Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  It hurts.

  It always hurts. Especially when trust not only exists between us, but it flourishes, stronger and fuller than with anyone else.

  Act Twelve

  Baylee Wright

  Practice ends, and I open up my blue locker. Shower pipes groan through the cement walls, the locker room extremely full and the bathrooms in use. Most everyone keeps to themselves, coming down from the first exhausting day of the season.

  I rummage through my gym bag—and I freeze.

  What…is this? I frown and grab a thick white envelope that lies on my towel. I turn it over. Next to the seal, I detect the legible, unmistakable handwriting of Luka Kotova.

  For all the birthdays I missed.

  “What’d you do, Luk,” I whisper to myself, my lungs burning up. Gently, I peel open the seal, and my thumb skims the edges of cash. Many, many bills. I don’t even have to count to know there’s exactly a grand here.

  I rock back into the locker, my knees weak. My eyes burning.

  I can’t believe he did this.

  Then again, I can. He’d give the shirt off his back to a homeless man. I know this, because he would do it all the time in New York. How many shoes did he kick off and hand to other people that needed them more?

  In the same breath, he steals from stores too many times to count. Timo used to say that he has a Robin Hood complex, but we all know it’s even more deep-seated. Rooted somewhere that Luka barely touches.

  I fan the bills and shake my head. I can’t accept a thousand dollars from Luka. No matter how sweet the sentiment. I wouldn’t even accept money from my own brother. I smooth my lips together and close the flap of the envelope just as tenderly.

  My pulse rushes forward. I have to find Luka.

  So I peer down each row of lockers. No. No. I can’t exactly ask anyone where he is. They’d question why I’m searching for him. I already overheard someone discussing our fake cocaine drama earlier today, and saying, “It must be so awkward for them to be working together.”

  Awkward, no.

  Tense, definitely.

  I’m used to discretion, and I keep up the secrecy as much as possible.

  After more searching, I think he’s either in the shower or already left the locker room.

  Envelope still in hand, I pass the rows of lockers and head to a dark blue door that says showers in gold lettering. I push inside.

  Taupe curtains enclose every individual shower stall. I scan the area, charcoal tiles wet beneath my sneakers.

  Kotovas fill the space, chatting loudly in Russian, drying their hair with extra towels. Definitely semi-naked. I’m not fazed, and I don’t see Luka among them.

  I walk further inside and pass the ten sinks situated in the center. A couple girls use the mirrors and comb their wet hair. I spot Zhen at a sink. He puts in a new pair of contacts, oblivious to his surroundings and me.

  I’m invisible.

  A wanderer. Watcher. Attempting to be a finder.

  Find him. I grip the money tighter and peer at the other side of the sinks. Closer to the group of Kotovas. They don’t notice me either.

  Steam builds and clams my skin. I waft the air, and as soon as my hand drops, a shower curtain whips open.

  I’m motionless.

  There he is.

  Cotton towel tied low around his waist, his sculpted, partially naked body is in my direct view. He doesn’t notice me yet.

  I slowly skim him from head-to-toe. My lips part in heady desire that heats my skin more than the steam. I haven’t felt this ache since we split up. I take a shallow breath, and I actually clench between my legs. Pulsating some.

  I can’t close my lips together. The instant arousal stuns me, but more than that, I’m hypnotized. By him. Beads of water roll down the ridges of his abs, his biceps cut without flexing.

  His right leg is inked fully, more tattoos than I remember. And the muscles along his waist create a V-shape, pointing towards his package that’s hidden behind a thin towel.

  I can confidently say that he’s not only attractive but that I’m extremely attracted to him. That hasn’t changed. In fact, it feels stronger.

  Just before I call out his name, Luka turns his head.

  He catches my gaze, and he solidifies, his brows furrowing. His eyes flit to the envelope.

  I say, “Can I…” talk to you about non-work things? I don’t have to finish because he already nears me.

  Pushing his wet hair out of his face, he nods to the envelope. “That’s yours, Bay.”

  Bay. It’s like no time has passed, but then it’s like forever spans between us. Look at his body. It’s changed. He’s clearly physically different.

