by Sunniva Dee
I feel his hand on my shoulder. It rocks me slowly.
“Everything’s turned to shit. I can’t take my PhD out of the Amazon. I’ve worked for this kind of project through my entire master’s degree—my dissertation has to be based on that groundwork.”
“Shh, we’ll find a way.”
My back shudders against his hand. “I’m just not— It’s too short a notice. And without a PhD, I’m just another unemployable anthropologist.”
“You’ll get your degree. It’ll happen.”
I try for a laugh. “I’m not like you, with a profession that’s ready to suck me up first thing after my studies. I’m supposed to remain in academia. I’m supposed to become a professor and teach others stuff they can only use in the field, see? Julian and I... I know we were ridiculous.”
His hand on my back becomes firmer, kneading up and down until it finds my neck. Goosebumps spread when he burrows beneath my hair, gentle fingers clutching and loosening knots.
“You’re exaggerating. You can work in the private sector as well. Many big corporations employ anthropologists as part of teams focusing on consumer preferences. Or you can work within the government, in international development and cultural resource management, for instance. You can work in non-profit organizations, nationally and internationally.”
I hold my breath. “Where’s this coming from?”
“Julian and I had our chats about the future. He was really only doing his PhD to support you, but you know that.”
It’s true. We didn’t talk much about the job market after school. Me, I didn’t mention my interest in a professor position because I was aware of Julian’s limited interest in moving up to the next level. “Yeah.”
“He’d do anything for you.”
A shuddered sigh steals out of me.
“What Julian wanted was for you to finish your studies and become what you want to become. A professor.”
“What? I never told him that.”
“Of course he knew.” Luka’s hand clasps my neck. I turn my head so I can peer up at him. I’ve seen gifs of Luka, short gifs on social media that can’t be unseen. But these aren’t the searing porn-star eyes I detest.
“I’m coming with you to that meeting. We’ll do this.”
“What?”
“Julian was so proud of it.” Luka’s Adam’s apple trembles as he fights his tears. “I don’t want him to have worked for it in vain. I’ll be my brother in the meeting with the Mikhailov Oracle people.”
I’m wearing a demure red dress that reaches below the knee. Demure because despite being red, the color is so dark there’s nothing eye-catching about it. My mother sent it to me saying it would be perfect for job interviews and the like. “The like” is what this is.
“You’ve got the papers?” Luka glances at me from behind a long bang. He’s heart-stopping as he slams the passenger door shut and straightens. We’ve had two good Sundays now. Yesterday, he brought his stuff into my room unasked, and I swatted him away to rig it up by the glass veranda. I caught the barely there smile he unleashed even if I didn’t mean to see it. Getting along a little makes it harder to ignore his good sides.
“I’ve got my own papers. Do you have Julian’s?”
“Yeah, except the award letter.”
I rummage in my stack and find it. Pass it over while joining him on the other side of the car. “You’re going to be warm in that jacket.”
With an arched brow, he mock-loosens his tie.
“I doubt they expect us to come dressed for formal-night at the cruise ship,” I say, only now realizing that his tie is the color of my dress.
He shrugs the shoulders of his Armani. “I had to match you.”
“Oh me and my H&M dress, you mean? It was ninety dollars.”
Luka flashes me a wolf smile. “You’re ready for the kill. And depending on who’s in the meeting, I’ll loosen the tie, drop the jacket, and slowly rip my shirt open one button at a time.”
“Jesus.” I swing forward so he can’t read my expression. A dozen stories high, the building in front of us is all slate grey marble, the only irregularity on its surface being the address: 11325 Pawn Street.
“This is fraud,” I whisper. “We’re so hosed if they catch us.”
“Who’s going to catch us? There’s no way.”
“They could! They wouldn’t have to do much research to find out that Julian isn’t...” I feel dark. “It’s going to ruin both of our careers before they start.”
