Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

He’s the floater on Omega who always seems to float towards my detail, and he’s really good friends with Akara.

They’ve never said it explicitly to me, but I can tell in so many different ways.

Like how they speak through single glances. How they feed off each other’s jokes. How they know exactly what’ll push the other one’s buttons—and they seem to not only appreciate the raw honesty, but they rely on it.

Making friendships outside of my family are often anxiety-ridden and fucking hard. Seeing theirs in action sometimes causes real envy. Internally, I feel like I turn into a six-foot green goblin, but they help smother those feelings because they pull me in like I’m part of their clique.

Buddies.

Pals.

Friends.

It’s what I’ve always wanted. True and real, long-lasting friendships, but I think I’ve literally friend-zoned myself with two of the hottest guys on the planet.

I’m a fucking moron.

Be kind to yourself, I hear my mom’s sweet words in my head. She’s said them a lot to me, and I think the first time might’ve been when I was leaving for first grade.

“Do I have to go?” I pouted. “Can’t I stay with you?” Colorful finger-paints streaked our faces from a messy arts-and-crafts morning.

She wiped some paint off my cheek with a damp washcloth. “It’ll be fun, Sulli. Think of first grade as an awfully big adventure.” Her smile was radiant, like I was about to embark on life’s greatest journey.

It sounded like a fucking hell-scape. “But I suck at school.”

My mom squeezed my hand. “My peanut butter cupcake, you don’t suck. You’re brave, amazing, smart, beautiful, and capable of anything. You’re just a beginner. We all start somewhere.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Remember—be kind to yourself.”

I always try to remember.

When we finally roll up to a long row of blue porta potties, my bursting bladder catapults me into this rancid sucker.

I shut the blue door without glancing back at Akara or Banks.

Oh…fuck. Someone pissed all over the black toilet seat, and moths fly aimlessly above my head, trapped inside this literal shithole with me.

I plug my nose with two fingers and use my other hand to unzip my pants. A girl’s gotta go when she’s gotta go, but porta potties are an invention made from Hades’ ass-crack. I’d rather pop a squat in the woods than be in this hot, stinky, cramped contraption. At least in the woods, you’re not five centimeters from some stranger’s excrements.

Don’t think about it.

I squat and pee.

And I stare at the locked porta potty door and picture Akara and Banks right outside, guarding the facility I’m using.

There is nothing about this situation that screams, romance me.

My thighs burn as I hold a squat position, but I don’t dare touch the seat. After what feels like an eternity, I finally empty my bladder, wipe with a tiny piece of toilet paper, pull up my panties and jeans, and I kick the door open while I zip up.

I’m outside.

I could pump my fist to the sky like the end of The Breakfast Club. Fucking hurray.

The brisk night air cools off the bathroom stench, and I realize fast that Akara is MIA. Only Banks is waiting near the porta potties for me.

“How was it?” Banks asks as I roll up to his side.

“Utter fucking relief and totally disgusting.” I dig a travel-sized hand sanitizer out of my back pocket and squirt some on my palm.

One side of his mouth curves up. His smiles aren’t like Akara’s, which almost always sparkle his eyes. Banks’ smiles are darker, almost half-hidden and fleeting.

His observant gaze skates across the bustling carnival, but he cocks his head to me. “You hate porta-shitters?”

I smile at his name for the boxed shithole. “Yeah, I’d rather go behind a bush or dig a fucking hole than pee on someone else’s crap.”

Banks laughs. “I was planning on defending them, but you’ve got a point.” His South Philly accent comes out more than his twin brother’s.

“You really like porta potties?” I eye his height.

He hoists a shoulder in a slight shrug. “After two deployments, porta-shitters are like churches. The only place to have one moment of silence.” He plucks the toothpick from his lips. “You dig a hole and some knucklefuck is gonna come annoy you for ten minutes about a rumor they heard from another platoon.” His eyes settle on mine for a softer beat, and I almost forget about the flash photography.

Kids are snapping photos of me while they wait in line for face-painting.

Banks asks, “Did I sway you to my side and beauty of porta-shitters?”

How do you flirt well?

I wish I knew at times, but I don’t want to be someone I’m not just to get his attention.

So I sink into the casualness of our conversation. “I’m still team shithole.” Fuck, Sulli. That wasn’t cute at all—the thought is abruptly cut off by his laughter.