  I’m different.

  We’ve been separated for years.

  I fight the emotion that tries to surge again, and I swallow hard. “It’s yours.” I hold the envelope out. “You know I can’t accept it.”

  Predictably, Luka raises his hands. “I’m not taking it back.”

  “Yeah you are,” I whisper since his group of cousins have quieted by the wall. “I’m returning it.”

  Luka crosses his arms, further proving that he won’t reclaim the envelope.

  For some reason, my lips start pulling upwards. “Stop.”

  He begins to smile off mine, and he nods at me again. “Stop what?”

  “Stop being stubborn or I’ll just throw this at your feet.”

  Luka stares intensely at me. Into me. Lightness, happiness floods my soul so abruptly, so quickly that I become overwhelmed.

  I breathe, “Luka.”

  Love me.

  His chest rises in a deep inhale, and then he reaches out and takes the envelope. During the exchange, his fingers stroke my hand, lovingly. Affectionately.

  My neck warms, and much further down—I’m wet.

  I know I’m wet.

  Suddenly Matvei rips the towel off Luka’s waist and snaps it against his toned ass. Buck-naked.

  My eyes grow, mouth slowly dropping, and Luka, hardly surprised, flips off his snickering cousins with one hand and uses his other to barely shield his dick.

  Luka catches me staring, and he laughs into a wide smile.

  It’s infectious, and my lips begin stretching again. We’re allowed to chat. Professionally, but that word could be expanded to other topics. If I take the risk.

  So I say, “Nice tattoos.” His ink only reached his knee before, but now the new designs rise all the way up his right thigh.

  It’s incredibly hot.

  “That’s what you were staring at?” he teases.

  I’d shove his arm if I could touch him. In the past, he’d probably pull me into his chest right after and squeeze me in the tightest, warmest hug.

  Tension keeps us apart. “Mmhmm,” I say, not able to play into his words as much as I want to.

  His smile vanishes, and he nods understandingly. We’re both frowning now, and it hurts. God, it hurts so badly.

  I start walking backwards to the exit, and I say, “I’ll see you around…co-worker.”

  His eyes smile more than his lips. “See you, Bay.”

  We can do this.

  I hope.

  Act Thirteen

  Baylee Wright

  54 Days to Infini’s Premiere

  I finally have a use for my floral-patterned, blank journal, a well-meaning 19th birthday present from my grandparents. Maybe they figured I’d take after my dad, but I couldn’t think of anything to write until now.

  I make a list.

  And I write slowly like the ink is made of my blood and these words are oath. Shedding my feelings on paper kind of feels that permanent.

  “How’s the dating going?” my aunt asks via video chat. My laptop is propped on my pillow, and I sit cross-legged on my bottom bunk, journal on my thigh.

  I talk to Aunt Lucy about three times a week, and I’ve kept her in the loop about my dating life and about me trying not to close myself off to guys.

  I pause writing at h
er question, and immediately, I think of Luka. We’ve kept it professional in the gym, but every single day, the underlying tension mounts greater and stronger. And it was already unbearable to begin with.

  “At the moment,” I say, “dating is non-existent. I barely have time to eat lunch on weekdays.”

  In the square video box, Aunt Lucy lounges on her suede couch, already in white designer pajamas, makeup off, and her hair is in beautiful micro braids splayed on her shoulder. It’s late Saturday night for her, but evening in Vegas. She may be an on-the-go, thirty-five-year-old New Yorker, but she relaxes better than me.

  Evidence: I can see myself in that little rectangle in the upper-right hand corner of the screen. My back is achingly straight tonight.

  Staring at myself a little more, I know I’m a mixture of my mom and dad. My warm, medium-brown skin is a product of my dad’s fair and my mom’s dark brown. I have my mom’s flat chest, full lips, and her rich brown eyes. From my dad, I have his tiny dimples and long neck. My parents aren’t here, but every time I look in the mirror, small things remind me of them.

