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)
I’ve never fully felt a part of the Moffy-Jane friendship. They share such a deep fucking bond. Charlie has always been closer to them, since they all went to high school together. Beckett and I were the fourth and fifth wheels, the home-schoolers. The goal-seekers.
But I can’t be afraid of stepping into a bigger friendship with Moffy and Jane. I can’t be afraid of the possibility of growing apart from Beckett. Change is hard. And I just want to sink into it. Not fight it anymore.
I rub my wet cheek. “I love you,” I tell Jane, “and we will be close. No more hiding from you, I promise.”
“You don’t know how happy that makes me,” Jane says tearfully, like she wishes she could be happier in this moment.
Oh Jane. My heart is breaking.
We’re about to hug again.
“Jane!” Farrow is running down the hallway. We both turn, my blood goes cold. Is it good or bad news? I can’t fucking tell. Farrow passes Donnelly and Oscar without a glance. He’s wearing medical scrubs and he takes Jane’s hand. “Come with me.”
57
AKARA KITSUWON
If I know anything about Thatcher Moretti—it’s that he’s made to last. Ever since I’ve met him, he’s loved The Iliad, and every now and then, I’ll hear him and Banks speaking about Greek mythology. Athena and frigging Aphrodite—but mostly, Thatcher talks of warriors and the lessons behind myths, and nights like tonight, I see someone who’s withstood the hardships of time, just like the ancient stories he reads.
I lean an arm on the doorway of a hospital room in Philly General.
Thatcher lies on a bed, clicking a TV remote and scrolling through channels on mute. An IV line pumps him with pain meds and fluids.
My scuffed Vans squeak on the hospital tile.
He’s staring at the TV. “Took you long enough.”
Thatcher sees me in his peripheral. I begin to smile, knowing he’d spot me, but I just think, he’s the same Thatcher I’ve always known.
He’s alive.
A few hours have passed since Thatcher could have visitors. The last of the Cobalts and Morettis left about ten minutes ago. Now just a single person from each family remains.
Jane sleeps on a tufted chaise in the corner. Banks is passed out on a double-wide cushioned chair, his legs propped up on an ottoman. His dad found him a sedative, but I woke him up once visitors could see Thatcher. Banks and Jane were the first to see him.
Right next to Banks, Sulli is curled up and snoozing against his chest.
I come forward towards him, quiet enough not to wake the others. “I wanted to give your family a chance to visit.”
His brows furrow, his gaze on mine. “You are my family, Akara.”
His words push through me, and the tension behind losing his friendship just unravels. Like a twisted, gnarled knot that finally unspools and loosens. Something easy rests between us. Knowing he wants me here. Knowing that we’re not so far gone, him and me. Me and him.
Knowing there’s a way back.
There always has been, Nine.
I smile a little more and grip the handlebar to his hospital bed. “Family perks from being in a triad with your brother.”
He tries to lift himself up higher on the bed. “You had family perks before you got with Banks and Sulli.” He looks to me again. “You’ve always had them. I’m just a fucking asshole—”
“Hey, I’m the asshole between the two of us. Stop trying to take that from me, man.”
Thatcher almost laughs, a deep, breathy sound leaving without his lips parting. Then he nods to me. “Whether you like it or not, you’re the good cop. I’m the bad cop.” He nods over to Banks. “And our cowboy is sleeping.”
“I like it,” I tell him. “I miss it.” Our friendship.
“Me too.” He clutches my gaze with familiar intensity. “You might have no siblings on paper—but you’re my brother, Akara, and whatever quicksand we’re in together, we’ll get out of eventually. That’s just what brothers do.”
My eyes burn as I take a sharp, raw breath. Brothers. Brotherhood. I never want to let it go. He’s saying I can’t.
Good.
I nod and clasp his hand in a strong grip. He squeezes stronger. And I tell him, “What you did for Sulli—”
“You would’ve done for Jane. Any one of us would’ve done for any of them.”
“But you’re the one who did it. You can’t undercut that shit.” I say with emphasis, from my core, “Thank you.”
He nods back to me, his chest rising in a deeper breath.
I exhale with him. “Hey,” I say, letting go of his hand. “Do me a solid?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t tell Banks I cursed.”
Thatcher laughs, the full movement inflating his lungs, elevating his body—he winces.
“Take it easy,” I tell him. “You’re missing a whole organ.”
He adjusts himself again, half-wincing, half-smiling. “I feel lighter already.” Bullet struck his spleen, which ruptured. That, plus major blood loss, had Thatcher knocking on death’s door. Surgeons successfully removed the bullet and spleen and gave him a blood transfusion. He was hanging on a thread, though.