He turns me and holds me still with his hands around my upper arms. “That will not happen. Julian was Russian. I’m Russian. And never forget that they gave him the grant based on your research.”
“They don’t even know I’ve modified the plan since he was awarded the grant.” Anxiety trembles in my stomach.
“The project is better now, right?”
“Sure, but...”
“Easy. You inform them of the modification and why. These people are not anthropologists. They’re grant distributors. All we need is a quick lowdown for them. Then, they’ll want it in writing and what-have-you.” He shrugs. “We give it, and bam, we’re in compliance with all their shit.”
“It’s not compliance to steal someone else’s identity, is it?”
“Keep it down.” He scans the groomed hedges and the entrance area. “Worst case, I’ll study a jungle disease and go with you.”
“What? Oh hell no.”
A bellman opens the front door for us. “Where to?”
“Mikhailov Oracle, please,” Luka utters smoothly, so much smoother than my stomach. While the elevator takes us upward, he locks my stare.
“Luka,” I begin before he can pick up where he left off. “The fact that we can tolerate each other for a whole night, when all we do is sleep, doesn’t mean we won’t end up killing each other in the jungle.”
“I have no urge to kill you.” The doors slide open on the twelfth floor. “You know my brother would have given the thumbs-up to this. It’s the right way to go.”
“You need to stop saying, ‘my brother would have’ anything. It’s just heartbreaking that you put words in his mouth.”
“You don’t think I knew him?” He holds the door open to an overly luxurious waiting room, brown leather chairs and mahogany coffee tables between fish tanks and tall plants.
“Uh-huh, but not like I did.” I glare as he closes the door behind us. He gestures toward one of the chairs. I select a different one and sit down.
Luka narrows his eyes like his retort is at the ready, but then he pauses, turns, and goes up to the glass counter. “Good afternoon. Julian Veredich and Geneva Diakos-Miller for Boris Sokolov, please.”
I cross my arms as he sinks into the chair he originally assigned me. Is it me, or is his gaze heated when he says, “It makes sense that I didn’t know him in the way his girlfriend did.”
“Really? Is this you being gross or something?” I try to focus on a fish tank. The goldfish are so fat they barely bob in there.
“Gross? Is that what it was to you to be with my brother?”
“What the hell? What we did in bed is none of your business,” I hiss, and it takes me exactly two seconds to catch what I’ve said. Luka doesn’t respond. I whip toward him. “Crap, look what you make me say.” My throat bobs. “You’re such a— God.”
“I’m a god? Hmm.”
“Julian Verenich and Geneva Diakos-Miller?” A short corpulent man in a grey suit waits for us in a door by the glass counter.
“That’s us,” Luka says silkily and stands, reaching a hand behind him to catch mine. He does it without looking, and— fuck, I have to take it.
We shake hands with Mr. Sokolov, who shows us in and sends a rigid nod toward two chairs in front of his desk. Folding his hands, he watches as Luka makes a number out of accommodating m
e before taking his own seat. It’s a bitch to subdue my rage.
“Can I see your award letter, please,” Mr. Sokolov asks. Pale eyes study Luka as if he’s already onto our scam. They narrow while Luka hands him the letter—with Mr. Sokolov’s signature on it. Oh yes, this meeting is out of verification concerns.
My partner-in-crime looks more relaxed than he does with me most of the time. There’s man-prattle going down. A few words in Russian and a smile being born on Mr. Sokolov’s face. Ten minutes later, I have to avert my eyes from his stomach when it rocks with laughter.
“When is the wedding?” is the first thing that causes Luka’s gaze to freeze. It takes him only a second to pull himself together.
“It’s been postponed. We need to concentrate on the trip first. Once the work is done, we’ll have more than one reason to celebrate. Won’t we, love?” He tips his head toward me, his features immobile yet bright.
