Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  She stretches her hands on the bar, and confidently, she says, “Take a long look. Because that’s all you’re ever going to get.” At this, Camila snatches his hundred-dollar bill and starts filling a pint of beer.

  I pat his shoulder. Dimitri is the underdog, every which way you look, and I understand that more than I do a champion. I understand someone losing more than winning and fawning over people you can’t have from afar.

  Dimitri isn’t pushy. When someone rejects him, he accepts this fact, but he still watches like maybe there’s a hidden chance. A world in which he gets what he wants, too.

  So I’m not even a little surprised that he hasn’t peeled his gaze off Camila—or that he doesn’t pressure her either. He just grins when she glances back at him.

  Horns and trumpets suddenly blare through speakers, and multi-colored lights flash. Girls in matching silver cocktail dresses parade into the club. Carrying baskets and bottles of booze.

  John scoffs. “Not this stupid thing again. Why didn’t you warn me?” He’s asking Camila.

  She slides the overflowing pint to Dimitri. “Because you still would’ve come and complained for a solid three hours beforehand. I was saving myself, cuz.”

  “What is it?” Baylee asks, just as the girls strut over to the bar. They pause to pour liquid in a few mouths, and then they reach into their baskets.

  I can’t see what they grab.

  “It’s a promo thing,” Camila says. “The club offers free booze and a Vegas experience. People tell their friends, and then before you know it, we have a full house and I’m swamped at the bar with tips ranging from best night of my life to I want to eat a tub of rocky road.”

  “Vegas experience?” John arches his brows. “That’s what we’re calling it now?” He doesn’t see the girl with the basket behind him, or the others pouring shots into my cousins’ mouths.

  In one swift move, a girl procures a pink fuzzy handcuff from the basket and clips John’s wrist to Timo’s.

  John gapes. “What.” He looks personally affronted, and we’re all laughing. Except for Timo, who’s really trying to avoid Sergei. I think the handcuff situation makes it harder to keep John away from our older brother.

  “Natalie,” John says dryly, knowing the basket girl who works here.

  She high-fives Camila.

  “I hate you all,” John says. “Where’s the key to this fucking atrocity?”

  “There’s never any keys,” Camila reminds him. “That’s the whole fun. If you understood that word, this would make more sense to you.”

  John cringes. “Whoever came up with this idea is a sadist.”

  “Don’t diss my boss. She’s the best.” Camila tosses a dirty towel at John, and he dodges the rag.

  Natalie digs in her basket for another handcuff. (Wait, no.) I rise halfway off my stool, but she’s fast. In two movements, she cuffs Sergei to Baylee.

  Act Thirty-Five

  Luka Kotova

  I slowly sink back down, my face frozen in disbelief.

  Baylee examines the cuff and tries to pry the metal open. I’m about to lean over and help, but Dimitri purposefully angles his body to cut me off, happily drinking a pint of beer, too.

  I shake my head at him and fit my hat backwards again.

  Dimitri offers his own beer to me. “Cheer up, buttercup.”

  I push the drink to his chest. “I don’t want your beer. I want you to move slightly to the left.”

  “Not happening.” He sips from his pint.

  I rub my lips once and then press my chest up to the edge of the bar. Trying to peer at Sergei and Baylee again. They’re turned towards each other.

  I trust her.

  I don’t trust him.

  I honestly don’t really even know Sergei. Not beyond work.

  “It matches your dress,” he tells her.

  I blink a few times, wondering if I heard him right.

  (No, don’t tell me my oldest brother is flirting with Bay. This isn’t happening again.)

  “What?” Baylee frowns, and he raises his arm, pink cuff attached. It’s the same shade as her sequined dress.

  Sergei adds, “Maybe the universe is telling us something that we haven’t figured out yet.”

  (No. Just no.)

  My eyes narrow at my brother, but he’s so concentrated on Baylee that he hardly notices the rare glare that I burn into his skull.

  Baylee leans back from him, but they’re physically connected now. “The universe?” she repeats, skeptical.

  “You know, fate.”

