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My stomach rolls when I feel a thud. “Oh fuck, did you run someone over?”
“That was a purse,” Banks says calmly, speeding beyond the madness.
Relief barely touches me. I don’t breathe again until Kits fully rolls up the window and clips in his seatbelt. They both remove their sunglasses.
“I fucking hated that,” I choke out.
He rotates in his seat to face me better, looking me over in a quick sweep. “You need a water?”
“I could use a fucking hug. Unless you can’t…” I trail off. He’s already unbuckling again.
Akara crawls into the back and wraps his arms around me in a warm, safe embrace. I burrow against him, and he kisses my cheek. “We should be good until we get to the venue.” As he says those words, a couple paparazzi vans pull up to our left and snap photos while we’re driving.
He has to return to the passenger seat. Security comes first. I hug my legs to my chest. I’m cool. Totally fucking cool.
Banks checks on me through the rearview mirror, and I hold onto his strong gaze. Akara adjusts his mic and speaks to the team, and to Banks, he says, “Take the left up here.”
Nerves at an all-time fucking high, I watch them navigate the roads to New York. Time passes anxiously. It feels like forever until we reach the glittering high-rises of Manhattan.
More than anything, I despise all the paparazzi who think it’s cool to snap photos while we’re driving. It’s the perfect recipe for an accident.
Banks pulls up to the curb and slows down. A lighted awning leads into the theatre. Large crowds—of what appears to be a mixture of paparazzi and fans—already gather overzealously outside, pushing at the venue’s security.
Olympic buzz and craze was a different sports beast and not as in-your-face as this kind of celebrity paparazzi.
Right now, they’re being held back enough. And I spot a clear open pathway from the street to the door.
“The backdoor is just as crowded,” Akara tells me. I’m sure SFO and bodyguards on Triple Shield are giving updates through their mics. This must be the best path of entry.
Banks shuts off the car. “We’re just waiting for your parents now.”
I exhale. No one in the pushy, excitable masses has realized this car belongs to us yet. Thank fuck.
I try to let go of my legs and drop my feet off the seat. “I haven’t been this nervous since the FanCon,” I admit. Back then, the feverish attention was newer to me. I thought, afterwards, I’d grown more comfortable with the spotlight.
Maybe not to this extreme level.
Banks turns to me. “Just take a breath.”
I inhale deeply, exhale deeply. Feeling a bit better. “What if we make a run for it?” I ask, eyeing the door. “I think I could sprint that, no problem.”
“Too many people are near the door,” Akara says.
“And we wouldn’t be able to keep up with you,” Banks reminds me.
Akara tips his head to me. “No one would.”
“Right,” I nod. “Forgot how slow you two are.”
Banks smiles. “She makes jokes.”
Akara meets his eyes. “Not funny ones.”
“I think I’m fucking funny,” I say into a smile that vanishes quickly. Hordes of people start screaming like the most popular boy band of the century has arrived.
“Lily and Loren are here,” Akara says.
Banks nods. “Showtime.”
They both jump out of the car.
Wait for Banks to open the door. Akara’s instructions enter my head.
My side door opens abruptly—Banks barely gives me a glance before taking my hand swiftly. I’m pulled underneath his arm in a second flat with such haste and acceleration that my breath struggles to catch up to my feet.
But we’re walking. We’re moving.
Street pavement underneath my sneakers. I can do this.
“Curb,” Banks says, out in front of me.
I step over the curb.
Akara’s body pushes up behind me. Protected front and back. Ass and boob coverage. Though I can’t let the joke fly free now. They can’t joke either.
Their warmth.
Their warmth, I hang onto like water wings that I’ve never needed. Not in a pool or an ocean. I’m flung out to sea tonight, and I want to be Sulli the Sea Goddess.
Their warmth up against me. In the cold. Among the shrill screeching of paparazzi’s rapid-fire questions and fan’s intensity.
Their warmth. It keeps me upright. Keeps me moving.
They’re here.
I’m between them.
They’re here.
A couple feet away, I distinguish my mom and dad, their own bodyguards flocking closely around them. Fans push towards my parents and ask for selfies. Some hold out old Princesses of Philly posters for my mom to sign.
Paparazzi snap photos and yell questions over the screaming of fans. I can’t see Aunt Lily or Uncle Lo, and I figure the crowds must be too congested around them.
Uncle Connor and Aunt Rose walk slowly behind my parents, stopping to even sign things like phone cases and purses. Their interaction stirs more attention, and fans push towards them, wanting selfies that my aunts are agreeing to take.
