Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(46)

He says nothing, but his jaw muscles tense, as though he’s clenching his teeth. The silence creates a chasm, and so I fill the air once again.

“I thought the colors for Amour are red and pink.”

He opens his eyes, most of the purple makeup gone. But he has a bit of black liner left and silver dots on his forehead that I’m wiping away.

I focus on my hand, the one that holds his unshaven jaw, my fingers and palm small compared to him.

“You’ve never seen the show.” It’s not a question, but I hear his surprise.

“I’ve seen a show,” I say in a whisper.

“But not Amour.”

I’m about to reply, but my phone vibrates loudly on the sink counter. I retrieve it and click into the text message.

I told coach to keep your spot open for another few days. Hopefully you’ll realize how crazy you’re being before then. – Shay

While I skim the words, I feel Nikolai stand. He comes up next to me and reaches for the eye drops.

His gaze briefly travels to my cell. “Let me guess, your best friend.” I hear a hint of bitterness.

“He just thinks there’s more to offer me in Ohio.”

Nikolai towers above me, squeezing drops into his eyes. “Like what?” he asks. “Him?”

“No…he just cares about me enough to want me to succeed, and he doesn’t think I will here.” I lean my back against the sink. After he sets down his drops, he steps closer, standing in front of my half-naked body. Another step forward and his legs knock into mine.

I hold my towel securely, and my lungs eject. As soon as he places his hands on either side of the counter, cocooning me here, I scale my attraction to him.

It’s catastrophically off the charts.

He stares down at me, his intensity present, bringing me to a boil. “When he throws you a lifeline, Thora,” he says, “don’t grab it.”

“Why?” I expect him to mention the pull that is occurring right now, the kind that has his reddened eyes drawing lines along my neck and collarbones.

“The more crutches he gives you, the more you’ll contemplate quitting. It’s the easy way out, and you’ve done this much already.”

He’s right, in a way. When Shay gives me an alternative route, it’s easier to pack up my bags and go home. I don’t think I will though, and knowing he’s there—it’s comforting. “If I fall, he’s my safety net,” I explain to Nikolai. Shay will be the one to pick up the pieces. That’s why he wants me to come home now.

He cups my face, his hand coarse, masculine. And strong. “Thora, he doesn’t even want to give you the chance to fall. That’s not a safety net, it’s a harness.”

I go cold. “And what are you?” I ask. “My safety net?”

He takes a step back. And another. I guess I said the wrong thing. Or maybe the right one—I have no clue anymore.

“I’m just here to help you succeed,” he says. “I don’t know what that’s called.”

“Me either…”

He combs a hand through his hair. “I’ll give you some privacy so you can change. Katya wanted Thai, so there’s more in the kitchen if you’d like to eat.”

“Thanks…” for everything. I think my eyes express it enough because he nods a couple times. I read into our conversation, and I wonder if he’s telling me to be strong enough to cut all ties—that the only way I can do my best is to be all in. No matter what.

I’ve slowly been snipping lifelines since I’ve been here, but some of them are harder to cut than others.

Some of them hurt more. There’s no other truth but that.





Act Seventeen



“Everyone always makes college sound epic,” Katya tells me, eyeing my Ohio State shirt that I changed into, plus a pair of collegiate sweats. I twisted my wet hair in a low pony, and it soaks the red fabric of my tee.

On the couch, the sixteen-year-old girl kicks her feet on the glass coffee table, a fresh plate of chicken and vegetables teetering on her leg. I’m not sure what kind of Thai this is, but it’s like the athlete version, almost no sauce. I’m sitting beside her with a half-filled plate in my hands.

“It’s not like you see on TV,” I explain. Then I frown, recalling a couple drunken parties with an inflatable theme—guys carting around blow-up dolls and girls dressed in balloons. “I mean, some of it is, but they don’t show the studying and cramming.”

Katya sips a blue sports drink, contemplating this. Sober Katya is a much different Katya. More tomboy than the girl I met with caked-on makeup and a martini. She wears jeans and a white tank top, no costume jewelry or feather boas.

Surprisingly, she’s taken my invasion of her couch really well, all things considered.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m going to miss out on something,” she says softly. I’m about to give her some encouragement when the pipes in the wall groan, Nikolai’s shower shutting off.

I tense, and a piece of chicken lodges on its way down.

Katya stabs at her broccoli. “But it can’t be that great if you left it, right?” Her orb-like eyes seem to grow. In the daylight she appears more wistful and otherworldly: pale skin, big lips, eyes and ears on a thin, willowy figure.