Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  He does stop out of respect for me, but Sergei apparently wants to guess now. “You two had a falling out?” Sergei speculates. “You got in trouble somehow?”

  Luka shakes Hot Tamales into his mouth, not saying a word. Looking nonchalant about everything, but his muscles are flexed.

  “No one’s going to say anything?” Sergei questions like we’re all acting suspicious.

  Thora raises her hands. “I’m new. I mean, sort of.”

  “What were you doing with all those forms anyway?” Brenden asks, finding a way to dodge the subject.

  Thank you.

  “I just completed the Wellness Program,” she says. “Technically I did a short version before I first auditioned, but I didn’t land the job back then. Since they hired me on, they wanted a full physical.” Thora drums her paperback and adds, “Oh, I’m all clear. In case you were curious or whatever…” She trails off and makes a face like she sucks at talking.

  When we first met, I thought she disliked me, but she shook my hand for an awkward beat too long, actually admitted to being kind of awkward, and said she has RBF. Then Thora asked if I needed anything from the drugstore. She was about to make a quick stop for bathroom essentials.

  She also tripped on her way out.

  In a one-second meeting, I determined that I liked Nikolai’s girlfriend—maybe even more than I like Nik.

  Sergei kicks the leg of Luka’s chair, stealing his attention. “Honesty is important between partners.” Great, he’s back to our secret. “So what’s going on here?” He gestures again. From me to Luka. From Luka to me.

  Luka looks to Dimitri.

  Sergei glowers. “Why are you turning to him?”

  “Cool it, Serg,” Dimitri says huskily.

  “That’s my brother, not yours.” Sergei stabs his fork in his chicken breast. “Don’t tell me to cool it.”

  “Stop,” Luka breathes.

  No one hears him.

  “I’ve been nothing but nice to you,” Dimitri growls. “Don’t start with me.”

  “You’re petty. You’ve always been that way,” Sergei says like it’s written in stone, but it’s not. “You’re still bitter that I nicknamed Nikolai the God of Russia, and it caught on. Or is it deeper? Is it that, as hard as you try, you’ll never measure up to him or to me?”

  Dimitri looks murderous, face blood-red. Two controlled breaths later, he growls, “I don’t fight with family. So either you find Oz and grow a motherfucking brain or I’m leaving you with your stupid thoughts.”

  “It hurts because I’m right,” Sergei says pointedly.

  Dimitri kicks off his chair, and it folds into itself. “Sorry, Zhen. I’m not sticking around for this shit show.” He picks up his water bottle and glances at Luka. “You’re on your own, kid.”

  He’s been on his own. It’s not like Dimitri offers security all the time. It’s mostly an illusion. It exists in theory, but not reality. Not when Luka has needed it.

  The door slams closed.

  Dimitri is gone, and in his absence, the room weighs down like a hundred tons. I feel Luka eyeing me and my untouched food. He’d normally lean on the legs of his chair, hike his feet up on another seat—but he’s too uncomfortable. Like me.

  Sergei won’t stop digging. “Why is it a secret?”

  Luka explodes. “We got caught, okay! Leave it alone.” He rocks forward, elbows on his knees.

  My stomach cramps. You can’t tell him the truth.

  You can’t tell him the truth.

  No one can know.

  Sergei frowns. “Not until you tell me—”

  “Cocaine.” Luka glares. “Stop pressing.”

  I try to let out a breath.

  “Cocaine? You can’t do drugs, Luka.” Sergei goes off on a tirade, yelling at Luka about the consequences of cocaine use. Upset about our past that’s an utter lie.

  Luka buries his face in his hands.

  Sergei has reason to be concerned. Drugs are a serious issue—one that we both disliked using as a front. Back then, we felt like we had no choice.

  The long-winded rant ends when the lecturer arrives. Toting a briefcase, the mousy man apologizes for being late and struts to the front of the conference room. He’s not alone.

  Dimitri returns and plops down on a front seat, arms crossed. I’m not that surprised. This is a mandatory AE function, and he made a promise to Zhen to take the seminar to heart. The good inside of Dimitri can outweigh his short temper.

