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“Yeah,” I say. “Aren’t they your favorite?”
Her smile is on me now. “Yeah. I just…thanks.” She nods a lot. “That was really fucking sweet.”
My chest rises. It’s not often a girl calls me sweet.
Akara cuts in, “Wait until you taste it before you give him the five-star, Sul.”
“He can get five-stars for the fucking delivery and presentation.” She nudges Akara’s knee with her foot.
Akara smiles at me. “She’s giving you a participation trophy.”
I close one eye. Fuck this migraine. “That’s one more trophy than she’s given you.”
Akara flips me off.
I flip him off.
“Alright—none of that in my fucking presence,” Sulli says in panic. She wasn’t here earlier to catch our heart-to-heart. “All friendships must remain intact and survive the duration of Yellowstone. I have annihilated too many friendships already—I don’t want to be known as the fucking Friendship Assassin.”
We laugh, and Akara says, “That’s too cute not to call you that.”
“Stop,” she groans.
He feigns hurt. “But my Friendship Assassin.”
“Kits.” Sulli tries not to laugh. “I want to be the lover, not the fighter, definitely not the killer.”
The air heats as the word lover hangs for a much longer beat.
Sulli shifts her weight, her face brighter red. “Not that I know how to make love, but one day, I probably will.”
I tip my head, wondering why she added probably—like she’s still not sure if she’ll ever lose her virginity. So I tell her, “You will.”
Sulli gives me a once-over, flushing more.
“You definitely will,” Akara chimes in.
Who’s going to guide her? None of us have the answer. Only Sulli can make that decision.
Her gaze pings from me to Akara, back to me. “Cool.” She nods, then shakes her head in a cringe. “Cool? Fuck me.” Her eyes bug out. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud or in front of you two…fuck.”
Akara is laughing.
Hell, I’m smiling.
Instead of running away, Sulli stuffs her mouth with the golden, gummy bear pancake. While she chews with her mouth closed, she smiles at the taste, then makes a perfect sign with her fingers.
Take it back—I fucking rock. Move over, Thatcher, a new Moretti chef is coming to town.
Tension recedes as we joke some more about my cooking and Sulli’s sweet tooth. Soon, we all end up huddled around the fire. Sitting on three rocks, we eat the last bit of breakfast I cooked.
I switch back to a lost topic. “What kind of dreams have you been having?” I ask Akara.
Sulli frowns into a swig of water. “Did you have another one?”
Akara nods, then explains to me, “Lately it’s always the same dream—or at least a version of the same one.” He describes the snow and the steel room. “Last night, I saw it again.” He pauses, and Sulli and I exchange a concerned look.
Maybe he’s not getting enough sleep.
Akara massages his hands. “Only this time, I opened the door and found you two trapped inside.”
The fire crackles. Embers dying out in the soot. An eeriness falls over our camp. Akara looks rattled, and I’m too superstitious to think anything he just described is good.
18
AKARA KITSUWON
The announcement of my dreams sucks the last oxygen from the fire. Flames burn completely out.
I try to sit straighter.
Sulli looks to be in deep, haunted thought. She’s superstitious. Not more so than Banks, but she’s pretty spiritual. No one here is rooted solely in the kind of logic that you can see. I’m the closest one to that rationale, and even then, I believe in leading with intuition.
So if I was looking for someone to tell me, it’s just a dream, Akara; it’s not real—I chose the wrong campsite to have a fireside chat.
But I know her.
I know him.
And I knew my audience. I’m not looking for them to placate me. Just to share in the what the fuck feeling I’ve been feeling.
Banks bites hard on a toothpick. “What do you think it means?”
“It feels like a warning.” I lick my lips, then I notice how Banks rubs his temple a lot. I eye him more. Is he okay?
He drops his hand.
I lean back, looking him over. His face screams ouch, but his body says, I’m fine.
Sulli shifts uneasily. “Could the dreams just be a sign that the three of us are fucking badass? We all saved each other in them.”
I want to smile at her cute optimism. “Maybe.” I stare at the burnt logs. “You know, my parents were always really superstitious. My dad more than my mom. He used to tell me how back in Thailand, my great-grandparents would consult monks and fortunetellers for everything: before a career change, before buying a house. He even believed in the whole nickname thing.”
“What nickname thing?” Sulli asks.
“There’s an old belief in Thai culture that malevolent spirits might harm a baby if they know the infant’s real name. So parents nickname their kids.”
