Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  She stares off for a moment and says, “And maybe…maybe the sex and being with you will be different.”

  “Different how?” I ask, nerves infiltrating.

  “Well, the last time we were together, we were young. Maybe it’s all in our heads, right?” She winces at this thought. “Maybe time has changed us, and we’re not good together anymore. We’ll never know unless we try again. And then I can move on…”

  Chills snake up my spine. I want to defend us, but in the same breath, she’s throwing out a rope to this half-brained idea. The only idea that’ll push us towards seeing each other outside of work. And watching her, I’m not even sure she believes we’ve changed that much.

  She adds, “We’ll put a close to us. That way I can finally have sex with other guys.”

  Pain flares in my gray eyes. “Or you could just be with me.” I’m a dreamer.

  She’s a realist, even when it hurts. “So we’ll be together in secret forever. And you’ll never be able to kiss me in public. No one will know we’re married, and when I get pregnant, I’ll have to tell people the baby belongs to some no-named guy that looks strangely like you.”

  “I’m already getting you pregnant?” I tease.

  She rolls her eyes, but her face slowly morphs into a smile. “You’re unbelievable.” At this point, I’d usually pull her body against mine.

  It’s killing me not to touch her—not to do something more. I want Baylee Wright. No limitations.

  No one controlling us.

  I want to push the table away and fuck her how she should be fucked. Until her legs quake and her mouth parts and a moan escapes. I want to give her that.

  Not some other dude. Me.

  I nod to Bay. “Do you have a synonym for unbelievable?”

  She raises her brows, acting all grave and poised.

  I smile. “I bet you’re missing your thesaurus right about now, huh?”

  She throws a sugar packet at me, and we both start laughing. Bay is almost always serious, which I love because it makes breaking her New Yorker cool-as-steel attitude more fun and worthwhile.

  But tension soon replaces our laughter, and we’re back to the list.

  Even if we quit our jobs, Marc would still enforce the no minors policy. There are no clear answers. There are just risks we can take and safe places we can hide. One is dull, the other is full. Of love, of life.

  Our future, together, may be a dangerous mystery, but we can start somewhere.

  I catch her gaze. “Let’s just try to work on your list,” I tell Bay, my old best friend, my ex-girlfriend—she meant the entire universe to me. She still does.

  “Say we do this,” she says, “and we basically perform my list together. When does it end?”

  If the point is to bring closure to each act, there’s only one answer to that. “When we finish all the numbers on your list.” Then it’s over.

  I try to push this part, this fact, so far back in my head.

  She’s thinking hard.

  “Okay?” I ask, but right as I do, my phone vibrates on the table. Her cell buzzes in her wrist wallet.

  We both tense.

  Act Twenty

  Baylee Wright

  I check my phone and see a new group text. Involving me, Luka, and the sender.

  Before I can even read the message, Luka’s phone goes haywire, buzzing and vibrating incessantly. He can’t click into the texts fast enough.

  Luka curses in Russian and shoots up, dialing a number.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Timo?” It’s what always happened in New York. He’d wander off wherever his heart took him, and the Kotovas would send out a mass S.O.S. to hunt for Timofei. On occasion, I’d join the search party.

  “No, it’s Kat.” He puts his phone to his ear, hand on his head and he starts speaking hurried Russian.

  Quickly, I stand and unzip my wallet, about to fish out some cash for the Moon Pie and coffee. Then I freeze at the sight of my cell screen. “Wait, Luka.”

  I pick up my phone. The sender in the three-way group text—it’s Katya.

  What should I do?!?!?!!! I heard Dimitri + Nik talking in the living room, and D was saying how he hasn’t seen Luk since that seminar thing. D asked about Baylee’s whereabouts. N said he didn’t know but he’d ask me. They seemed mad, and I don’t want to rat you out, Luk. So I hid in the closet, and now N thinks I’m missing.

  WHAT DO I DO?!? – Katya

  “Bay,” Luka says, eyes pooled with concern. “What is it?”