  I have so much trouble paying attention.

  I zone out most of the seminar. Even when the lecturer hands us packets to fill out, I forget to write my name in one of the blanks. He reminds me when I turn it in.

  Officially, I’m in the worst kind of trance. I feel inside-out and winded. I try to eat my grilled cheese, but it goes down like a lump.

  “You’re all free to leave,” the lecturer tells us.

  I check the time on my cell. It’s already 10 p.m. and everyone files out quickly. I move so slowly it’s almost annoying in my head, but my body and mind don’t seem to be in sync.

  “You coming with?” Brenden asks me, just as I exit onto the third-floor lounge area: couches, a coffee bar—that sort of thing.

  I rest against the wall. “Where are you going?”

  Zhen already strolls to the gold elevators.

  The concern on my brother’s face could fill the Pacific Ocean. “To the suites.”

  I’m afraid if I go to bed at this very moment, I’ll never want to get up. “Later. I think I’ll get a coffee or something first.”

  “I can stay. If you need company—”

  “No, it’s okay.” I really don’t want to be alone, but I can’t look at Brenden right now without seeing the lie I told him years ago. “You go on without me.”

  Brenden hesitates, conflicted, but after a long moment, he leaves for the elevators.

  I clutch my journal to my chest, and when I glance to the right—I spot Luka at a brass water fountain. He pretends to take a sip, but he’s clearly watching my brother depart.

  When Brenden slips inside the elevator, Luka straightens up and heads over to me.

  He sees my expression. Sees my sadness and pain.

  His stride is unwavering. Strong and certain. I need him. And I can’t fake it anymore. I can’t act like I don’t miss him. I can’t act like he’s meant nothing to me these past four years.

  My heart is hollow in his absence. I feel despair.

  He approaches me, no reservations. No reluctance. He’s a foot away, and my chest collapses as his hands rise—he touches me.

  Luka holds my cheeks, my face, and his body heat warms every inch of me. I clutch his waist and look up.

  Luka dips his head down, our breaths trapped. Our lips a kiss away. Deeply, he whispers, “Let me take you somewhere, please.” Please.

  Hold me.

  Touch me.

  Kiss me. I ache to bridge the space between us, but we can’t kiss in this hotel. Being this close, we’re already risking more than we ever have.

  I nod more than once, and his hand falls to my hand, interlacing our fingers. Tenderly and discreetly, he kisses the top of my hand, and then he leads me out of the hotel.

  I’m in a daze again.

  This time, I feel like I’m dreaming.

  Act Seventeen

  Luka Kotova

  I choose a diner off the strip, a place I’m sure no artists or employees of Aerial Ethereal will be. It has a total of three Yelp reviews, all of which are two stars. The service apparently sucks, and one woman found a spider in her eggs.

  We’re not going for the service or the food, so I don’t really care. I could’ve picked an alleyway, and it’d be just the same to me.

  In the back of a yellow cab, we sit side-by-side. Vegas lights dance across Baylee’s features as the car bumps along the city street. I can see the weight of our past bear on her chest. I can see the emotion tunnel its way forward in her eyes—because I feel it all inside of me
.

  It’s nearly five years of silence. Of avoidance. Of not being able to talk about our love and our lives. It’s everything piled a million feet high. And then falling straight down on top of us.

  Baylee unzips her wrist wallet and then quickly zips it back up, hands shaking.

  My next step is instinct. Impulse, just like before in the hotel. I drape my arm over Bay’s shoulders and clutch her tight.

  Closer. Firmer, and I feel her try to breathe deeper.

  She eases back and rests her head against the crook of my neck, and I wrap my other arm around her tense frame. Holding her as protectively, as warmly, as I can.

  Bay grips my arms like she’ll descend into darkness if she lets go, and we stare straight ahead. A raw wound still exists in us, healed crudely, and for a long while, the stitches have slowly been breaking apart.

  We had no closure. There was no time to talk or say goodbye. Our relationship was just over in a gut-wrenching second.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, Bay.”

