Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(17)

Zhen jokes, “What do you think of the turnout?” His accent inflects his words.

“Horrible,” I say seriously.

He smiles wider and then greets Brenden with a hand-grab and hug-pat. “About thirty-five joined the group,” Zhen tells us.

My brows jump. “Almost half the cast?” I was expecting about ten people out of a cast of fifty. Maybe I am too pessimistic, but I’ve lost a lot in the span of seven years and met way more roadblocks than passageways.

Zhen tilts his head. “No hope.”

Brenden chimes in, “Hopeless.” Also tilting his head at me.

I take a seat on a stool while Zhen says something in Mandarin that probably means some form of no hope and Brenden mimics him perfectly.

They’re way too in sync. On and off the stage.

Not to mention, Brenden switches to more languages that I don’t know: Spanish, German, Russian.

I cringe at him. “It’s less impressive when you do this every day.”

My brother is a polyglot. Able to pick up languages fluently and effortlessly. Jealousy bites me. I still struggle with Russian, which floats around AE’s gym hourly.

Granted, I’m not hopeless. In seven years, my Russian has improved, and I understand Patois, a dialect I hear mostly over the phone from my Jamaican grandparents. They immigrated to Brooklyn before they had my mom and Lucy, and even though my mom always had an American accent, her parent’s lilt stayed.

“You mean more impressive,” Brenden rephrases.

“No, I’m pretty sure I meant less.” I can’t help but smile, especially as Zhen wiggles his brows, eyes pinging between us. He pretends like he’s lost in the banter, but if anyone can keep up with a million different personalities and stay on course, it’s Zhen.

Brenden backs up towards the bar. “Beer?” he asks my drink order. I may be underage, but fake IDs and saying I’m an Aerial Ethereal artist at the Masquerade goes a long way.

I hesitate though. Beer is my go-to, but after the meeting, I could use something stronger. “Whiskey straight.”

Sympathy softens his gaze, and he nods before turning to Zhen.

“Pinot Noir,” our friend says, and then he rests his forearms on my table. “It was that bad?”

It. Brenden must’ve told him about my Human Resources meeting. I’m not surprised since they’re best friends. “HR won’t budge.”

He sighs sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“The good news is that I at least found the box.” Even if it was in the wrong room.

Zhen straightens up. “What was in it?”

Everything that means something to me. “All of my juggling equipment, Rudy—”

“Rudy?”

Brenden calls out, “The deformed cactus.”

I look over my shoulder, seeing my brother leaning against the bar. Waiting for our drinks. “Rudy has character,” I tell him. The pincushion succulent traveled from New York to Vegas, and on very, very rare occasions, a pink flower will bloom upon Rudy’s bulbous build.

“That’s what you call the wart-looking thing on its backend?”

I flip him off.

He air-catches my middle finger and pretends to toss it at Zhen.

Zhen chomps the air and swallows.

I give him a look. “Did you just eat my fuck you?”

“I did,” he says, wiping the corners of his lips. “It was quite salty.”

Brenden laughs, and I shake my head again, my smile returning. Performers. Dull isn’t in their vocabulary.

“So the box contained your juggling clubs and Rudy,” Zhen says.

“And my dad’s books.”

“You still have those?” Brenden asks, his voice tight.

I risk a peek at him, his face even tenser than his voice. Brenden has a hard time talking about our parents, but he hasn’t erased their memory anymore than I have.

My gaze drops to his V-neck, and I spy lines of black ink against his warm brown skin. His tattoo is artsy topography of Dad, Mom, Baylee in the shape of a heart. It rests right over his actual heart.

Our parents died in a four car pile-up on a New York freeway. A fluke accident that involved a tractor-trailer popping its front wheels and spinning out of control.

My mom would’ve found light in the unpredictability of her fate.

My dad would’ve loved knowing he was right beside my mom when it happened.

About a year after they passed, I cried when I saw Brenden’s tattoo. I was thirteen. He was fourteen. Then I punched my brother’s arm and said, “I didn’t die with them.” Still, he included my name.

“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you too,” he told me.

I’m nineteen now, and heaviness still clings to their memory. Sometimes it’s a good nostalgic weight, but other times, it makes it hard to breathe.

I watch my brother collect a glass of wine, whiskey, and tequila.

“I kept the novels,” I affirm as he sets our drinks on the table. “Do you remember Two Summers of Rage & Delight?”

Brenden lets out a short laugh while he squeezes lime into his drink, but I think he’s too choked up to explain the memory to Zhen.

I sip my whiskey. “Brenden was six,” I explain to our friend, “and he told our dad to rename his novel Two Summers of Rashes & Doo-doo.”