  “Katya sent us a group text.” I show him my phone since her text might be stacked beneath his cousins’ and brothers’ panicked messages.

  Luka reads rapidly, and then he puts his phone back to his ear. I can’t understand all of the Russian, but as soon as he hangs up, he fills me in. “I told Erik I’d call her favorite restaurant, see if she’s there.”

  A lie, obviously. “You realize that you’re simultaneously loyal and disloyal.”

  “You realize my little sister has your new phone number when I don’t even have it.”

  I shake my head. “Not the point.”

  “It’s my point.” His smile fades quickly, the buzzing reigniting.

  I cup my phone, about to text Katya back. “We can’t rope her into this.”

  “She’s already in it.” Luka holds out his hand towards my phone like I’ll take care of it. “The three of us—me, Katya, Timo—we cover for each other all the time.”

  I have plenty of these memories. When I was thirteen, we all snuck out for ice cream at 3 a.m. and ate freezer-burned popsicles from a 24-hour convenience store.

  Three nights later, Timo went alone to that same convenience store. When his family tried to find him, Luka lied to Nik about Timo’s whereabouts, but Luka caught up to his little brother and joined him. So he’d be safe.

  “But you all don’t lie for each other if it’s serious,” I say, also remembering that he’s ratted Timo out to Nikolai before. Concerned about Timo’s late-night club-hopping.

  Likewise, I was around when Timofei told Nik that Luka stole from an Aerial Ethereal office. Just an ugly paperweight, but Luk was pushing it too far. I was as worried as his family, and he tried really hard to stop stealing after that.

  He didn’t always succeed.

  “Yeah,” Luka says as he texts his sister, “but Kat won’t see you and me as a bad thing.”

  I nod, knowing that she wants us all to be friends again.

  My phone buzzes.

  Rose Calloway would know what to do – Katya

  I’ve seen Katya watch a few old reruns of Princesses of Philly, a cancelled reality show that starred the infamous Calloway sisters and their men. It aired when I was split apart from Luka.

  “Rose Calloway is her favorite,” I realize, somewhat downtrodden. Because when we were younger, I would’ve pegged her as a Daisy Calloway fan. But Rose is basically the equivalent to Posh Spice. Always chic-looking, a fashion designer, ice-cold but tough-as-nails.

  “Yeah, don’t get her started on PoPhilly,” Luka says. “She’ll literally discuss the ‘dichotomy’ of Connor Cobalt and Scott Van Wright for hours.”

  I almost gag at that name Scott Van Wright. “Don’t say his last name.”

  “Why not?” Luka looks up.

  “I don’t want to hear you say my last name with Scott Van attached.” He’s disgusting and a villain masquerading as a romantic love interest for Rose when she clearly had feelings for Connor. “I’d rather the name be synonymous with Neal & Joyce Wright.”

  His gaze softens and he nods, but he’s hung up on something because he keeps staring at me.

  “What?”

  Luka sends a text and pockets his phone. “You watch Princesses of Philly?”

  My cell buzzes. “Everyone does.”

  I quickly read the text.

  Unhide and tell Nik you just came back from dinner at Retrograde with me. And I got stuck talking to a girl (not Bay) at the bar. Sound good? – Luka
/>   A girl.

  Not me.

  An imaginary scenario shouldn’t put a bad taste in my mouth, but picturing him chatting up another girl at a bar—who could be Mrs. Right—feels awful.

  Katya replies with a thumbs-up emoji.

  Luka’s brows furrow. “You didn’t used to like watching TV or reading Celebrity Crush magazines.”

  He thinks I’ve changed.

  I slowly pull out my five-dollar bill, trying to figure out how to approach this conversation. “I tried a lot of things after we…ended.”

  “But TV?” He digs into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “You used to cry at the detergent commercials.”

  “They were emotionally manipulative.”

  “Bay,” he says like I know you. I was with you.

  I can’t exactly stand my ground when past evidence has shown that television doesn’t help my depression. It doesn’t always make it worse, but it hasn’t been my greatest outlet either.

