Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  “What happened?” Katya asks her older brother.

  “Nothing,” Luka says. “Nothing happened.”

  Timo points at Luka, about to share details that aren’t his. My interest has peaked. Curiosity—it’s a naughty, wicked thing.

  “You said you felt lost. Don’t lie,” Timo retorts.

  Luka removes his baseball cap, combing his fingers through his short hair. “Look,” he says to both his siblings. Then he struggles for the next words.

  Like Katya, he turns to me for that same support. I almost wonder if Nikolai fills this role in their lives. I just nod to him in encouragement, internally saying you can do this, whatever this is.

  His chest inflates, his shoulders rising. “…I thought I’d feel…home when I got there, but I didn’t. A lot was foreign to me. I felt foreign. Growing up here with part of the culture is different. We’re different, and we don’t fit in there…Kat.”

  Tears well in her eyes, and her chin trembles. “But we don’t fit in here.”

  Timo chimes in, “Yeah we do. Maybe what you’re feeling is internal, so don’t take it out on us.” He’s still trying to get her cash.

  Katya flips him off.

  I smile.

  Timo groans. “Come on, Kat—” She dives underneath her comforter, physically icing him out. He sighs in frustration and turns to Luka.

  “No.”

  Timo focuses on me and presses his palms together, in prayer formation. “Please, please, Thora James. I’ll even take a twenty and pay you back fifty after I win big. You know I can.”

  When I sat with him at John’s table, he won forty extra dollars, but he only left because he had to go prep for Amour. I tell him the truth, “I don’t carry cash on me.”

  The door whips open for the third time, and I realize that the television is shut off, no interfering noise below. Everyone must’ve left. Nikolai stands strict in the door frame, and Timo and Luka go suspiciously quiet.

  We can all hear Katya crying softly beneath her purple comforter.

  “What’d you do?” He looks between both his brothers.

  Timo rolls his eyes, but I see the remorse flood his features, his bright gray irises beginning to cloud. “I told her that I’m not going to Saint Petersburg.”

  Nikolai glowers like why would you ever fucking tell her that? He pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “Everyone knew I was never going to go,” Timo refutes.

  Luka whispers back, “You could’ve let her believe what she wanted, at least for two more years.”

  Timo touches his chest. “I’m being criticized for telling the truth. Does anyone see how wrong this is?” He looks to me. “Thora?”

  “Don’t bring her into your shit,” Nikolai cuts in. He gestures to me with two fingers, and when I approach him, he slips his hand in mine. I relax almost instantly, muscles loosening that I didn’t even realize were strained.

  “She was my friend first,” Timo snaps. “Just think about that when you’re fu—”

  Nikolai interjects with a bunch of Russian words. My eyes nearly pop out. He was going to say when you’re fucking. We’re not doing that. No. My neck heats.

  No.

  Timo huffs, more angrily, and then waves Nikolai off. If we’re being technical, I met Nikolai before any of them. I can’t say we were ever friends though.

  Maybe a minute later, Nikolai disengages from his siblings, and I descend the staircase with him while they remain upstairs for a moment or two longer.

  I can see the apologies in his eyes before he speaks. “I like your sister,” I tell him first. “She’s sweet.”

  He’s taken aback, like no one has ever called Katya sweet before. “She’s still figuring things out,” he says.

  “I get it,” I breathe. She’s trying to find herself. Some days I still wonder if I’ve found me. Maybe we never stop searching. Maybe we evolve the way seasons change, seamlessly without really knowing, not until all the leaves have fallen.

  This is who I am today.

  Tomorrow I may be the same.

  But in years, I’ll be someone else. Someone I may like more. Someone I may like less. And that’s okay. Because I’m still living.

  “What are you thinking?” Nikolai asks, lifting my chin as he stares down.

  I just give him a weak smile. “What time should I wake up for training?”

  “Early,” he says, dropping his hand. “I have a show at two tomorrow.”

  I nod, knowing his schedule well enough. I’m about to go to the couch and plop down for the night when he catches my arm.

