Page 120 of Wild Like Us
To someone.
Akara makes a frustrated noise at his phone.
“What?” Sulli asks.
“He’s not replying.” Akara touches his mic, and I can hear him through my earpiece. “Akara to Farrow, what’s your location? I need these stitches out tonight.”
Christ help me, I struggle not to laugh.
Farrow’s reply is quick. “You’re getting them removed tomorrow morning, Kitsuwon. See you at seven a.m.”
Akara huffs.
Sulli looks to me since she can’t hear through the mic.
“Farrow didn’t budge,” I tell her. “Oh-seven-hundred, we’re getting our old Akara back.”
Sulli nudges Akara’s good elbow with hers. “Oh hey, don’t fucking stress. What’s one more night taking it easy?”
We all talk on our way back to the new campsite.
Moments between our friendly banter, the tension returns. And there’s not just one source anymore.
Akara and I are dating the same girl; Sulli still has to choose one of us, and the three of us hooked up in a tent seven days ago—the tension is a badly mixed cocktail of awkward, painful, and hot as hell things.
At the end of the line, Akara and I have a job to do.
And ever since we packed up our tent and moved campsites, security has been harder. Right now, we step into the new camp, nestled less in the woods. Parking lot is in view, and a road curves around different camping spots.
All security risks.
Our teal tent is erected in the “tents only” section, and we’ve parked Sulli’s Jeep a few feet away. The “RVs only” area is a good five-minute trek.
It’s a better distance if something else goes down, and it also gives us privacy away from SFO and her cousins. If my big mouth spends too much time with my brother, I’m still worried I might say shit I shouldn’t—and the longer I’m with Sulli, the more I wish I could confide in Thatcher.
I’m usually the one giving him advice.
But lately, I feel like I need him to remind me that I’m gonna lose her. Because I keep dreaming of a life with her beyond Yellowstone, and it’s gonna kill me when she leaves me behind.
Second.
I’m always second choice, second place.
I try to leavethatbehind as Sulli and I drop our firewood outside our tent. Akara’s phone buzzes with a text.
Sulli jabs a thumb to the Jeep. “I’m grabbing my toiletries, then heading for the showers.” She points at me while walking backwards. “Stay frosty.”
My mouth curves up. “Stop stealing my lines.”
“Copyright them then!” she shouts, waving goodbye as she sprints to the Jeep like she’s in a race with herself.
I watch her for an extended minute. Ensuring she’s safe, then my focus pinpoints on other campers: a bright orange tent, a green tent—only two campsites down. In distance to chuck a football at us.
And they’re the only other campers at thistents onlyarea. We’d move further away, but this is the closest spot to the new rock Sulli is gonna free-solo.
Plus, they popped up their tentsafterus.
Back in South Philly, I wouldn’t move my ass off a pub stool during an airing of Friday Night Fight (pro-wrestling), and I’m not about to move my ass now.