  He’s oblivious to what I feel for Baylee, and I can’t even be shocked. It’s not even the blue glow necklaces that make us difficult to read. (He’s also, unfortunately, wearing a blue I’m single necklace.) It’s that the dude wouldn’t recognize a connection between anyone if it pressed up against his nose.

  “Fate,” she repeats the word with the shake of her head. “I think I’m the universe’s reject. You should attach yourself with someone that has better luck than me.”

  I want to reach out and hold her hand.

  But I can barely even see her past Dimitri’s body.

  She digs in her wrist wallet for something. Maybe to avoid his gaze that stays plastered onto her. Erik passes him a vodka soda, and I watch Sergei take a sip. Still eyeing Bay.

  My nose flares, and Baylee glances over at me.

  Dimitri side-steps before her gaze meets mine. I turn towards the bar, my face in my hands. I try to stifle a frustrated noise that scratches my throat.

  Through the creases of my fingers, I see Camila passing me a shot of tequila.

  I slide the shot back. “I didn’t order this.”

  She smiles. “Free shots for glum-looking people.”

  John interjects, “How long have you had this policy? And why don’t I have a free shot?”

  I tune him out, and my muscles bind as Timo and Sergei exchange a look. Timo is trying to tell him: don’t speak to John.

  Sergei is confused as ever.

  And Timo notices that our brother isn’t registering the hint. I catch him biting his thumbnail to the bed. I rub my face a couple times, wincing. I’m wincing in concern and pain. Look, I have issues, and so does Timo.

  (It’s not that big of a secret by now.)

  I can practically feel his weighted apprehension crawl up my back like an invisible monster. I hate this feeling. Just as much as he does.

  “You’re not glum-looking, cuz,” Camila refutes. “This”—she makes a circular motion at John—“is the face of bitterness.” She gestures to me. “That is the face of heartbreak.” Camila is about to slide my shot back, but John steals the glass.

  He downs the liquor in one gulp.

  “Heartbreak?” Sergei laughs at me like it’s a joke.

  I can’t even fake a smile right now. I glance back for Nikolai in all of this, but he’s speaking to Thora a few feet away. She looks pale, and his features turn grave.

  I try not to worry.

  (Don’t worry.)

  When I rotate to the bar, I notice most eyes uncommonly on me. My muscles flex, and I spin my baseball cap forward so no one can read my expression. “I’m not heartbroken,” I tell anyone who wants to hear.

  “Please,” Camila says, “I’m an expert on matters of the heart. I know things.” She winks at Baylee.

  I frown. There’s no way Bay told her about us being exes or secretly something more. Camila must just be making assumptions.

  John steals a second shot from Camila, his expression sour. “You’ve only been with one person,” he announces, and Dimitri rocks back in shock. “That makes you an expert on Douchebag Dave and that’s it.”

  John clearly hates her boyfriend. I wonder if Sergei is comprehending that exchange or if he’s really that bad at subtext.

  “Where’s Douchebag Dave?” Dimitri asks. “Is he here? Tonight?” He’s even more intrigued, looking around for this dude.

  “His name is Craig,” Camila says, “and n
o. You’re never meeting him. No Kotova is.”

  Dimitri cocks his head. “You’re anti-Kotova?”

  (She wouldn’t be the first. Some of us are annoying as fuck.)

  “Today I’ve decided I’m anti-drama, which means I’m anti-Kotova. At least for the next half-century.” She forces a smile at a customer at the end of the bar and waves.

  “I’ll wait for you, princess.”

  Camila actually smiles. I think she’s surprised by her own reaction. Dimitri does well enough with women, but he also ends up with drinks thrown in his face as often as he gets a phone number. Sometimes those are the same girls.

  I’m not the cock-blocker.

  Bay is.

  “Can you get Luka a beer?” she asks Camila.

  My lips curve upward.

  Dimitri looks at Baylee like she’s causing him erectile distress.

  Camila frowns at me. “Do you want a beer? I’m serious about those shots.”

  “By far the worst policy I’ve ever heard,” John interjects. “Sad people don’t need more liquor, let alone free liquor. Bitter people, on the other hand, could use some free shots.”