I see the same glow in Mr. Sokolov’s expression. That too is cultural, and if it weren’t for the messed-up situation, I’d have found it fascinating; Julian and Luka were often expressive with friends, but whenever they were around people from their own culture—especially males—their reactions seemed purposefully tempered.
“I understand,” Mr. Sokolov says. “Work first. Pleasure next.”
“Indeed,” I reply, opening a big American smile. I can tell he likes it.
“Big celebration, yes?” His pale blues display interest in our partying ways.
“Absolutely, sir. You must come. We will send an invitation for your wife and you, won’t we, love?” Luka says—again.
“Absolutely, love,” I sugar-sweet out and flutter my eyelashes at Luka. For good measure, I also do it at our host.
“She’s enchanting, your malen’kaya nevesta.” Mr. Sokolov stands, grabs Luka’s hand, and greets him with a kiss on each cheek. Luka responds with the ease of someone used to kissing other men.
Humor ignites in Luka’s irises when this stranger leans in and plants first one, then a second meaty kiss right on my mouth. Hell if I’m giving Luka something to laugh at though. I finish the rite without a flinch, and a small victory runs through me.
“I wish your fiancée and you safe travels and much success, Mr. Verenich. I will personally make sure the funds are transferred to your account by Friday.”
“Spasibo,” Luka says, bowing his head slightly.
I keep my mouth closed until the elevator doors shut behind us. Then I mock, “Won’t we, lo-o-ove?”
Luka’s arms settle around me, and he presses me sideways into the wall with him. I stiffen until he lowers his mouth to my ear, half-caressing, half-whispering. “Keep up the appearances, Geneva, until we’re back in the car. Born Russians are not easily fooled, and old Boris was suspicious. Did you feel it?”
I nod.
He nuzzles my ear, and I shut my eyes, enjoying the feeling more than I should.
“Don’t stare, but check the upper right corner by the door.”
I peek up but look away as soon as I glimpse the shine of a lens and the small green light verifying that it’s on. “Got it.”
He swings me and angles my face upward. There’s so much love in his gaze it’s hard to tell it’s for show. “My malen’kaya nevesta. Come here.”
When he kisses me, lips softly opening my mouth, all I can do is respond.
The next two weeks are murder. I miss Julian so much I want to stab myself, and Luka’s close by, taciturn, not leaving me to myself except when the Fratters take their shifts brightening my nights.
He wants to talk.
I can’t have him talk.
We’re alone at the Queen, this terrible second Sunday since the Mikhailov meeting, the funds are in, and the departure date is a sinkhole sucking me closer.
“Stop being in the room with me!” I finally shout when he searches for some book on a shelf across from me in the library. “Just— Ah... I can’t take it!”
Yellow irises dart ice at me. “Why not? What have I ever done to you, Geneva? All I try to do is help.”
“No, you don’t! You’re invading me. You. Should have never kissed me.” My heart is a painful thing, a fire-belcher that huffs and contracts.
Two strides and he closes in on me. “I didn’t have a choice. The cameras.”
“Bullshit! You could have done something else. You didn’t have to drag me into you and kiss me like you were my boyfriend. You don’t think it was hard enough to talk about our so-called nuptials? You don’t think I was reminded all over again, over and over, and—I hate that Julian had a twin!”
It’s not about Luka’s job anymore. Worse is the constant reminder of my fiancé, every tendon, muscle of them, the bridge of Luka’s nose with a bend at the level of his lashes.
What sorcery,
what horrific, merciless twist of nature, and
why did God invent identical people?
A shove, and I’m against the wall with a Ngh! Book spines dig into my back, and I lift my hands, wanting to defend myself, but he shoves me again, harder, and all I can do is grab his shoulders and hold on.
“You don’t think it was a reminder for me? Huh?” His eyes blaze. “You think you’re the only one suffering? Oh no. No.
“Julian and I shared a goddamn womb. You get what that means? You met my fucked-up brother a measly few years ago, and you didn’t even know the shit he was going through. No, you were his sheltered little doll that he played house with—”
Doll.