  Listening to music helps more. And being with people. Even if “being” is just lying together. Somewhere, anywhere. A park, a bench, the floor.

  “Depression doesn’t just go away,” I tell Luka. “What’d you think—we broke up and I’d be happy?”

  “Come on.”

  “No,” I say, defenses rising. I exit the booth, the waitress and mustached man nowhere in sight. We’re alone here. “You were gone, Luk, and I had to figure out how to cope without feeling like the world was pointless. So I watched some television, and I liked it.”

  “Oh yeah?” He throws down cash. “How’d it go afterwards? Screen is black. It’s quiet. You’re alone in your bed. What’d you feel then?”

  Fine. I felt fine, and I’m allowed to watch television if I want to—but this is deeper than all of that. “You don’t have to worry,” I say. “It’s not your job or burden—”

  “Come on,” he repeats, like I’m punching him in the heart. “Don’t push me away now, please.”

  I take a deeper breath, about to toss my own money down.

  “Let me pay,” he insists.

  I hesitate.

  “Please.”

  “Okay.” I leave the booth, and as he follows behind, I decide to spin around. To confront him.

  But I collide straight into his chest. My heartbeat is stuck in my throat, and Luka clasps my shoulders to steady me.

  Our eyes descend each other in a boiling wave.

  Then he drops his hands, much faster than I truly want. Distance separates us, this sliver of space that I want to close. If I listen to my heart at all, I know what I need to do.

  “Okay,” I say again, but this one has so much more meaning.

  “Okay…” He scrutinizes me head-to-toe. “Okay to the list?”

  I haven’t agreed to his proposal yet, but the answer is right here. I’m irritated at an imaginary girl and an imaginary chat between her and Luka. It’s obvious.

  I need him. Whether it’s closure or something else, I don’t know. But I’m ready to take the risk.

  I nod confidently. “Yeah, the list.”

  “Okay,” he says, more assured, his lips beginning to rise.

  “Now what?” I wonder.

  Luka skims me again but then he nods to the door. “I’ll call a cab. We need to get back to the Masquerade before Nik and Dimitri catch on, but tomorrow, the next day, we can figure it out.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling awkward all of a sudden. Like this just turned into a first date—wait, he paid for me. Was this actually a first date in his eyes?

  It’s all I can think about when he holds open the door for me.

  I step onto the concrete sidewalk, the night sky dark. In fact, the whole street is nearly pitch-black except for a dim street lamp nearby. We’re in a lifeless part of town.

  We move closer to the lamp for light. Further away from the diner. A red brick wall is behind us—what looks like the side of an abandoned mattress factory.

  I glance at Luka more than a few times. He’s mostly nonchalant as he calls us a cab. Casual and cool, but he’s almost always that way. I can’t gauge his feelings.

  I wonder if his stomach is fluttering like mine. I’m nervous again, but a more excited-nervous than before.

  “I can take the bus,” I offer. “It’ll be cheaper, and that way we won’t arrive at the Masquerade at the same time.” We’re doing this. Being together secretly.

  This time, for the list.

  Luka shakes his head. “I’ll just pay for the cab fare and get dropped off at the Bellagio.”

  “That wasn’t…” I take a breath, my nerves jumbling my words. More clearly, I say, “I didn’t mean for you to pay.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Pocketing his phone, he faces me, his back to the street.

  “We’ll split it then.” I put my stamp on that, and before he protests, I add, “Did you see the Mets last year? They were so solid.” I make a batting motion. I doubt he’s kept up.

  Luka hasn’t been the biggest baseball fan, but in New York, he used to go to Mets games for me.

  “Tied for second in their division, right?” Before I show surprise, he continues, “Send some of that luck to my team, please.” He means basketball. I already know which team before he says it—the same way that I’m realizing he knew mine. “I’m in literal pain watching the Knicks.”

  They only won one game in February. I don’t like basketball, but I always check the scores of the Knicks. It’s one of the only ways I can picture Luka, even when I should’ve been forgetting him.

  We both held on.

