Banks.”
“Or he could’ve been serious. He was asking me for help—”
“Banks—”
“I could’ve done more, Akara, and I didn’t. I didn’t save him, and I’ve never blamed myself the way that Thatcher blames himself. The way my parents do. I always just blamed Sky. For leaving me with this fucking mess of feelings.” He glares up at the top of the stage, then down at the ground. “For making me feel like I had a chance to help him, and I didn’t.”
“What could you’ve done?” I say to him like I’m reaching for the alternate path, the alternate history that can’t exist.
He shakes his head repeatedly, breathing heavily. “Something.”
“Listen to me”—I grip his other shoulder, bringing him closer—“it’s okay.”
Banks nearly breaks down.
I hug him.
He hugs me, and I repeat, “It’s okay. Skylar wouldn’t want you to carry his pain, man. It’s okay.”
Banks breathes and breathes.
We hug for a moment longer, and his body feels lighter. And lighter.
For every nightmare I’ve ever had where Sulli and Banks are suffering, the second we’re together—we’ve been unconfined. Unencumbered. Unfettered. Freed. I think the three of us were always meant to find each other. So we could finally be weightless.
54
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
Fear confuses me.
How the essence of fear flickers in and out like a flame. How in one second, I can be all smiles. All jokes and good times and pleasant fucking thoughts. In the next, my skin feels too thin. My heart too frail. My body all sticks and fragile bones.
I didn’t expect the concert to slam me backwards to the incident. I stand uncomfortably fucking still while I watch Akara perform with The Carraways. Flames blast off around Tom as he strums the guitar and sings a punk rock anthem with life-or-death passion. He rouses the crazed audience with the way he sings, each word leaving his lips in feverish glory. Like he feels every melody and lyric.
From my vantage on the side-stage balcony, crowds bounce up and down, a mosh pit forming near the front of the stage. The sun is nearly gone. Fire explodes again.
Fuck.
I blink a few times. Every explosive bang and pop feels like a gun to the face. I swallow a rising lump, sweat built on my neck and not from the heat of the fire.
Banks holds my wrist tight.
I think he might be taking my pulse.
His lips dip to my ear, and he whispers loudly, “Let’s get some air.”
I shake my head. “I want to watch him.”
He follows my gaze to the stage.
Tom lets the guitar hang around his neck and claps to the beat of the drums. The bassist keeps playing, but I’m watching my boyfriend. Sweat drips down Akara as he bangs the small drums, the big one, the kick stand thing. I don’t know what they are, but I’m fucking amazed he memorized The Carraways’ set list so fast and plays without falter.
That’s my Kits.
A total fucking boss.
Hair sticks to the sweat built up on his forehead. He chose to go shirtless, abs in panty-dropping view, and his snake tattoo is fucking hot. I imagine a lot of the cheers are for him.
My dreamboat.
I’m really fucking proud of him for playing. I can tell he missed picking up the sticks.
Banks places a comforting hand on my shoulder. Another pyrotechnic blasts off and my breath hitches.
I hug onto Banks. The further through the set, the darker the night, the faster my heart races. If I asked Tom beforehand, I’m sure he would’ve cancelled the pyrotechnics for the night. But I’d never fucking ask him to change his performance. If I can’t handle this, then I should just go home.
The next pyrotechnics come out in a wave of three.
I barely breathe through the blasts. I barely blink anymore.
“Sulli?” Banks asks how I’m doing every few minutes.
“I’m okay,” I repeat.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.
The rest of the concert is a blur, but I stand my ground. I don’t run away or hide. I’m here, riding this out. Before the final song, I turn to Banks. “Maybe I should head to the car early? Beat the crowds?” I speak as loud as I can.
I’m scared of over-the-top pyrotechnics for the finale. If this is a fucking strategy, it can’t be considered running away, right?
Except something in me says, stay.
Don’t leave this early.
Stay for Akara.
Stay for yourself.
He was on the sidelines cheering me on every second at the Olympics. I want to be there for him, but I’m warring with going and staying. Tugged in two directions, and before Banks speaks, I speak into his ear, hands cupped so he can hear, “You think Akara will mind if I go early?!”
“Not at all,” Banks says against my ear. “He just wants you to feel safe like I do. Some air will do you good.” Fog machines have been rolling, and it’s stuffier back here. I ease a little bit, knowing we’re about to go. Instead of radioing Thatcher, he simply turns to his left and smacks his brother’s chest. I squeeze in close to hear.
“We’re gonna head out,” Banks tells him.
Thatcher speaks loudly as Banks backs up a little bit. “Banks! You wait for Akara! I’ll take Sulli to the car!”
“I’m not leaving Sulli!” Even yelling, I can barely hear them over the booming speakers. “You can come with us!”
They suddenly have a staring contest. I look from Banks to Thatcher, back to Banks. “What’s going on?!”
Banks dips his head to reach my ear, “He wants to take you to the car himself. You’ll be alright with just my brother? I’ll meet up with you in five.”
“Why just him?” I ask Banks.