of our older brother breaks Thatcher. I hear him choke on a sob. I stare harder at the tarmac, fighting more tears. “I’ll see you and Janie when I can.” I take a breath. “I love you.”
Thatcher inhales. “I love you too. Be safe.”
I breathe in more and add, “Tell Ma and grandma I’m fine. And tell your future brother-in-laws to record everything. Every angle.”
“I’ll tell my future sister-in-law,” Thatcher says softly. “Audrey will do a better job.”
I wipe at my face again. “Good.”
Good.
We stay on the line for a moment longer, and then we say our official goodbyes and I hang up. I’m frozen solid for a second.
Gutted.
And then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Another on my waist. Akara and Sulli come to either side of me. They don’t say anything. The three of us just stand together. Looking out at the lights on the tarmac. The pain ebbs and flows inside me, and I feel them trying to carry it. To take it away.
Christ, I can’t imagine being here alone. With no one. The thought is more painful, so I hold onto the soothing reality.
They’re here with me.
It’ll be alright.
48
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
We reach the steps of the stone mansion, resembling some kind of royal, Tudor castle with roses etched into wooden arches. Stunning, fucking majestic, and perfectly fitting for Jane.
Brass knockers decorate the humongous oak double-doors, and they’re already cracked open. Inside, a white-gloved server greets us with a tray of espresso martinis, and I know the reception is halfway over.
Winona has been texting me updates so I can track how much we’ve missed.
The ceremony has ended.
Dinner has been served. Plates of sea bass, bread and butter, beef tenderloin, chicken marsala, cavatelli: a pasta that Banks pronounced gavadeel’, and more are eaten and washed clean.
So at least Banks, Akara, and I are heading to the outdoor reception without blindfolds. We know what we’re barreling into.
Not pausing to grab espresso martinis, we quickly pass the server and half-jog, half-walk down the long castle hallway. Oil portraits of historic, 1700s Philly are framed on dark-wood paneling. Chandeliers that probably cost more than a Rolls-Royce hang above our hurried pace.
We’re wearing the same grimy clothes we had on in Yellowstone. The same ones we wore when we pushed Booger down a deserted road. Same ones we had on at the airport, then the plane, then our taxi ride here.
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