Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
My eyes cloud and I stare hard at the floor, trying to get them to stop.
He tries to touch my shoulder. I jerk away, arms staying crossed, and I breathe hard through my nose. Jaw clenching.
“Okay,” he says, looking me up, down. “I talked to Akara. He said the police report has been filed. Everything has been taken care of.”
“My brother has one foot in the fuckin’ grave—everything’s not taken care of.”
He stands more stoically. “I meant the threat is neutralized. Thatcher did exactly what he’s called to do. The target was aiming for Sulli—”
“I know,” I snap back. “You don’t think I fuckin’ know this?” Anger overrides whatever fucked emotions have been eviscerating me. “You don’t think I keep replaying what I heard? Some demented, obsessive guy wrote that he wanted to ‘eliminate’ Sulli from this fuckin’ earth.”
My dad stands so still.
It enrages me more. “You hear about that from police? He hopped the fence to VIP without anyone noticing. He managed to find her.” I grow hotter, hotter. “You hear what Thatcher said on comms tonight? How he saw this motherfucking shitbag’s gun already pointed at my girlfriend.” My eyes sear. “Thatcher drew his gun and shot to kill. He killed the target, but not before taking a fucking bullet to his body, and that should’ve been me.” Tears spill through my rage. Rage that bleeds into visceral pain.
I point at my chest. “That should’ve been me! I should’ve been with her—I should be the one on the fuckin’ operating table. I should be the one who’s dead—not him. It should’ve been me. It should’ve always been me.” Voice broken, I’m so far gone—I can barely see.
He grabs onto me. Pulls me into his body. I don’t remember ever being hugged by my dad like this. But he’s hugging me. “You’re wrong.”
I shudder into a ragged breath.
“It shouldn’t have been you,” he breathes into my hair. My head bowed to his shoulder. “It should have never been you. You hear me?”
I clutch onto him, dying inside.
“You are meant to be here, okay?” Emotion cracks his voice. He holds tighter, like I’m twelve again. Like we’re back to the worst night of our lives. And it’s the other brother we’re grieving. “You’re going to pull through this, Banks—we’re all going to pull through this. I know it hurts, son…I know it hurts.”
I try to breathe. I take big, exhausted breaths.
“I love you,” he chokes. “I know it hurts.”
I shut my eyes. Hatred leaving me as I grip onto my dad, his words so different now than from back then. I would’ve given anything to hear him say I’m worth the air I breathe. I’m worth this earth under my feet. I should be alive.
Not dead.
It shouldn’t have been me.
It should have never been me.
He’s saying them now. That means something to me. Can’t process how long we stay like that, but as we pull back, his hand is on my shoulder, and he asks me, “What do you need?”
“A sedative,” I say the only thing that makes sense.
He turns around and waves down a nurse.
56
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
Banks sleeps on the waiting room chair at Philly General, head on Akara’s shoulder. I keep staring at the coin that I pass between my palms.
It calms me.
Settles me.
But I know what I have to do.
Pocketing the coin, I rise to my feet. Akara reaches for my wrist, his concern drilling into me.
“I’m okay,” I whisper to him.
He doesn’t say anything.
I glance to Banks. “Stay with him.”
He nods and then drops my wrist.
Each step is pain. But I take each one. I should have done this a long time ago—and I hate that it’s taken me until now, until this fucking moment. I come to a stop in front of my blue-eyed, splotchy-cheeked cousin.
Jane.
Six months pregnant, her belly swells in a pastel-blue tulle skirt. Her T-shirt says Caturday—something I know Thatcher bought her out of the blue.
She stands by a poster of a foaming teal sea. I think it’s here to calm people, but she’s gripping onto a cup of coffee with enough anxiety to put half-moon dents into the Styrofoam. Her five brothers and little sister stare up at us from chairs, like we’ve taken the center stage of a play.
Even the Morettis watch us.
Jane and I—we’re in relationships with brothers. And all this time I wasted running from Jane, I could’ve become closer to her. We could’ve shared in the fucking fact that we’re with the Moretti brothers. Joked about how low they need to duck on airplanes. Talked fondly about their love of pizzelles and whiskey and porters. Confided in how good they are—how sweet, how much we really fucking love them.
And it’s too late.
Even if I start now, I’m too late, aren’t I?
I open my mouth to speak, but words don’t form.