  She lifts her head, and she nods a few times before shrugging. “Me too.” Her voice cracks.

  I cup her cheek, our eyes reddening, and she clasps my wrist like it’s too much. Our faces contort—this indescribable pain gnaws at us. There’s a lot unsaid that we need to talk about—a lot we have to finally get out. At first, I don’t even know where to start.

  Then I do.

  Assure of myself.

  “I still love you,” I say strongly. “There was never a moment I didn’t.”

  Her chest lifts in a deep breath, and she starts to shake her head, almost in disbelief. Bay stops herself midway, and she says, “I think I love you.”

  I actually smile. “You think?”

  Her eyes pool, but she rubs them before any tears fall. “I do know, but it’s been four years, Luka.”

  “Five,” I correct.

  “Somewhere in between,” she nods. “And I’m terrified.” Her whole face warps as she fights tears, and I hug her to my chest while her hands cover her face.

  “It’s okay.” I kiss the top of her head, my stomach overturning—my body stringent. I understand. “It’s the idea of us, right?”

  She’s scared that we only love the idea of one another. That we’ve changed, and we have no clue if we’re good for each other now like we were back then.

  Bay nods again, and after collecting herself, she sits up much straighter.

  Away from me.

  I feel as sick as she looks. This shouldn’t be that hard, but there’s so much—so much that we can’t do because of the contracts. What are we striving towards if we can’t ever be together?

  I see that hopelessness cloud her eyes, and I want to prove her wrong. To show her that we’re meant to be together.

  Even if it means toying with a punishment much bigger than us.

  Act Eighteen

  Baylee Wright

  I’m incredibly nervous. More nervous than every first date I’ve ever been on. Usually I can articulate myself fine, but I feel like I’m one second away from stumbling over my words and feelings.

  I sit tensely across from Luka in a tattered booth of an alien-themed diner. Stuffing peeks out of the ripped, midnight-blue vinyl seats, and UFO cardboard cutouts swing from stained ceiling tiles.

  I kind of love how odd it is.

  The sole waitress took our drink order and has been chatting up the only other customer, a mustached man at the bar. She’s not really attentive towards Luka and me, which gives us more privacy.

  I observe Luka, mostly. He stacks all the sugar packets together, a cigarette between his fingers. He hasn’t lit it yet, but I think he wants to. I don’t mind if he smokes in front of me; I never really have. But maybe he’s not sure if that part of me has changed.

  His eyes flit up to mine, a charismatic smile twinkling in them. “You still do that thing.”

  “What thing?” I almost smile off of his, but instead, I spin a silver ring on my pinky finger, anxious.

  “Watch your surroundings. In this case, me.” Luka stares so deep into me. As though he’s reaching for the person I am—or rather, the young girl I was. The girl he knew.

  I stop fiddling with my ring. “Would you rather stay invisible?”

  His smile envelops his whole face. “I want to be seen by you. Everyone else, it doesn’t really matter to me.”

  I bring my foot to the seat, knee bent. It’s getting hard to look at him directly. Partially because we’ve been forbidden to stare at each other for years—and partially because he’s so much older. And hotter. I didn’t think that’d be possible.

  As his smile slowly fades, the weight of everything we lost compounds and stretches taut between us.

  “You look older,” I say the obvious—but I’m not taking it back.

  “So do you.” He skims me.

  I skim him, the table separating us.

  Both of us wondering what else is different. What stayed the same. My style hasn’t really altered. Outside of work, I wear a pair of spandex pants and a long-sleeved Nike top.

  He’s similarly dressed down like he used to be: jeans and a plain navy tee.

  Luka runs a hand through his tousled, dark brown hair. Troubled lines form across his forehead, and then he eyes my floral-printed journal that I set by the salt shaker.

  He hasn’t asked what it is, and I haven’t surfaced the list yet.

  Luka nods to me. “Maybe we should start at what you planned to say.”

  “Back at the hotel?” I just remember being cut off mid-sentence.