“Geneva, do you know what I see in the mirror now?”
I’m breathing too hard to reply, my shoulders raising and sinking erratically in his grasp. For one big, wild second, I’m a narcissistic survivor of a playhouse engagement.
“Do you? Say it. Admit that you have no idea what it’s like to be me!”
“Yourself,” I spit. “All you see in the mirror is yourself, asshole, and all you care about is yourself.” But even as I say it, it feels like hot air.
My heart is trapped in a torture device. My brain is squeezed and released in a continuous ebb and flow on crack. People pamper me and feel sorry for me, while what I need is punishment for this flesh that lives, these bones that breathe.
“No.” He shoves at me with his whole body, merciless and what I deserve. He’s punishing me. I want it, welcome it, and Luka rumbles as he caresses the side of my throat with his nose. He slides upward until he finds my ear. “What I see in the mirror is not me. All I can ever see anymore is Julian.”
He forms his hands around my face and tips it up so I can’t avoid his eyes. They’re awash with a loss so boundless.
“I can’t escape myself, see? For the rest of my life, I’ll see my brother in my reflection. He’ll be there, always, and I want him to be there even when it drives me insane.” He sucks in a sob. “You’ll move on. You’ll be you again once the grief fades, but I’ll never just be me, not ever again.”
The marrow of my bones absorbs his agony first. It’s lead poisoned by quicksilver, a flush so heavy it jams my body.
Luka and I are fucked. He’s been right from the start! How did he know and I didn’t? He and I are in this together.
“You’ll be okay.” My chest shakes as I say it.
“No, I don’t think I will. I need to get out of here. I’m taking a break.”
“But you can’t! You’re so close to finishing up your studies, you’ll be in residency. Julian would have wanted you to—”
“I can’t concentrate on anything anymore.” His fingers loosen their clutch on my face. His head sinks, eyes scrunching shut before the weight of him meets my temple.
I don’t stop my hands from grasping his sides, sinking into the firm indent below his ribs and grazing the lowest of them. “What do you want to do?”
“I have to get away from school. The Queen too.” Th
e vibration of his groan pierces his pain into me. He huffs a chuckle that doesn’t sound entertained. “I need to get away from my reflection.”
“There are mirrors everywhere, Luka.”
The pressure of his forehead alleviates as he tilts without retreating. His lips are the same pink, the same plump soft, but his kiss—
Oh god, his kiss is different.
“Are there reflections in the jungle?” he sighs.
My hands do things. They make my arms extend so they encompass his body, stretching behind him and upward, touching the wings of his shoulder blades and feeling them shudder.
“You could go somewhere else?” My words sound accidental. I angle my head back so it’s easy for soft lips to find mine, and they do, they do. He kisses me saltily, moisture sliding and drawing mine.
“I don’t want to go somewhere else. You think I haven’t seen you? Watched you since you came to the Queen? You think brothers’ tastes are so different? You think Julian loved you, and I—”
Cagey, he snorts, sucks on my upper arc and glides to my lower lip in a dance that makes my breath stumble. It’s hard to think when someone kisses you this way, softly, tenderly but hard, and so fucking unapologetically.
Two thumbs dig in below my cheekbones, angling me higher so I have no option but to stare back at him. Luka’s body blankets the length of me. We’re man and woman, warm, insistent, the brother of my dead fiancé and me mourning our asses off with no relief in sight, because grief is all this is—
Right?
“Come here.”
My breath puffs out as he hoists me in the air and onto his hips. Outside, the sun makes the mountains glow, but it’s not time for him to tuck me under the sheets and keep watch over me from my glass nook. Still, I fold my arms around his neck and let him carry me. I close my eyes when one step after the other moves us upward and causes the stairway to creak.
“Baby, it’s over.” He says it with a compassion I can’t take in. “I’m coming with you to the jungle.”