Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

Every groom has a different pastel, cotton-candy-colored tie. My mom has my black tux, my mint-green tie, and Akara’s pastel pink. They’re helping us so when we arrive, we’ll just slip right in and carry on.

Except the storm that’s tearing through Minnesota isn’t letting up. Rain rolls down the glass I stare out of, and high winds thrash suitcases off carts, lying sideways on the tarmac.

This is going to be the hardest call I’ve ever made in my life.

And I don’t want to make it.

I wish to God I didn’t have to.

My finger presses his number, a thousand pounds of lead in my stomach. And I lift my phone to my ear.

He picks up on the first ring. “I’m looking at the flight tracker right now.” He’s been staring at it all night. I know my twin brother.

“What’s it say?” I ask, choked.

The line is loud with our pain.

“It might not be delayed for long,” he says, his voice just as tight. “It could pass through in enough time.”

“Thatcher.” My voice breaks. I pinch my eyes, my chest heaving. It’s too late. I can’t get the words out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I breathe out the apologies like a cathartic release, but it’s not enough to take away the iron fist around my vital organs.

Thatcher sniffs loudly, a sharp sound in his throat like he’s holding back tears.

I catch Jane’s soft, consoling voice in the background. “I’m here.”

I smear a hand down my face. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, shifting my weight. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Thatcher chokes out.

“What do you have to be sorry about?” I question, my nose flaring and eyes burning. “Huh? You’re not the one missing…” My face twists, chin quakes. This is happening. This is really fucking happening.

“It’s out of your control,” Thatcher says in a deep, shaking breath. “And I’m sorry if you think I’m pissed at you—I’m not. You know I can’t be, not for more than a second.”

I wipe the wet streaks off my face. “I want to be there.”

“I want you here.”

Tears well up again. Heaviness bears down on my chest. “I physically can’t make it.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

I shake my head to myself.

Imagine growing up with someone from the first breath to twenty-nine. Sharing every milestone together. We’re bonded by something stronger than friendship or family. Something deep and unseen. For the rest of our lives, we’ll be tied together in this world. And I’m going to miss one of the biggest moments of his life.

I never imagined I wouldn’t be there.

“It’ll never be okay,” I tell him.

“I can postpone the wedding,” Thatcher says, and I hear Jane voice her agreement in the background.

I feel sick, worse than the migraine I endured earlier. “You aren’t doing that Thatcher Alessio Moretti,” I say in a whisper. “You can’t.” I go on and on about how there are too many people involved in the wedding. Too many family members. All the work Jane did. And I end with, “I’d never want you to change everything just for me.”

“I’d change my world for you,” he whispers back.

I’d do the same for you.

It all crashes into me. “You shouldn’t have to.” I wipe my nose with my hand. “I’ll be alright. You’ll be alright. Sky will be with you.”

Mention of our older brother breaks Thatcher. I hear him choke on a sob. I stare harder at the tarmac, fighting more tears. “I’ll see you and Janie when I can.” I take a breath. “I love you.”

Thatcher inhales. “I love you too. Be safe.”

I breathe in more and add, “Tell Ma and grandma I’m fine. And tell your future brother-in-laws to record everything. Every angle.”

“I’ll tell my future sister-in-law,” Thatcher says softly. “Audrey will do a better job.”

I wipe at my face again. “Good.”

Good.

We stay on the line for a moment longer, and then we say our official goodbyes and I hang up. I’m frozen solid for a second.

Gutted.

And then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Another on my waist. Akara and Sulli come to either side of me. They don’t say anything. The three of us just stand together. Looking out at the lights on the tarmac. The pain ebbs and flows inside me, and I feel them trying to carry it. To take it away.

Christ, I can’t imagine being here alone. With no one. The thought is more painful, so I hold onto the soothing reality.

They’re here with me.

It’ll be alright.

48

SULLIVAN MEADOWS

We reach the steps of the stone mansion, resembling some kind of royal, Tudor castle with roses etched into wooden arches. Stunning, fucking majestic, and perfectly fitting for Jane.

Brass knockers decorate the humongous oak double-doors, and they’re already cracked open. Inside, a white-gloved server greets us with a tray of espresso martinis, and I know the reception is halfway over.