  “Yeah.” He leans back, but then leans forward. “Or, you know, we can talk about how you are.” The intensity in his gaze speaks that question: how are you doing, Bay?

  “How I am,” I repeat, thinking for a hot moment. I watch his fingers pause on the sugar packets. “It really depends on what area. Like work?”

  “I work with you.” Luka begins to smile again. “I know how you are at work.”

  “Then personal, health, financial, romantic—”

  “All of it,” he interjects and spreads his hands out. Sitting close, I wonder if he wishes the table disappeared.

  I lean back—almost afraid of taking the risk. He’s always been the one to plunge first. I rest my arms loosely on my knee. All of it. “I want to know the same about you.”

  “Trust me, my life has been boring.”

  “You’re so far from boring, it’s ridiculous.” I smile off of his smile again. It seems so unbelievable how easily he can flood me with warmth, but reality claws behind us. Ready to tear us apart, and my smile lasts two-point-two seconds before deteriorating completely.

  Luka checks his canvas wristwatch. “Practice is at five a.m.”

  “And?” Is he…saying what I think he’s saying?

  “And we have six hours until then.” Yep, he is. “Want to pull an all-nighter with me, krasavitsa?”

  I try to stifle my reaction at krasavitsa. It means beautiful in Russian. “Stop,” I say into another smile.

  “What should I stop, krasavitsa?” he teases. The old term of endearment seriously does a number on me.

  I put my hand to my face to hide this uncontrollable giddiness—that I’ve only felt from him. “You’re terrible.”

  He laughs into the most gorgeous smile. This is where he’d hug me.

  Kiss me.

  As our cold reality bites us, the lightheartedness drops very abruptly. We’re not those young kids anymore. Being careless and fun on our free days.

  He’s not dribbling a basketball between my legs and taunting me to steal it. I’m not whacking my bat at machine-sputtering balls while he announces, “Bases are loaded. She’s 5-and-0. No one can strike out the indomitable, undefeatable Baylee Wright,” all behind the fence. He’s not hollering baseball chants like “pitcher’s gotta big butt”—and I’m not buckled over laughing with my face in my hands.

  New York with Luka—it seems like ages ago. Like a different lif
etime.

  Our gazes search one another. For hope that I’m not sure exists.

  I cut into the silence first. “Is it sad that six hours seems too short?”

  “It feels like five minutes,” he agrees.

  I pile a few sugar packets onto his, and I think aloud, “Marc always said that we were lucky. We got what no one else did.” A second chance. “We’re greedy, aren’t we?” Just being here, we’re taking advantage of the system when they ordered us not to.

  Guilt wedges into me.

  But not enough to leave this booth. Does that make me a terrible person?

  The chiseled lines of his face overtake the angelic. “We’ve been selfless for five years, and Corporate is the one that put us in the same show together.”

  “Corporate,” I repeat, the word carrying so much weight.

  Luka Kotova is the only one that calls Aerial Ethereal by that generic name. It was always his way of bastardizing a company that set rules he said he could never tolerate.

  The familiarity is like stepping into an ice bath. Waking me up to the past and present. Now it’s my turn to stare straight into him.

  And I say, “That hasn’t changed.”

  He tries to edge closer, but with the table—it’s impossible.

  I notice the cigarette in his fingers. “You can light it. I’m not grossed out by smoking.”

  Stiffly, he procures a tiny box of matches from his pocket. After lighting the cigarette and blowing smoke upwards, he says, “What’s with the journal?”

  I straighten up. “It actually ties into one of the areas I mentioned before.”

  He scans me, head-to-waist, like the answer is written on my body. “Which area?”

  “Romantic…” I trail off as the waitress returns with our coffees. “Thank you,” I say and she asks if we’re ready to order.

  Luka flips open his plastic menu and spontaneously chooses the first thing he sees. He used to do this all the time.

  My lips almost pull upward because I love that he still does.

  “The extraterrestrial experience,” he tells the waitress.

  “I’m good with a coffee,” I say, and as she leaves, I lean over the table and peer at his menu. We both read the description of the food called extraterrestrial experience, and I start laughing loudly.