Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 145257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
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 baby blue with multi-colored, glittering rhinestones. Baby blue tulle upon tulle fills the bottom of the dress with more gems sewed throughout.
She looks like a fairy princess.
And when her arms fly around my shoulders, it’s hard not to burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Jane,” I say at the same time she says, “I’m so glad you made it.”
I wipe roughly at my face. “I didn’t make it.”
We break away and she brushes the remaining tears off my cheeks. “You’re here, aren’t you?” She must see the guilt in my eyes. “It’s not your fault, Sulli.”
It is my fault. I could have finished climbing a day earlier. A week earlier. Fuck, the trip could have been postponed until after the wedding. Until next year. Banks would have made it in all of those scenarios. I would have made it. Akara would have made it.
It will always be my fault.
No matter who tells me any fucking differently. No matter how many times Banks professes that it’s not, the guilt will stay in my heart where it belongs. I’ve learned a lot over this trip. How forgiveness is hard for me. It’s going to be even harder to forgive myself.
“You’re going to regret coming,” Thatcher tells his brother. Jane and I both catch their conversation and look over. Thatcher has an uncharacteristic smile on his face. “Everyone wants to hear this story. You’re going to end up talking to more family than me.”
Banks grimaces. “How about we do another twin-switch for a couple hours?”
“Hell no. I’m going to be the one dancing with my wife.” Thatcher grins wider and then his face grows more serious. “You were right.” He takes a beat. “I felt him there.”
Banks nods more than once, too choked to speak. He must be referring to Skylar. I watch as Banks pats the necklace against Thatcher’s chest: two gold horns.