  That’s a real fact now. It nearly overwhelms me, but I take a deep breath.

  “I saw their February scores,” I tell him. “Terrible.”

  Luka smiles and teases, “Don’t hold back on what you think.”

  “I won’t,” I say with a grin.

  He takes a step closer, and our chests rise at the exact same time. A blip of Luka from the locker room flashes in my head. His large hand barely covering his package, his washboard abs and lean muscles, and the cascade of tattoos up his right leg. To his thigh.

  I rub my lips together, trying not to appear hot and bothered. Play it cool. “You still like Broadways?” I wonder, wanting to know everything about twenty-year-old Luka.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Rent still your favorite?” I loosely stretch my arm. Acting as normal as possible.

  “No.” Another step closer.

  I try to mask my disappointment. Now I know how it felt when he learned I like watching TV. “Chicago then,” I guess.

  Luka nods, moving closer.

  My pulse thumps, and my body throbs, sensitive spots awakening that have been dormant for ages. His muscles flex like he’s experiencing a similar reaction, and he’s still at least five feet away from me.

  The intensity of the moment, the tension that strings us together, engulfs me in a hot second. My gaze falls to the concrete.

  “How’s Rudy?” he asks.

  My chest swells. “Alive,” I say as I look up.

  His soul-bearing eyes touch mine, knowingly. Years blaze through us. The week my parents passed away, Luka Kotova gave me Rudy. I was crying about how ridiculous it was that everyone kept bringing flowers when those just die, too.

  That very afternoon, a bulbous slightly lumpy cactus showed up on my coffee table.

  And Luka said, “That won’t die. It’ll probably outlive us all.”

  “And it has character,” I said tearfully. We were all about things that had “character”—because life contained more that way. We weren’t sure what “more” meant—what it was. But we always sought after its existence.

  “It has character,” he nodded. “What’s it named?”

  Rudy’s name was completely and utterly random. And he’s still alive today.

  Luka nears, four feet away.

  Three feet.

  Two.

  He reaches out and clasps my hand. Already drawing me to his body. “Come here,”
he says softly, and a magnetic force pulls us together. Bodies melded.

  And his lips touch my lips, kissing me with years’ long pent-up emotion. His hands encasing my soft cheeks, drawing me as close as can be, and my pulse speeds. The deep force of the kiss says, I missed you.

  I love you.

  I burst, lighting up. And I reciprocate with the same desperate aggression. Our tongues tangle like they remember where they once were. Natural and scorching.

  I grip his shoulders tight, and his hands clutch my head, my waist, with masculine energy that turns me on to the millionth degree.

  My hips bow towards his body, and he pushes me closer by pressing on the small of my back. Glued together, he drives another kiss deeper, further.

  Luka breaks apart, just to breathe, “I’m picking you up.” His lips brush my ear. “And spreading your legs wide open.” Before I register, he hoists me effortlessly to his waist, my legs stretched apart around him.

  A noise tickles my throat.

  Luka used to call out what he was going to do to me, before he actually did it. I liked hearing him unflinchingly say I’m putting my hard cock inside of you.

  He was confident back then, but he’s ten times that now.

  My lips sting and swell beneath the spine-tingling force of our kisses, and my legs wrapped around him, I pulse and pulse. Dizzying, I run my palms down his back, our lips never breaking.

  He walks forward with me in his embrace.

  My back strikes the brick wall with a gentle thud. Letting me catch my breath, Luka sucks the nape of my neck, hard and so sensitive—a moan escapes my lips.

  I shudder against his build, and he presses his weight completely to me. The force is amazing. His hand returns to my cheek, and as I pant, he looks deep into me. His eyes caressing mine.

  He’s fucking me with his gaze. It’s honestly so powerful and intimate that my head tries to loll backwards—and it hits brick.

  Luka breathes shallow breaths with a rising grin. And then he kisses me, tenderly this time, and he whispers, “That was number two on your list.” Kissing.

  I think about the list’s stipulations. “Does that mean it’s the last kiss?”