Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(110)

“Not exactly.”

This is a puzzle that I can’t solve. My face tightens in a scowl, just concentrating on what he could be referring to. But I draw a blank. “So how am I seeing you?”

Nikolai faces me, about five feet separating us. He crosses his arms over his chest, more on the defensive and Shay isn’t even here yet.

“I’m auditioning for Aerial Ethereal’s open positions.”

So many mixed emotions assault me at once. I don’t know what I feel. “Shay…”

Nikoli runs his hands through his hair, frustrated that he can’t hear everything. Or maybe he can hear. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

“I know it’s hypocritical of me,” he says. “I’ve been bashing you about it all year, but I’ve been to five job interviews and I hate every single one of them.” He takes a deep breath. “You know, I graduated two weeks ago, and I can’t see myself doing anything but what I’ve been doing. It sucks.” I hear the sound of a rubber bouncy ball, hitting the floor. “And then I thought about you and Aerial Ethereal. I don’t know…it seems like a better life.”

I imagine Shay with me, in the circus. My lips rise, but another pain forms inside my stomach. If we both land contracts for Somnio, I may be able to perform alongside Shay, but it means leaving Nikolai behind in Vegas. Bittersweet isn’t even the right feeling.

It just hurts.

“Thora?” His voice leaks concern. “You know I’m sorry, about giving you a hard time. Hey, there’s a good chance I may not even make it.”

But he’s more hopeful for himself than he ever was for me. Because he’s more talented. “I hope you make it,” I say, trying to stay positive.

“Yeah?”

Nikolai shifts, slightly turning his back to me. He rubs his unshaven jaw and glares at the tree trunk.

Blocking out my own involvement, I want my friend to be happy. I just wish there wasn’t pain attached to that desire. “Definitely.”

There’s a short pause, the silence filled with thuds against the wall. I can tell there’s more. “When I see you,” he begins, “I promise to not start anything with your friend.”

“Boyfriend,” I correct.

Nikolai rotates slowly, facing me again. His features are still harsh, strict cuts that he usually wears for his siblings or in the gym.

I hear the squeak of bed springs as Shay plops down. “Whatever he is, I’m going to try to be nice to him for you.”

That’s better than nothing. “I hope so.”

And then he says, “Be safe, okay?”

I smile, a weaker one than usual. “Be happy, alright?”

A moment passes. “I will be,” he says softly. And we hang up at the same time.

I pocket the phone, and Nikolai exhales a deep, tense breath, his muscles flexed in his arms and shoulders. And I mutter, “He’s auditioning in January.”

Nikolai rolls his eyes and he shakes his head repeatedly like this has to be some big joke.

“He said he’d be nice—”

“I don’t care what he is.” He lets out a short laugh, his face going through those series of mixed emotions, reflecting what I felt. And then he turns around. With a lengthy, incensed stride, he heads towards Katya.

I run to catch up to him, clasping his wrist. “Nikolai—”

“Nik!” Katya shouts, sprinting up to us. “We found it!” She wipes her reddened nose with her gloved hand. She looks between us for a moment, and her smile begins to fade.

I drop Nikolai’s wrist.

Nik tells her, “Let’s see it then.”

She brushes our expressions under the rug, the way we do, and takes both of our hands, pulling us in the direction of the Christmas tree.



*



Nikolai is on his fourth beer while I help Katya string bulbs around the large spruce. It almost knocks into the flat-screen television. Timo claimed it was a Christmas miracle that the tree even fit in the room. He was planning on laughing his ass off (and recording it) when it smashed into the ceiling.

Nikolai didn’t look amused, but my phone call with Shay depleted most of his Christmas cheer. We just need a moment to talk.

Between the tree limbs, I notice Nikolai hovering around the kitchen, not able to sit down and relax. I feel like I’m channeling his volatile emotions, my muscles never loosening. This is worse than a normal bout of holiday stress.

Nikolai motions to Luka who’s opening a package of ornaments, Timo shuffling through holiday tunes on his iPod nearby. “Where did you get the lights?” he asks.

“I bought them.” Luka raises his hands. “I promise.”

“The receipt is in the bag,” Katya calls out, crouched near my feet.

Nikolai fists his beer bottle, not checking.

Luka glares. “Please look, okay?”

“I don’t need to. I believe you.”

Luka groans. “I don’t want you to believe me. I need you to know with actual proof.” Nikolai doesn’t budge. Maybe he’s wary to encounter more bad news. “Please.” Luka says a few more words in Russian before Nikolai leaves his post beside the bar.

He picks out the receipt from the paper bag. And with an indecipherable expression, he puts it back.