Page 11 of Wild Like Us
His face hardens. “How?”
“I’m bad at friendships, Dad.” I outstretch my arms, then set my hands on my head. “I don’t know how to even maintain one with abodyguardwithout screwing it up. And that’s like a built-in friend. I didn’t even really need totry.”
He gives me a hardass look. “You’re not giving yourself enough fucking credit, Sulli.” He messes my already messy hair.
It makes me smile.
“You ready to go back?”
I sigh. “Can’t I run forever?”
“Your feet will bleed.”
“I’ll bandage my toes.”
“You’ll fucking cramp.”
“I’ll limp.”
“You’ll be alone.”
My face sobers. “Won’t you be there?”
He shakes his head. “My knee is bad, Sulli. I can’t keep up with you forever.”
Then Moffy will, I want to say.
Moffy will be with me forever. I wipe my nose that drips snot, but my eyes are dry now. Growing up is fucking hard. Even if there were no cameras, no spotlight, no fame—I think I’d still struggle.
I’d still want to run forever.
When I change directions, we walk towards the bright headlights.
My dad tells me, “You’re going to have fights with your friends. It fucking happens. You know how many times me and your Uncle Connor wanted to rip each other’s fucking head off?”
But I doubt my dad asked Uncle Connor to take his virginity. The thought makes me snort, and my dad smiles like he made me feel better.
He did, just not exactly how he thinks.
Turns out, the car isn’t a security vehicle after all. The three SUVs behind it are, though.
We approach the green Subaru from the passenger side, and the window rolls down. Revealing my mom, a blonde bombshell. Her smile pulls a long, old scar that weaves across her cheek. “All aboard,” she calls and unlocks the car.
“Hey, sweetheart.” My dad kisses my mom through the window.
I climb into the backseat. A young Golden Retriever lets out a happy whine from the trunk. My mom’s service dog for PTSD goes almost everywhere she goes, and I give Goldilocks a scratch behind her ears.
Winona spins around from behind the wheel to get a good look at me. With flyaway dirty-blonde hair, friendship bracelets, and a utility vest and cargo shorts, my fifteen-year-old sister looks like an ad for Patagonia or Wolf Scouts. She’s the whole outdoor package. “What’d Akara do this time?” Her eyes flame.
I can count the number of fights Akara and I have had on one hand. Not fucking many, but they’ve all been recent enough that Winona has grown more protective.
Ishould be the protective one. I’m older by six years, but she’s so much cooler. Even driving on a learner’s permit, she somehow seems like she can do anything. Scale any mountain, swim any ocean.
Icando those things, but I don’t exude the same effortlesscoolness.
“He was quiet,” I say in a wince.
“What?”
