Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(134)

And he says, “I’ll describe a scenario then.”

“Go ahead,” I reply.

“You were six.”

My nose flares; I shake my head dazedly. “No.”

“No, what? You weren’t six?” (I was.)

The air is thin. Silent, a pin drop could be heard.

“Your sister was three.”

I snap, eyes ablaze—and I charge. Someone fists my shirt before I reach Geoffrey’s face. Yanking me backwards.

He’s smiling. “Your brother was five.”

I tear out of a cousin’s hold, or maybe it’s Sergei restraining me, my pulse beats and bleeds. “You motherfucker,” I sneer.

Geoffrey thinks he has a piece of me. A part of me that I don’t give anyone else. He’s cradling my anger and pain.

Just to use against me.

“You were in the Midwest for a few months.”

I rip out of another hand, and I storm forward, my pulse on searing ascent. I’m being dragged back again. My cousins yell in Russian for me to take a breath and stop, Luka. I’ll be fired if I hit him, but he should be fired and sucker-punched for all of this.

I can’t sit quietly by and let him run over me.

I can’t.

I can’t.

“Your parents became friends with a few locals while you all lived there.”

I somehow bolt out of my cousin’s grip, and I launch a right hook at Geoffrey—a strong hand clasps my wrist, stopping me.

“Fuck you!” I yell through my teeth, veins rising in my neck. My face reddened in ire, I can hardly see straight.

Geoffrey soaks in my raw, unfettering emotion, but he just keeps going. “They were invited to a neighborhood summer barbecue.”

“Is this what you want?!” I scream so loudly my lungs scald inside-out—someone wraps their arms around my collar. “You want to hear me yell?!” I thrash against a muscular build. “Well, fuck you, you motherfucker.”

“The party was unrelated to the circus or AE. Only your parents, four brothers, sister, and you went.”

I spew threats, screaming fuck yous, my chest bursting open. Hot tears scratch my eyes, and knives stake my insides. I want Geoffrey to stop speaking, but he’s not going to stop. My anger does nothing to hurt him. It just pummels me, and I’m growing cold.

And numb. A voice whispers in my ear, “Shhh.”

Raging tears drip off my chin, and I breathe. And breathe, my chest rising and falling heavily. Two arms swoop underneath mine, putting me in a body-lock, and then…their large palms cover my ears.

Protecting me.

I blink and blink, my widened, bloodshot eyes flitting to the forearm that holds me. I see a tattoo of a lightning bolt striking a tree, and I know.

It’s Sergei.

My brother is the one shielding me from Geoffrey’s words.

And I shut my eyes.

Geoffrey is gone. I can’t hear him. I can’t see him.

Quiet tranquility pours through me. At ease. Calm.

Peace.

My past is still mine to give. Mine to share. I breathe and breathe, in control. I feel more in control, and that’s what it is: a state of mind.

In this moment, I can reach my past. I can touch it myself.

Geoffrey isn’t prying into me. He didn’t rip it out. I can cradle it within my own assured hands.

I can remember. I remember being a kid. Being led upstairs with Timo and Kat to a game room. The kind with a pool table, foosball. The person who led us—it was the teenage son of the host. Barbecue neighborhood party, normal people. In a normal place.

What happened wasn’t normal. He took off his clothes—it’s blurry.

I don’t know.

I remember being naked. We were all naked. Confused. So fucking confused.

I was just a kid.

Later, we had to be told by adults that he touched himself, forced us to undress and to watch. But these memories sit repressed in my head. Trauma that I can’t fully reach, but it affects me—and Timo. Katya remembers nothing. Timo and I, we obsessively fixate on things but in different ways, craving control, and I can’t shut if off.

I’ll never be able to, but some days, many more days than most people can imagine, I feel empowered. I break free, and I hold onto those. I’m holding onto this moment.

Where I can think about it. Breathe deeply. Touch the past and not drop to my knees.

I’m okay.

I promise this time.





WINTER





Act Fifty

Luka Kotova




Aerial Ethereal’s end of the year holiday party is my absolute favorite of all Corporate events. It surpasses the promo pool parties by a million leagues.

The Masquerade’s grand ballroom is decked out in garland, snowflakes, twinkling lights, about ten different fir trees, and a row of country flags, representing the homelands of AE artists. And everyone brings a dish, either cooked or store-bought, the buffet table overflowing with homemade recipes, passed down from generation to generation.

And the music.

It’s holiday music; and look, I like anything with a good beat.

I dance with Bay, our heads nodding, silly shoulder-pumping while we hold holiday-patterned disposable plates. We’re off in a corner, doing our own thing by a popcorn-garland tree, and I catch her free hand and twirl her in a circle.