  “About Dimitri.” He pauses. “I’ve known him since I was a little kid, and he’s always been this way. I just take him for what he is. I promise he won’t affect your training.”

  I feel like we’re skirting around something deeper. It can’t be all about training. So I throw it out there, “No boyfriends, right?”

  His features harden. “Don’t sleep with him.”

  My eyes widen. “I wouldn’t…date your cousin.”

  “I didn’t say date.”

  “Nikolai—”

  He turns his head from me, his jaw muscles contracting. “Never mind. I shouldn’t…I have no say in who you have sex with. You can do what you—”

  “I’m not going to sleep with him,” I say assuredly. “Even if he wasn’t your cousin, I’m not remotely attracted to Dimitri.” I’m just saying whatever feels right, and surprisingly going with the moment helps.

  Nikolai’s tense shoulders lower some, and he faces me. Saying nothing else. He seems conflicted, confused, knee-deep in a gray area that I’ve grown accustomed to.

  I clear my throat to break the silence. “Yeah…so there’s that.”

  “You have better judgment than most then.” He searches my eyes for clarity. I have no more answers than him. When he realizes this, he adds, “I’ll see you in the morning, Thora.”

  Then he hesitates for a moment, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Even my cheek or forehead. Something. He leans closer like he may.

  At last second, he simply releases my arm, and he leaves my side. My life has never felt more complicated, but this is a complication that I’d rather exist than not have at all.

  Act Nineteen

  I am sweating.

  Not the sexy sweat that glistens with a thin beautiful sheen—if that’s even real. I’m starting to question television and movies and humanity. My red Ohio State shirt is soaked.

  In two hours—I’ve done pull-ups, sprints, kettle balls, curls, a plethora of weight lifts, dead lunges, jump rope, and now I’m staring at a vertical beam that resembles a stripper pole, but it’s ten times higher and covered in rubber. I already know I’m going to have to climb the pole, my muscles shrieking at me to stop now.

  Nikolai breathes heavily like me, hands on his sides, his bare chest glistening with sweat. He joined me on the torture-filled workout. It’s a hellish version of what I would’ve done this summer for gymnastics conditioning.

  He really is the devil.

  But he claims this is his normal routine, only modified for my height and size and discipline.

  “When do…we practice…” I pant and gesture to the aerial silk light-years away from me. “…on that?”

  His rolled red bandana collects his sweat, damp strands of hair hanging over it. “When you’re strong enough.”

  I’ll be soaring forty-feet in the air without a harness, so I understand his concern. But… “You forget that I do an aerial hoop act every night, and I’m strong enough for that.”

  He takes two lengthy strides near me and seizes my bicep. He lifts up my arm and points at the reddish burns that mar my skin, from armpit to elbow. “If you were strong enough, you’d be able to support your entire body weight to avoid this.”

  “Hoop burns are normal.” I think. The friction of the metal and my skin is like a version of a rope burn—not the most pleasant sensation. “The other girls at Phantom have them.”

&nbs
p; “The other girls at Phantom aren’t trying to join Aerial Ethereal.”

  He makes a lot of sense.

  “No complaining,” he adds, dropping my bicep. “Rule number one.”

  “I was just kindly mentioning…something.” My mind travels away from me, especially as he rests a firm hand on my shoulder. My chest falls more deeply than before—and he seems to notice, eyeing my ribcage. Yet, he keeps that hand in place.

  “Use your core.” He rests his other palm on my abdomen. “And climb halfway up. If you can support your entire body weight with just your hand, extending your body away from the pole, we’ll move onto aerial silk.”

  I blow out a breath. I can do it. Even though I’ve never done that before—I can still do it. My cheerleader sounds less assured than usual.

  When his hands fall, I near the pole, clasping it firmly. One more breath and I make the ascent, using the tips of my toes but mostly my arms, my muscles pulling tight.

  Up.

  And up.

