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“Nine,” Sulli says in realization.
They both know my nickname, but they haven’t known the significance of why I have one until now. With friends, I rarely bring up the nickname unless I’m writing a fast note and don’t want to spell out Akara. It’s easier jotting down the number.
I nod. “I was born at nine-oh-nine p.m.—they thought the number was good luck.”
Banks nods back. “So you named your gym Studio 9.”
“For good luck,” Sulli chimes in.
“And narcissism,” Banks adds.
“Yep to both.” I smile, then watch a centipede crawl over a twig near my foot. “I always felt most connected with my culture through Muay Thai. It was my mom’s profession, something she taught me—but it’s funny to look back and realize there was a lot more about my life that was more Thailand than Philly, more than I even realized.” I sit up more again. “I’m fourth-generation. My parents don’t speak Thai. Their parents didn’t speak Thai. I don’t even have family still in Thailand to visit. Everyone is in New York. I think as a kid I didn’t realize that culture isn’t necessarily just a place.”
Banks nods strongly.
“Anyway,” I exhale a breath. “I don’t know if my dad’s belief in dreams is a Thai thing or just my dad.” I smile more softly, remembering when I was just a kid. “Before he left for work in the mornings, he’d always ask me about my dreams and analyze them for me. He’d get so animated about it that I knew he really believed in them. In what they meant.”
Quietly, like so as not to disturb any ghosts, Sulli asks, “You really believe in them too?”
“Yeah, I do.” I knead my palm with my thumb. “And if I told my dad about these recurring dreams, I think he’d say, be careful, Nine.”
Banks sucks in a coarse breath.
Sulli stares up at the mountain looming over us. Her determination never wanes. Not even as she looks to me. “I’m still going to climb.”
“I know,” I say softly. “I wasn’t trying to convince you not to, Sul.”
She eases. “Okay, good. Maybe we should all just believe I have wings so nothing bad will happen.”
Banks cracks a smile. “The flying mermaid.”
“Doesn’t exist,” I add with a teasing smile.
Sulli stands up. “And here’s my shot to prove you wrong, Kits.”
“Yeah?” I look at her head to toe. “I’m glad you’re going to take it, string bean!” I have to call after her because she’s already walking away. On a mission to succeed. I smile more. When I turn back to the extinguished fire, Banks is watching Sulli with the same infatuated expression that I feel.
Shit.
I rise and start cleaning up our camping dishes.
How do we prepare for bad fortune when the worst outcome could be heartbreak or death?
Turn back now, Nine.
I hear my dad’s deep voice. I always hear his voice in my head like a moral compass throughout my life. Guiding me.
And I just want to tell him, I can’t turn around, Dad.
19
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
Day 1 on The Bitterroot Buttress, I mentally prepare for the ascent. Kicking dirt off my climbing shoes, I chalk my hands, a bag tied around my waist.
Akara’s dreams drift to the back of my brain. I’ve stuck them in deep drawers and turned a lock. If I’m not focused, I’ll fall, and I need to map out my route.
Moss covers the bumpy, jagged rock face. Three-hundred feet high, the foliage is concerning. If it’s too wet, I might need to either find a better route or scrape it off.
Since this is a practice run with safety gear, I texted Jane, Moffy, and Charlie before I lost cell service. I told them to just meet-up tomorrow. For one, I need to climb without the added pressure of my cousins watching.
For another, there would be zero pressure if I weren’t keeping a humongous fucking secret. Akara and Banks are casually dating me, Bachelorette-style.
When I see my family, I’m afraid it’ll be written all over my face. I sincerely wish I were a better liar. And right now, I’d rather be thinking about this beautiful, challenging behemoth than worrying about unearthing that news.
I recheck my harness and rope.
“Knock ‘em dead,” Banks encourages, coming up to my side. “Or whatever climbers say.”
I smile up at him. Something flutters inside my body the longer he stares back down at me. And I know, for fucking sure, that he’s not looking at me like a buddy.
My face hurts from grinning. “I usually tell my sister to scale that bitch.”
His mouth curves. “You better scale that bitch, mermaid.”
“I’ll try my fucking hardest.”
His gaze descends my body in the hottest wave. I’m just in knee-length cargo shorts my sister bought me last year and a Camp Calloway tee, but Banks makes me feel like I’m in full glam on the red carpet. For a while there, I was scared I’d need to wear lipstick and a dress for a guy to look at me like how he’s looking at me. My fear: real life actually imitates teen movies where the girl has to have a blow-out, makeup, and high heels to finally be noticed and desired.