  “No more online dating then?” Aunt Lucy asks. “You could always sit at a bar and wait for Mr. Right to buy you a drink.” She smiles into her sip of hot chocolate. She always says that she has an abnormal craving for marshmallows, and not just because she’s four-months pregnant.

  Online dating. I sucked at it.

  I gave up when I learned it’s all about numbers. The more people you meet for a first date, the more likely you’ll find a perfect match. But I don’t have that much time for a numbers game, and I’m not lucky enough to be an exception.

  I twirl my pen. “If I sat at a bar, chances are, my Mr. Right would be buying a drink for the girl on the other side of me.” I hesitate to say more because I’m not alone. I share a suite with Nikolai, Thora, and Katya, but a bedroom and bunk bed solely with Katya, Luka’s sixteen-year-old sister.

  I glance to the left.

  At our wooden desk, Katya has her nose practically pressed to her own laptop. Cosmetics are spread out beside a tiny mirror. I think she’s watching makeup tutorials. I don’t ask. I’ve been trying to give Katya space.

  I eye our cramped room, something that I’m sure resembles a dorm. Katya already decorated the walls with Aerial Ethereal posters, and her feather boas and knock-off purses are draped over the posts of our bunk bed.

  We haven’t really spoken at all. Long, long ago, I used to be friends with Katya. To be in Luk’s life means to be in Timo and Kat’s—it’s just how it is. Whenever we went to Coney Island, we used to ditch the guys and play carnival games together.

  We had one goal: to win a green stuffed dinosaur that we named Marvin. We won him a year later, and we joked about having joint custody. He stayed with me four days out of the week. Katya for three.

  Then I got into trouble with Luka, signed the contracts, and abruptly stopped speaking to or even seeing him. Not long after, Katya confronted me by the gym’s water fountain. I was just fourteen.

  She was twelve, and she tried sucking down her tears. Physically sniffing until they submerged. “Why did you two have to do that?” Her voice nearly split. “You really couldn’t stay away from drugs?”

  I shrugged, too distraught to speak.

  Katya frowned. “Luka said that you’re not friends anymore.”

  I nodded.

  “This isn’t fair.” She nearly burst into tears. “You’re my first friend that’s a girl. We’re…we’re friends, and you…” She took a breath. “You have to make up with him.”

  “I can’t,” I said softly.

  “Why not?” Her features cracked.

  “I just can’t.”

  “Not even for me?” Katya bit her bottom lip.

  I knew I couldn’t stay friends with Katya. She was so attached to Luka. They’re inseparable. It was like asking Luka to be friends with my brother and avoid me—it’d never work.

  I ripped off a Band-Aid by blurting out, “I can’t be friends with you either. Your whole family is a bad influence…” I couldn’t finish. Tears leaked out of her eyes, and I broke my heart and hers.

  Later that day, I found our stuffed dinosaur at my door with a note that said, you can have Marvin. I’m a bad influence anyway.

  I couldn’t even bear to look at that dinosaur, but I also couldn’t bear to throw him away. I crammed Marvin in a cardboard box, and he’s now collecting dust in our shared closet.

  I try to let our last interaction from the past drift away, and my aunt’s voice draws my attention to the computer.

  “What happened to ‘putting yourself out there’ and not being pessimistic about love?” she asks.

  I clutch my journal tight and think, that’s exactly what I’m about to do. “Is that how you met Devon?” I wonder. “You just sat at a bar and waited for him?” It seems like a one-in-a-million likelihood.

  “Yes,” my aunt says into a growing grin, an awful liar.

  “You’re terrible.”

  “She is.” Devon pops his head into the frame, his smile brighter than hers. He’s tall, black, a New York attorney, and Lucy’s doting husband of three years. “We met in the line of Superheroes & Scones, and she approached me.”

  “Get out of here.” Laughing, she elbows him out of the frame. “And I only talked to you first because I wanted to know why a man your age was holding three Storm plushies.”

  “For my nieces!” I hear him off-screen.

  Aunt Lucy rolls her eyes but sets them back on me. “You’re deflecting again.”

