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Banks drives. Akara sits in the passenger seat. I’m in the backseat, focused. I tune everything out, even Banks and Akara’s chatter from the front.
Please.
Please.
The car bumps along the road, and I spot a woman crossing the street with a stroller. Tears begin to rise. In my heart, I really wanted my kid to know that Jeep. To smell the leather seats and spill Cheerios in the backseat. To one day grip the steering wheel as they learned to drive. I dreamed of the day Banks would have to toil over the engine and replace parts to make Booger safer. Better.
She would be the family Jeep.
Now she’s somewhere else. Unloved. Uncared for. Strangers touch her.
I fight more tears. A horrible thought crosses my mind: If I’d never been in a poly relationship—if I’d never invoked this impossible, unwieldly, uncompromisable kind of fame, would I still have the Jeep?
What ifs plague me. Even into the dark of the night, they stay with me.
Headlights on, searching for the Jeep that’s probably stripped of parts or on a shipping freighter being sent overseas. It’s useless.
“Guys,” I call up to them.
Coffees in both their hands, they look back. Banks can’t take his eyes off the road for too long. They haven’t asked me if I was done looking. Not once. For that, I’ll always be grateful.
“Maybe we should call it a night. Search tomorrow?” I ask them.
Akara and Banks share a look before Banks says, “One more pocket of the city, Sulli. Then we can go back.”
I almost breakdown. But I keep it together. “You sure?”
“Positive,” he tells me.
Akara passes me his coffee. Mine already empty and gone hours ago. “Drink up, string bean.”
41
AKARA KITSUWON
Worst Ways to Start Off a Meadows Family Trip by Akara Kitsuwon is the title of my memoir. I’m copyrighting it, so no one can infringe on my reality.
If we thought this through, maybe we would’ve picked a better time to dump so much news on Sulli’s parents. Then again, a different time would mean postponing, and pushing this all off sounds like the most brutal call.
Anyway, we’re not in Costa Rica.
Once we boarded the flight, we figured out fast we weren’t going international. Which means our agreement to bad-news-dump on her parents is a go.
I’ve wanted to see the Costa Rican treehouse since I became Sulli’s bodyguard, but I’d much rather be there without unloading the missing Jeep saga.
Still missing.
One week of no progress.
The large twelve-seater van bumps along Utah roads. Red rock passes by and paddleboards clap together on the roof. Price grips the steering wheel and checks the GPS on his phone.
We’re in beautiful Moab.
Home to Arches National Park. Half hour from Canyonlands.
Red dirt underfoot and eagles cutting through clear blue sky. It’s definitely not my first time here with the Meadows.
But it is my first time here as a boyfriend to their daughter.
In the bench-style seat behind Price, Ryke and Daisy are chatting happily. (We’re about to pop that happy bubble.)
Winona got car sick after snapping photos, so she’s sprawled down on the middle seat. Not in view. But I hear faint music playing from her earbuds.
Banks, Sulli, and I squish together voluntarily in the backseat, shoulders pressed together. “Who’s going to say it?” I ask in a whisper, leaning closer to Sulli so Banks hears me. He’s caved forward to avoid banging his head on the car roof.
“It should be me,” Sulli says.
“You’re not in this alone,” Banks tells her.
The van hits a pothole.
Unbuckled, I take air and careen forward slightly. My healing abdomen hits the middle seat uncomfortably. I wince.
“Sorry about that!” Price calls out.
I stifle a remark. I doubt he’s being malicious. Just a crap driver. And his presence in this van is making everything more difficult. He’ll hear our news at the same time as Sulli’s parents. There’s no avoiding that.
We all agreed that before we’re on the Colorado River, we need to be free of secrets.
Sulli holds my hand and his hand. “I’ll tell them about the fucking cinnamon roll. You two can spill the beans about Booger.”
“Deal.”
“Right on,” Banks says calmly.
We all put out our hands, hooking pinkies three ways, and then Sulli clears her throat loudly, “Mom…Dad…”
I push my hair back over and over, and I remind myself, the worst thing that can happen: Ryke catapulting over his sixteen-year-old daughter to throw a punch at either me or Banks in the backseat.
I just don’t see that happening.
Ryke and Daisy rotate in their seat. Facing us as best they can.
“You rang?” Daisy wags her brows.
Sulli smiles nervously. “Uh, yeah, so we have some news to share. Before you start guessing what the fuck it could be—not all of it is good news.”
Daisy frowns. “Okay…?” She peeks at Ryke.
His brows harden, and he immediately drills an intense, questioning look onto Banks, then me. I stop pushing my hair back, letting the strands fall. I’m guessing he thinks we didn’t protect Sulli fully.
