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And then Thatcher brings his brother into another tight hug.
Right as they pull apart and Thatcher hugs Akara, Jane squeezes my hand. Grabbing my attention as she says, “Your parents have been worried about you.”
I suck in a tight breath. My parents. I had a quick phone call with them at the airport, so I know their worry is at the top of Mount Everest right now.
I give Jane a smile and squeeze her hand back. “Congratulations, Mrs. Moretti.” It’s been wildly speculated in the media if she’d take Thatcher’s name.
She told me her decision weeks ago.
Jane Eleanor Moretti.
She dropped the Cobalt. But in her words, “Being a Cobalt isn’t in name. It’s in blood and heart.” I believe that as much as being a Meadows is in spirit.
My cousin lights up at hearing me call her a Moretti, and I hope to feel that happiness one day. Completely swallowed up in someone else that you love sharing everything. Time, companionship, clothes, down to a name.
But a prick of anxiety nips at me. My ribs tighten thinking about that choice.
A name.
Kitsuwon
Moretti.
I’m not talking about marriage. That’s not even on my fucking radar. I just want the feeling, the relationship, the romance, and I definitely wish I could just detach from the doom and gloom of losing one of them and enjoy Jane’s wedding.
So I try my best to forget.
Jane and I give each other another hug before I leave her side to hunt down my parents. As soon as I shift away, I’m surprised when Akara doesn’t follow me. Instead, a temp bodyguard edges closer like he’s been silently instructed to take my detail.
Glancing around for Kits, who’s left Thatcher and Banks’ side, I find him speaking to an older-looking man who’s well over Akara’s six-foot-two height.
Michael Moretti.
Akara is finally able to formally greet Banks’ dad.
49
BANKS MORETTI
Cousins swarm me, and thank Christ I’m great at brevity because I fling cliff-notes versions of what happened every which way.
While my brother and Janie make rounds thanking guests, I position myself near a cluster of red rose bushes. As far from the outdoor heaters as possible, which warm the three fully stocked bars, the packed dance floor, a three-piece orchestra playing Italian classics, a crooner singing way too much Sinatra (Sorry, Grandma)—plus a DJ, four dessert tables, and several round, wicker tables for guests.
I’m hoping to shake off some of the extreme talkers, but apparently, everyone wants to freeze their ass-cheeks to come hear my story.
Staying in one spot isn’t working, so I just slip between chatting guests. Moving like a shadow throughout the gardens. And my eyes return to Akara and my dad. They speak near a pond where pink rose petals float across the water.
Really looking at my strict, hardass dad stops me in my tracks.
My nose flares.
I was twelve the night my brother died. Twelve the night that my gutted, grief-ridden dad looked me in the eye with this dark hollowness and said, “You’re the dispensable one. It should’ve been you.”
It hurt to hear when I was a kid.
But as an adult, looking back—for my dad to tell his twelve-year-old son that he wished he died over his fifteen-year-old…it’s unthinkable to me. I’d never do that to someone, let alone a kid.
Sucks for him, I’m still alive.
And I’m not planning on going anywhere.
My dad laughs at something Akara says, and Akara smiles back, a hand to my dad’s shoulder who laughs more. Looks like they’re already hitting it off.
Good.
I only ever told Sulli and Akara half the story about what my dad said. Because I genuinely want good things for Kitsuwon Securities, for my best friend, and I’m not sure what Akara would do if he knew my dad told me I should’ve been the one to die.
I take in the reception around me.
Smiling faces. Dancing bodies, and I’ve always felt like air. Able to go anywhere, but I feel in limbo. Purgatory.
Stuck.
But my lip curves, seeing my brother twirl Jane towards the dance floor. His happiness tries to lift me. Maybe if I lose Sulli, it’ll be enough just to be happy for him.
Who am I kidding?
I’ll be devastated if I can’t be with her.
I shove my hands in my blue cargo jacket.
Uncle Joe comes up next to me. Besides me and Thatcher, he’s the only other person to reach six-seven here. A hand to my shoulder, his hoarse voice is nothing but kind as he says, “Whadda you doin’ here all alone, huh?”
“Moping, I guess.” I sigh, trying to look anywhere but at the happy couples. Goddammit, there are so many. Weddings.
Uncle Joe squeezes my shoulder. “You’re here. Family’s all together now. Fuhgeddabout the rest.”
I nod.
“Come, let’s have a drink.”
Having a lot of love for my uncle, I always do what he says. And I forget about the rest. For now, at least. Following him to the bar, we cheers over glasses of whiskey on ice. I smile, and after he’s caught in another conversation, I spot Farrow near a frozen ice sculpture of a lion.