  “I’m not,” I say seriously. “I like hearing about you.” More than I like talking about myself. And I’d rather not stress my aunt out with my life. She’s pregnant. Unloading any kind of grief onto her shoulders won’t do any good. “How long will you get for maternity leave?”

  I feel her assessing me. “A lot longer than most. A perk of working for a company owned by a feminist.” Barely pausing, she asks, “What’ve you been writing?”

  I go still. In the video screen, she can see my pen but not the journal. “Just…a list of things I need to fix and work on.”

  “Like…?”

  “I can’t really say.” I peek at Katya again. She’s slumped forward, face in her hand. She looks upset at something.

  My aunt takes the hint about the list, but she’s not finished prying. “And Luka?”

  I jolt. “What?” My neck instantly heats. “What about him?”

  Severity shrouds her usually sweet-natured face. “I talked to Brenden yesterday. He said you’re working with him.”

  “Who’s Luka?” Devon asks from off-screen.

  Her eyes flicker to him. “No one, baby.” To me, she adds, “No one, right?”

  A lump lodges in my throat. “Yeah…yeah, he’s just a co-worker.” I understand her concern. Like Nikolai and Dimitri, she sees him as a youthful fling—someone I dated and got into trouble with. He’s a kid that used to make me happy. A long-ago memory.

  No one worth risking a career over.

  No one worth risking the dreams of other children.

  He’s no one.

  I open my mouth, and I ache to shake my head. To say, he’s so much more than no one. How can I explain this to my aunt? She’ll say that I’m in love with the idea. The fantasy.

  Not reality.

  But she’s not here. She has no idea how much I trust Luka with my body, my heart—my life.

  Katya suddenly sniffles. She’s crying? I’m staring at the back of her head, so I can’t tell for certain.

  “I have to go,” I say to my aunt.

  With casual goodbyes, we log off, and I pop out my earbuds. Swinging my legs off the bed, I sit on the very edge. I hate that I hesitate to approach or even call out her name, but I do.

  I shouldn’t tear open a friendship that we closed poorly and painfully. I should leave her alone.

  Marc’s email must’ve shattered more than one fortification in my mind—because I stand up. When before, I w
ould’ve never even chanced nearing Kat.

  I set my journal on my bed and reach our desk.

  She startles at my presence and quickly shields her face with her long straight hair.

  A YouTube makeup tutorial plays from her laptop. I watch a vlogger showcase a compact of highlighter or blush. I can’t really discern which.

  “What do you want?” she asks uneasily.

  To rewind time and never have to hurt you. I examine her spread of cosmetics, which must’ve cost a ton of money. She may’ve even tapped into her savings.

  “What?” she asks just as cautiously.

  I pick up a tube of lipstick. “I always thought you’d stay sporty with me.” I try to smile, but it won’t form. We both believed intense makeup was a hassle. All I use: eyeliner, lipstick, and concealer, just to hide zits.

  “People change.” Her tone is soft and morose.

  People change. I didn’t just miss Luka’s life. I missed my friend grow older.

  And it’s not like I collect a million friends either. The tiny handful that I made from the past few years have all transferred to touring shows. I’m left with my brother and Zhen.

  I miss having girls around me, but really, I miss Katya.

  I set the lipstick down. “You really want to wear all of this?”

  Katya takes a breath. “Yes,” she combats.

  My defenses don’t skyrocket. I lean against the desk. “Nikolai?” I’m guessing he’s already been on her case. “Did he tell you to return it all?”

  “Yeah.” Katya slumps forward. “I thought if I’d buy the best stuff it’d make me look less like a clown, but then I figured out that, no, I just paint on makeup like a literal clown.”

  I get it.

  We all have to do our own costume makeup, and we can’t choose the design either. AE gives us a detailed picture of the colors, strokes, blends, shapes—all around our neck, eyes, and lips. Those Aerial Ethereal classes teaching us how to shade and shadow were my least favorite.

  I was awful at first. Plus costume makeup is so much different than one coat of lipstick. It’s drastic and extreme lines that pop your features. All so the person in the very back row can see some facial detail.