Our hot gazes are latched in tensed silence.
Sulli stands on edge. “Are you two fighting?”
“No,” Banks and I say in unison.
He isn’t letting me carry the weight or pain alone. It’s what I’ve known how to do. My dad dies and then my mom leaves for New York, and then I’m left gutted and grieving at nineteen alone.
So alone.
So very alone.
At some point, you tell yourself, I’m not suffering anymore. You tell other people, I’m fine. And then you forget to ask yourself if you’re okay.
Because you’re so convincing that you’ve convinced yourself you are.
And no one asks if you’re doing alright. If you feel okay. If you’re sad or happy or angry or hurt or upset—and then you surround yourself with people who care.
And you wonder why they do.
You push them away.
You try to convince them what you’ve convinced yourself.
But they know you now.
And they’re good and selfless and loving.
And they love you.
Let them love you, Nine.
I exhale and nod to Banks. “Then don’t suffer without me either. If that crap hurts, stop reading. We shut it off. You go kiss Sulli.”
“You both can kiss me,” Sulli emphasizes like she’s waving a white flag between us.
I smile at her. So cute.
She’s been more freaked about trying to maintain “equality” between us than I’ve been. If Banks or I feel like we need more time with Sulli, we’ll communicate with each other and seize it. And if he needs to kiss her to ignore trolls, then I want him to kiss her.
I won’t need exactly what he needs.
But let’s make this clear, I’m never rejecting a kiss from my girlfriend. Gladly, I’ll take a hundred.
Banks and I exchange a look, grinning, and we both swoop down to Sulli and kiss her cheeks at the same time.
She bites the corner of her lip, smiling. “You guys are too much.” She shoves us away, but also hangs onto us.
“Hey, let’s take a pic before we leave.”
“For security?” Sulli wonders, taking out her phone.
“No. Your parents, aunts, and uncles are on the social media diversion. We don’t need to add to it tonight.” The Core Six are posting on Instagram about staying in L.A. for another week and doing a road trip up the coast to Malibu. In reality, the private jet leaves late, late tonight after Closing Ceremony. Everyone is returning to Philly.
We’re hoping for an easy entrance into our hometown.
Less paparazzi.
Less chaos.
Fingers crossed for no tornadic disasters. I can’t predict what’ll be the hardest part of my job: security tonight at Closing Ceremony or trying to get home.
Sulli passes the phone to Banks. His long arms the best for selfies, and we crouch down closer to her cheeks.
On one side, Banks kisses her cheek, and on the other, I stick my tongue in her ear. Sulli is mid-laugh when Banks snaps the photo.
“We can’t post that,” Sulli laughs, trying to steal the phone from Banks. “God, I look so stupid.”
“You look smoking,” he refutes. “Whose Instagram do we post on?”
She blushes a little, still deciding whether she wants it online. “You sure I look okay?”
I take the phone and inspect Sulli. “Dang, Sulli.”
“What?” She grins.
“I think you have a booger.”
Her smile is punctured, and I laugh. She slugs my arm hard. I wince—yeah, deserved that. And she snaps, “I look really fucking beautiful, Kits.”
“You do,” I agree. “Right behind me.”
Sulli snorts.
My smile falters once she focuses on the phone and the photo. Why’d I do that? Why’d I tease her like that? She likes our kind of flirting.
It’s what we do.
But it’s not romantic. It’s not panty-melting.
Pulse skidding like I’m running my heart over with a Mac Truck, I rest my hand on her shoulder, my thumb grazing the softness of her neck.
Her green eyes flit to me, a smile in them.
I breathe, feeling like maybe I didn’t totally fuck up.
“Let’s post on Akara’s Instagram,” Sulli suggests. “He has less followers than Banks.” The two of them were a confirmed couple before we confirmed our triad publicly, and Banks’ followers shot through the roof. I still haven’t caught up yet.
Banks smiles. “Right on.”
None of us mention after tonight.
Pregnancy.
Babies.
Paparazzi.
Death threats.
Paternity tests.
So much is teetering at an unrest, but we won’t let anything ruin this moment for Sulli. She deserves to celebrate.
* * *
The stadium erupts in cheers as fireworks blast off overhead.
The blaze in the sky lightens the darkened arena. On the stadium floor, I check on Sulli every other second.
She’s a little stiff but not flinching at the noises. She’s been breathing in the elation. The celebration.
Banks and I smile in the brief seconds we take to see Sulli soak in the moment. Five medals hang around her neck.
Two silvers.
Three golds.
After she won the 400m freestyle, she smashed another record the next day in the women’s relay. With her medals from four years ago, she has seven golds. Nine Olympic medals in all.