  You can do this, Thora. It’s the lamest mantra in the history of mantras. I know this. But it’s the best one I have. It’s the one I always use, clearly. And still, the overuse doesn’t diminish its effect.

  I keep my swift pace, the ceiling closer.

  And closer.

  Then halfway up, my quads spasm.

  No. I try to block it out.

  Don’t think about it.

  I climb a bit higher, and the spasm clenches my entire muscle, spindling towards my ankles.

  A cramp.

  Two cramps. They’re not the little ones that I can shake off. It’s the crippling kind—from too much strain and maybe not enough hydration.

  “Thora!” Nikolai calls.

  I’m hugging onto the pole, my legs wrapped around it. “Just give…me a second!” I shout back, a wince contorting my face. You can do this, Thora James. Climb this fucking pole.

  I use my hands to pull my body higher, my legs worthless beneath me. One handhold extra and I stop. There’s no way I can support my weight with one hand. My body is out of commission. At least until the cramping ends.

  “Climb down!” Nikolai shouts, his voice pitching in worry, but the severity—the strictness, chills my bones.

  I inhale. “One more—”

  “Now,” he forces. “I’m not playing the fuck around, Thora.”

  When I glance at him below, he braces a hand to the pole, standing right underneath it like he’s prepared to catch me if I let go and accidentally drop. His whole no-nonsense demeanor sways me. And I slide down the pole like a fireman or little kid in an indoor playground.

  My feet hit the mat, and my knees instantly buckle beneath me. I thud on my ass, and while I stifle the heat of failure, Nikolai towers above my small frame.

  “Do you want to be an AE artist?” he asks in a growl.

  “You know I do…”

  “Then listen to me,” he seethes. “If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to get the fuck down, you get the fuck down. Without question.”

  I nod tensely, my calf cramping so cruelly that I can’t do much else but cringe and wish for it to stop. I imagine my muscles constricting to the point of snapping, band by band. It’s illogical, but it’s the feeling, most definitely. Pulling and snapping.

  With a heavy breath, Nikolai sits and splays my leg across his lap. My quads visibly spasm, and he applies pressure to my thigh muscle, massaging the area. He watches my reaction and my muscles like he’s accustomed to cramps of this nature. I’ve had them, maybe once. When I forgot to stretch. But not this extreme.

  He digs his fingers a little deeper in my thigh. I wince and instinctively reach behind me, gripping the pole. I rest my spine and head against it.

  “Relax,” Nikolai says huskily.

  It’s hard. For multiple reasons. My whole body wants to lock by his closeness, my nerves flapping. “I’m trying,” I whisper.

  His brows knot as he concentrates on my legs. My hamstrings suddenly tighten, and a literal cry breaches my lips.

  His eyes flicker up to me, just once. And I see something different in those grays—something that causes his Adam’s apple to bob. Without much falter, he massages underneath my thigh, and I reach out and hold onto his forearm.

  “Wait,” I say, unsure of whether he’s making it worse or better.

  “Breathe normally,” he instructs. “It’ll help.”

  I blow out like I’m in a Lamaze class.

  With my hand still clasped to him, he kneads my muscles. They slowly begin to uncoil, the pain lessening with his rhythmic movements. My next breath is almost a relieved sigh. “Thanks,” I manage to say.

  “You need to drink more water,” he tells me. “And how much are you eating?” His eyes find me again, and they carry this real concern. It’s a new look from him.

  “I was on a twenty-five-hundred calorie diet in college,” I say softly, watching his hand move back up my thigh. The gymnastics team had a nutritionist that gave us tips about healthy eating.

  “You used the past tense.”

  “Well…since I’ve been here, I haven’t been able to really eat…as much.” My voice trails off at his glare.

  “When you work with me, you’re on a three-thousand calorie diet,” he demands. “No exceptions. And I’ll start you on a few supplements, the ones that the female artists take in AE.” He pauses before he adds, “I’ll get a copy of their nutrition plan for you.”

  Three-thousand calories. I try to add up the cost of eating that much a day.

  Plus the cost of new costumes.