  “A beer is perfect,” I say, and I sense Baylee’s burgeoning smile not far from me.

  Camila nods, looks between us with a knowing grin, and she searches for a bottle that matches my empty one.

  I’d like to say it’s all easygoing from here, but even with house music thumping, a really awkward silence starts stringing across the bar that begins with Kat, John, Timo, Sergei, Baylee, Dimtiri, and me—all in that order. Some of us sitting.

  Others standing.

  Sergei rotates on the stool and stares past Timo. “You’re John?” Oxygen is vacuumed up. I thought this moment would be uncomfortable. Uneasy. And maybe more awkward than all else.

  I didn’t think it’d feel this unpredictable.

  Like anything can happen.

  Timo lifts his mask to his head, but John already rises from his stool.

  His scowl dark, he outstretches his hand to Sergei. “I’m John Ruiz. Timo’s boyfriend.”

  Sergei remembers that he’s cuffed to Baylee, and he carefully stands without pulling her off the stool. But to give him more room to move, she stands too. The chain to their handcuffs isn’t longer than a few inches.

  They’re literally that close. Her shoulders lock, uncomfortable, and she tries not to bump into his side.

  I abandon my new beer and stand up too. Dimitri is distracted by Nik and Thora, and he ends up joining their deep conversation a few feet away.

  Quickly, I come up behind Bay, my hands lightly on her hips. “You okay?” I ask in the pit of her ear before I step around her frame. I want to fucking hold her. Wrap her up in my arms.

  Squeeze her tight.

  Instead, we’re left doing this.

  Her fingers brush mine, and our pinkies hook for a brief second before falling to our sides. “Yeah.” Bay lets out a deeper breath. “Do you have anything small or sharp to pick the lock?”

  I dig in my pocket: gum, Tic Tacs, a few buttons, and actually something of use. I flash a safety pin to Bay, and she plucks it out of my fingers.

  “Some hope exists after all,” she says seriously.

  I almost smile. (Luka Kotova: pockets full of hope and shit.)

  Bay untwists the safety pin, and she elbows hair out of her face.

  My eyes flit up to Timo, and my face falls. He bites his pinky nail, and now that we’re all standing, he can’t shield Sergei from John or vice versa. They’re both taller than Timofei.

  Sergei reaches out and shakes John’s hand, cordial enough, but I study my little brother, his expression contorting like he teeters on the precipice of a cliff.

  Timo.

  (Look at me. Everything’s going to be okay.)

  His eyes dart to John and Sergei, and he says, “Great, you’ve met. Now never meet again.”

  Sergei sighs heavily. “You’re being dramatic. We’re getting along fine.” He motions from his chest to John’s. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It’s a big deal to me.” Timo touches his own chest.

  My bad feeling—it’s starting to catch up to me. I immediately walk forward. Towards Timo.

  To reach him. And then Sergei extends his un-cuffed, free arm across my chest, stopping me next to him.

  Like he needs me to be his advocate.

  I glance back at Baylee, but she’s urgently trying to pick her lock. I’m about to tell Sergei to let me through, but he speaks again.

  “You’re the only one with a problem, Timofei,” Sergei nearly yells out of frustration. “Do you realize that?”

  (No.)

  Timo’s face breaks into painful fragments. When people hurt him, it’s not snuffing out a light. It’s taking the heel of your foot and smashing a lantern to a million shards. You wonder how he can ever be lit again.

  I duck beneath Sergei’s arm, and I almost pass through—but I’m jerked back. Sergei fists my shirt, yanking me beside him.

  “Stop, Serg.” I push him once, my shirt out of his possession, and his eyes narrow and soften like help me.

  I can’t fucking help him be friends with Timo! I wish everyone would leave me out of this and just let me be there for my little brother.

  I look back at him.

  John has his arm draped around Timo, hugging him to his side, but Timo doesn’t tear his shattered gaze off our oldest brother.

  Sergei shifts his weight. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean it how you’re taking it, Timo.”

  “How am I supposed to take it?”

