Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(22)

“Kotova,” Luka corrects. Honestly, I don’t know what’s worse: the hostile tension laced between them or the thick, uncomfortable tension threaded between us.

“Not this again,” Sergei mutters. “Our birth certificates don’t really matter. We’re Russian. We go by Kotov.”

I understand what he’s saying. Russian surnames change depending on masculine and feminine. Men drop the a, and women keep the a at the end. When the Kotova family immigrated to America, they had to choose between Kotova and Kotov for their documentation.

Obviously, they picked Kotova.

And every Kotova that I’ve ever come across has identified as just that. Kotova. I remember Luka mentioning that his father upholds Russian customs more than others in their extended family, especially his mother who wanted to pick less traditional names for her children. Maybe their father had a greater influence on Sergei, and that’s why he’s so dead-set on Kotov.

“You can go by whatever the hell you want,” Luka says. “I’m Russian-American. I’m a Kotova. I’ll always be a Kotova.”

“I should leave,” I say aloud.

Sergei reaches out his hand. “No. Don’t leave. We’re fine.” He means him and his brother. “Right?” he asks Luka.

They’re anything but fine—but like I said, Luka won’t be the first person to start a fight. So I’m not surprised by his response.

“Sure,” Luka says. “Fine.”

I sip my whiskey, and as Luka shifts on his stool, I’m overly aware of how close his shoulder is to my shoulder. I feel like he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye.

He drops his hand off the table.

My arm falls to my side.

Do you still think about me?

Are you the same as you once were?

How much have we both changed?

Sergei speaks to his brother but gestures to me with his bottle of beer. “I was just talking to…” he trails off.

“You don’t know her name?” Luka almost laughs. I listen keenly, wishing and hoping that I could hear his full laugh. Don’t stop.

Keep going, Luka.

Sergei snaps at him in Russian, and Luka replies back in a smoother tone.

“What’s her name then?” Sergei retorts like he’s quizzing his brother.

Legally, he can’t utter my name, so I’m about to cut in and say it.

I don’t even open my mouth before he speaks.

“Baylee,” Luka says aloud, and I swear he says my name from deep in his core. As if he’s breathing out years of weighted silence. “Baylee Wright.”

My stomach tosses in good and awful ways—we can’t do this. I’m scared of the no minors policy. I’m scared of hurting other people because of our carelessness. I look over my shoulder again. No onlookers, right? No one will tell on us here?

Selfishly, a very big part of me hopes and wishes and yearns for this moment to extend. I don’t want this to stop, and maybe that’s why I stay seated. Maybe that’s why I cling onto every second I can share with him.

Beneath the table, our fingers brush.

I inhale, a spark zipping up my veins. Our fingers try to grab hold stronger. Longer. We almost do.

“Baylee,” Sergei says.

I retract my hand, our fingers breaking apart, and I cup my whiskey with both palms.

“You want Infini to go well?” Sergei asks me.

“Yeah.” I nod, a little dizzy from drinking and from Luka. He ruffles in his jean’s pocket for something, and then he places a handful of Jolly Ranchers on the table.

I’m a little worried he stole them, but I’m also used to Luka shoplifting candy and then sharing most of the loot.

He pushes the green apple towards me. My favorite flavor.

I pick up a piece while he unwraps a blue raspberry one.

Waving his bottle at me, Sergei tries to seize my attention again. When he’s successful, he says, “Then you should tell my brother to start answering my emails.”

I go cold. “He’s ignoring you?” It’s weird having to talk like Luka isn’t right beside me, but it’s not like him to carry a grudge like this. He loves everyone but the company hierarchy.

Maybe he’s changed.

No. I still don’t want to believe that yet.

He feels the same.

“For months he’s been giving me the cold-shoulder,” Sergei says. “And we’re brothers. It’s kind of unbelievable, right?” Whatever exists between them must be deep-seated.

And I can’t side with Sergei like he wants me to. I’d defend Luka for millenniums. He’s not just my secret ex-boyfriend. He’s the boy who my dad called, “Poignant.” Luka moved my father to near tears because…he was there for me.

For as long as I can remember, I have days where I just lie in bed, feeling weighed down, empty. My dad would nudge me to go to a Mets game, and the thought sounded worse than work. It seemed lifeless and then painful. All the things I love have felt pointless at some moment in time.

I hate the feeling. Because it’s unshakable. It grips every bone in my body and tells me not to move, not to dance. Not to live.

That all joy is joyless. That all love is worthless.

That happiness is too far gone.

Before my parents passed, people would tell me “don’t be sad” and “you have so much to be happy about”—and I did. Yet, my sadness doesn’t listen to these pleas. There’s not a switch that I can pull to turn it all off.