  Plus rent.

  And the down payment.

  I already feel sick.

  But I have to make it work, somehow.

  “I’ll help you stretch and then we’ll call it a day. I don’t want you to pull a muscle.” His hands no longer apply pressure, but they remain on my bare skin, on my thigh. His intense gray eyes graze the length of my legs.

  My lungs collapse as silence stretches for an extra moment or two. “…sounds good,” I say to break the quiet.

  He turns his head some, like he’s lost in thought.

  I lick my chapped lips. “I’m sorry, for before. I should’ve listened to you and come down.”

  “It’s not all you. I have a lot I’m dealing with, and I’m just trying to be more cautious.”

  I wonder if he’s referring to his old partner or his new one. I haven’t asked about his training with Elena because it’s never surfaced until now. Curiosity overpowers me. “How’s Elena?” I put it out there.

  His hands run down to my knee, resting there. “She’s decent.” He chooses his words carefully. “A fast enough learner, but she’s young and not as emotive as…” He stops himself, shutting down some, like he’s drawing up the bridge of his fortress.

  “Tatyana?” I wonder.

  He nods. “It’s not fair to compare anyone to Tatyana. She was a third generation acrobat and one of the best in her discipline.” He shrugs, unbendingly. It’s probably still raw—her injury and dismissal from Amour. “I shouldn’t tell you this. It’s not important to your training.”

  “But it’s important to you,” I say under my breath.

  He flashes a weak smile. “Which has no business in the gym.”

  Right. “You forget,” I point out, “that we’re already unprofessional.”

  He smiles, a real one this time. “I never forget, myshka.” He rises and holds out his hand for me. Without hesitation, I take it, and Nikolai helps me to my feet.

  Act Twenty

  By the end of the week, my body has gone through a brutal beating. The tiniest muscles ache, even the ones in my pinky finger. I can’t support my weight with only my hand yet, not while extending my legs outward in a horizontal, straight line. So we haven’t moved onto aerial silk. I just keep envisioning my final goal: a contract with Aerial Ethereal. Any contract, honestly. I’d even take Magus which is still in the early planning stages.

  I try not to focus on
the five-month deadline where Elena will grace the globe auditorium in Amour, and my parents will believe that I’m supposed to be there. I’m still trying to formulate another lie to keep them in Cincinnati before that happens.

  Tonight, I practice the art of relaxation.

  The Red Death is at maximum capacity, a long line spindling outside the door. Like every Saturday night. A perk to knowing Camila: I just slipped right on by again. Currently pop remixes blare through speakers and create a unity of grinding bodies.

  I rotate my blue glow choker, the connector resting against the back of my neck. Admittedly, I hesitated on whether to take an “it’s complicated” necklace—but it’s not really that complicated, I guess. Nikolai is training me. That’s it.

  I grab a shot of tequila from Camila while she mans the bar, green glow ring atop her curls. She has more colorful makeup on, pink sparkles beneath her eyes and cheeks, gold glitter on her neck and collarbones.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t fucked him yet!” She shouts to me over the music. Then she leans closer, forearms on the bar. First thing she asked was my relationship status.

  I can’t be the only girl who’d choose this path. “We’re just friends,” I assure her.

  Camila looks disappointed, like she was ready to pass me extra celebratory shots.

  “Why the hell are you pouting?” John asks his cousin. He sits on the stool next to me, fisting a beer. “And please don’t tell me you’re living vicariously through Thora’s sex life. That’s just sad. Especially since you have a boyfriend—no, not a boyfriend actually. More like a fuck face, piece of shit.” He raises his beer to her in cheers.

  My eyes grow big. I met Craig at Camila’s apartment during my couch-surfing days. He seemed normal. Nice, even. He brought Camila a bouquet of roses, just because.

  Though I can’t deny their intense verbal sparring matches that shook the walls at night. Maybe John knows about those.

  Camila stands straighter. “It’s called empathy,” she says, sidestepping the boyfriend insult. “Something that was removed from you at birth.”