Akara whispers in Banks’ ear while his eyes are still on me, checking me out, and I love these fucking moments. Where we’re happy. Where their desire pools around me like water I’m sinking deep, deep into. Where we’ll eventually come together, and I’ll feel their utter fucking love in their hands and lips.
I could dance over to them, but I see Beckett alone.
Normally, we’re attached on trips, but we’ve barely hung out during this one. And he seems sad. So I let my boyfriends hang out with SFO, and I go to my friend.
I’m sweaty as I plop onto one of the white couches beside Beckett.
He smiles softly. “Thought you forgot about me.”
“Never,” I say seriously. “Impossible.”
His lips slowly fall, and he stares out at the deck. “Some people drift apart. Maybe that’s just life.” I see him watching Donnelly, who used to be his bodyguard and friend.
“I know things will change,” I say, coming to accept this fact, “but you still have me. I’m going to make a fucking effort to call you when you’re free, and I hope you’ll pick up—”
“I will,” Beckett interjects. “You know I will.”
We lean closer, as though to say, we’re here. We’re friends. And maybe our friendship isn’t exactly how it was when we were little, but we’re not little anymore.
“I thought about asking Akara if I could hire a bodyguard from his firm,” Beckett suddenly says.
“You want Donnelly back?”
“I’ve wanted him back, but I know it’s not a good idea.” Beckett rests his yellow-green eyes on me. “Xander loves him, Sul. I can’t do that to Xander just because I miss Donnelly.” He shakes his head in thought. “O’Malley is fine. Akara doesn’t have enough 24/7 bodyguards in order to hire a new client anyway.”
O’Malley is a Triple Shield bodyguard.
“Maybe Kits will hire someone new eventually.”
“Eventually,” Beckett nods, and in the next few minutes, we find ourselves on my phone. Scrolling through social media together.
He has no social media at the moment. So he’ll often ask to see what I’ve posted.
I play about ten different workout videos where I’m messing around with Banks and Akara.
“Get on my shoulders. I’m going to squat you.” I’m talking to Banks at Studio 9.
He gestures to me. “I’m not breaking your fuckin’ back.”
Beckett laughs, then plays the video where I’m racing Akara in pull-ups (he won, un-fucking-fortunately), then the one where Banks lets me sit on his back for his push-ups.
“We work out a lot together and started filming stuff,” I tell Beckett.
“The comment section loves it.”
“Really?” I try not to look at public opinion, in case I roll up on something nasty.
Beckett reads, “I’d workout with Kitsulletti every day of the week. Do sit-ups next.”
“Really?” I say again, more in shock. I read the comments with him, my jaw slowly falling at how many people are asking for more videos. Workout tutorials.
And then Beckett suddenly says, “They’re making me reactivate my Instagram.”
“Who?”
“The company.”
The ballet company. “For marketing, I’m guessing?”
“Yeah. It’s good promotion.” He’s not excited.
“Maybe you can get someone to run it for you.”
“Like who?” He seems tired. “I don’t trust anyone.”
“What about Joana Oliveira? She still lives down the hall from you.”
Beckett makes a what the fuck face. “Joana? The girl who hates me?”
“Didn’t she knock on your door asking for extra toilet paper?”
“And then she proceeded to say that I have no life.”
“Because you told her she has no life.”
Beckett tries not to smile, but he’s fucking smiling. “I told her that she could’ve used her phone and Insta-carted the toilet paper, unless she suddenly forgot how to work a phone.” He pauses. “Was I an ass?” He lets out a sound. “I was mean. But she’s mean.”
“Beckett.” I poke his side. “You have a crush.”
“If a crush is lust, then maybe.” He’d rather go breaking hearts than get his heartbroken, I think.
Winona, Kinney, Vada, and Audrey suddenly cannonball into the pool together. Water splashes on the deck near our feet, and I nudge Beckett’s arm with an idea. “What about Audrey? Your little sis would be fucking great at social media.”
Beckett begins to smile. “I’ll ask her.”
Once he goes over to Audrey, we say see you laters and split apart. I find myself weaving through my parents, aunts, uncles, and the Morettis under the twinkle lights. And I spot Aunt Lily eating a churro in a corner. Once Aunt Rose leaves her side, I approach.
“Hi, Aunt Lily.”
“Sulli.” She hugs me, a warm, tight hug. She’s shorter than me, but her hugs seem bigger, taller, fuller—and I breathe into the loving embrace.
“Churro?” she asks as we pull back. She already rips me off a piece.
I bite into the fried dough, cinnamon explosion on my tongue. “I know it doesn’t get easier,” I say, “the fame and raising kids in the spotlight—”
“It does, some days,” she interjects. “It’s not always hard. Some days are really happy—and you forget the cameras are even there and that the world is watching.” She glances at the cinnamon dust on her fingers. “Those days, I love—because your biggest worry will be the baby vomit on your shirt and whether the frozen nuggets are too freezer-burnt to cook.”