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)
It’s as durable and steady as the love they’ve given me, and the love I know I’ll always give them.
I glance at my braided rings. I want all the details. Whether the proposal was planned. Who knew? My sister had to know. But right now, I push those thoughts aside. And I take in the moment. Blissful and unencumbered with the two men I love most in this mad world.
* * *
I don’t think I’ve cried this many happy tears in one night. Not even at the Olympics.
By the time we hop on the smaller boat that carts us to Yacht #2 where we’re residing, it’s late. It’s even later when my fiancés and all our penthouse roommates find ourselves on the bow of the vessel.
Spread out over lounge pads, we stare quietly at the moonlit ocean and the sparkling lights of Cabo in the distance.
Thatcher and Jane.
Maximoff and Farrow, plus a sleeping Baby Ripley in Farrow’s arms.
And Luna. She’s the only one flat on her back. Stargazing.
We’re all here, taking in the last bits of the good night. It’s peaceful.
“So only all the parents and my sister knew?” I say after Banks and Akara explain the logistics of the proposal.
“And I knew.” Thatcher raises his hand. “It’s why we wanted my mom and dad there.”
Akara explains, “The three of us planned the trip for the proposal.” He motions to Banks and Thatcher.
Their friendship really is back in action. Love to fucking see it—I could high-five them, but I just elbow Banks and Akara beside me. So fucking happy. They wrap their arms more around my frame.
Farrow’s brows rise. “Damn.”
“I had no clue,” Moffy chimes in, his arm over Farrow’s shoulders.
“Neither did I,” Jane says, then gives a sly smile to her husband. “I’m impressed.”
Thatcher whispers in her ear. Seeing as how I’ve peeked at their type of text messages—I’m guessing it’s NC-17 rated. Jane does flush, too.
“We didn’t want to wait years to propose,” Banks tells me.
“I’m really glad you didn’t.” I lean into Banks’ shoulder, my hand on Akara’s thigh.
Jane says, “If you need a wedding planner, my services are always available.”
I smile. “Thanks, Jane.”
I’m not sure how big the ceremony will be, though. Technically we could just say we’re married right now, and we’d be married. But I think we want something more intimate to bind us together.
We’re quiet again, and unsurprisingly, Akara’s phone rings. “Dang it,” he mutters as he unpockets his cell. “This can wait for tomorrow…” he trails off, seeing the caller ID.
“Who is it?” Banks asks.
“My Uncle Prin.” He stands up on the lounge pad, answering the phone as he hops to the teak flooring. “This is Akara…yeah, I am.”
He stops dead in his tracks. Not even reaching a foot further.
Kits?
Something’s wrong.
His back is turned to us, but he’s frozen solid. “You’re just now telling me?” His voice is tight. “That’s what she wanted…okay…okay…bye.” He hangs up, and when he spins around, his eyes are bloodshot. Face broken.
“Kits?”
Banks and I are already going to him as he says, “My mom died last night.”
61
AKARA KITSUWON
My mom said a lot, apparently. She’d been in the hospital for a few days. Another brain aneurysm, and she must’ve known she was reaching an actual end. She said that she didn’t want to ruin my trip.
She said to wait until I was home to tell me any bad news.
Uncle Prin thought I was home because when he called, the first thing he said was, “Are you home?” I lied and said, “Yeah, I am.”
I felt like I was home with Banks and Sulli.
But of course, he meant physically home in Philly.
She said to give me a letter.
I have it in my hand.
She said she wanted a small funeral. Nothing extravagant like my dad’s funeral.
So after her cremation, we celebrate her life with a meal among her friends and family in New York. Numbness clings to me. The only people here that I really know or care about are Sulli, Banks, and Frog.
Everyone else feels like a character from a book my mom read to me at bedtime. Not real. Not home. I drift.
I’m still drifting.
Back in Philly at some odd hour like three a.m., Banks and Sulli are seated on the other side of a red vinyl booth. Frog is next to me. Banks called earlier to buy out Lucky’s Diner for the rest of the night—but I doubt that many people were here in the first place.
But we’re going to be doing that a lot—buying out restaurants and bars and other places, to avoid fans rushing inside and crowding.
I don’t mind that much.
I’m thankful for the privacy. We’ve chosen the furthest booth from the glass windows. Paparazzi try to peer through, cameras still flashing, but a big potted fern and other booths block us from view.
The letter rests on the table. Stuffed in a plain white envelope. Staring at me.