  “Realize that this could all be fine if you just got over it…” Sergei trails off again, starting to see that he’s making it worse.

  Timo instinctively turns into John’s chest and tries to wrench his own wrist out of the cuff. He wants to leave.

  “Babe, slow down. Stop, breathe for a second,” John says, his voice hardening in concern, and then he glares at Sergei. “Don’t put this all on him. He’s entitled to his own feelings. He can be upset at you.”

  I don’t reach Timo. Katya does. She rushes to our brother and tries to help unlock the handcuff, bobby pin in her fingers.

  “I’ll get you out. Don’t worry, Timo,” Kat says.

  “It’s been months!” Sergei yells, his frustration palpable.

  I spin my baseball cap backwards. I’m on edge, nervous that both Sergei and John will start swinging, and right now they’re literally attached to two people I love. They’re not accidentally pulling them to the floor because they forget their surroundings.

  I’m not letting that happen.

  They take one step closer, and I slip between Sergei and John, extending my arms. My palms touch their chests, and I force them apart.

  John yells, “I didn’t realize agony had a fucking timeline!”

  “He’s not in agony!” Sergei grimaces at the thought.

  “Stop!” I shout at them, but it’s like no one hears me. I glance at Bay—her fearful eyes meet mine. I think she heard me, and she works faster, yanking at the cuff.

  It’s still locked.

  “Shit,” she says, but she tries to pick the lock again, still determined.

  Sergei points at Timo with his free hand but yells at John, “He’s giving me no way to fix it! I can do nothing but watch him hate me! You know what this is?!”

  I shake my head at Sergei. “Don’t go there, dude—”

  “It’s life!” John sneers, eyes blistering on Sergei. “Welcome to the real world where every shitty thing we do affects other people!”

  “It’s immature!” Sergei yells, and my chest collapses.

  Timo is crying hearing what Sergei—the one person he wanted as a father figure—really thinks of him. Sergei doesn’t respect his feelings.

  People always say that: get over it. Why? So they can feel better about the hurt they caused?

  Everyone heals at different rates. Some people need time. It sucks. It’s frustrating, but our minds a
re more fragile than we like to believe.

  (Than I like to believe.)

  And I can’t remember the last time I saw Timo sob this hard. He usually contains it all until one unintentional moment, and Sergei just kicked open Timo’s floodgates.

  Timo drops his scepter and covers his eyes with his free hand, and John points an antagonistic finger at Sergei. “Fuck you!”

  “He’s my little brother!”

  “And you’re hurting him!”

  I shove them back as they wrestle closer. “STOP!” I yell.

  Katya unlocks Timo’s handcuff, squeezes him in a hug, and then she bounds over to Baylee, switching out the safety pin for the bobby pin to help.

  Timo lifts his watery eyes to me as I push both guys apart, and he looks past tears. Numb. His heavy gaze rises to the ceiling.

  I wonder if he’s contemplating Sergei’s words.

  If he’s questioning whether he’s the root of the problem. Immature. And just a pain to us all.

  I shake my head. Timo is a good person. He means everything to me.

  To so many people.

  I tune out Sergei and John. I drop my hands, and I beeline for my brother. He sees, and at nearly the same time, our arms wrap around each other. Clutching tight.

  His speeding heartbeat pounds against my chest, and we don’t let go.

  Against his ear, I say, “I love you, Timo.”

  I can practically feel him shutting his eyes, blocking out the world around us. Our chests rise and fall heavily at the same pace, and softly, I hear him mutter, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Luk.”

  I whisper strongly, “You’re living. That’s all we can do.” I don’t think there are any real answers. Timo is the one who talks about sucking the marrow out of life.

  He’s the one who lives for every moment. I don’t want him to stop now because he’s questioning everything he is. His feelings. His hurt.

  His maturity.

  Timo is his own joy.

  Isn’t that enough?

  I feel his pulse slow, and as we ease our heads back, I worry a fistfight broke out around us. What I find is…something different.

  John and Sergei stand side-by-side, cooled down. Watching us. Their eyes are bloodshot, reddened—but they never fought.