Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(27)

“Complicated? You’re both avoiding siblings. It’s not complicated.”

“Have you met Sergei?” I ask John.

“Not yet.” His face grows darker, more serious, and he eyes Timo, waiting for my brother to respond.

“I don’t want you to meet him, man,” Timo admits, standing with an empty plate in hand. “He’s an unpleasant person.”

“Most—no, all people are shit,” John says. “The world is a terrible, disgusting place to live.”

Timo gapes. “No wonder the world never responds to you.”

John rolls his eyes dramatically, but they both smile at one another. “I want to meet your older brother.”

“Even if I hate him?” Timo asks, throwing away his plate.

“Especially because you hate him.” John reaches out and catches Timo’s hand, tugging him to his chest.

I give them privacy by staring off at the entrance, the sky lightening. I chug the soy cappuccino, and I hear John ask about Timo’s pay raise and the subsequent “I’m sorry, babe” after my brother explains the rejection. When I look up, Timo and John part—Timo headed for the gym, but John, for whatever reason, lingers by the fountain.

By me.

I’m not chatty like him. If he has something to say, he better say it.

His eyes drop to my cup. “Can you tell me why he gives you his coffee every morning?”

I know why. “Ask Timo.” I rise to my feet, finishing the last drop and chucking it into the trash. I pick up my water bottle.

John is still here. “I did. Now I’m asking you.”

Of course Timo didn’t tell him the truth. Then John would stop bringing a second cup, which means that I’d stop getting a coffee every morning. (Even if it tastes like ass.)

“It’s simple,” I tell John, walking backwards towards the guest bathrooms. “Timo doesn’t drink caffeine before practice.”

John simultaneously sighs and rolls his eyes. “But you do?”

I extend my arms. “I’m not Timofei.” Spinning on my heels, I leave John behind and head to the bathroom.

Timo has John. To turn to. To share his lousy day and news about his failed pay raise. Other than my siblings, I have no one.

(Again, don’t pity me, please.)

I’m happy for Timo. I’m happy that Nikolai has Thora James. Instead of resenting them, I choose to nod and be grateful that people I care about can find their happily-ever-after.

Even if I know it’ll never be me.

Seeing their love is the closest that I’ll ever come to feeling it again. So I don’t need to hide myself and pout. My stomach doesn’t curdle, and my heart doesn’t drop.

In the bathroom, I peek beneath the four blue stalls. No one is at the urinals or sink. The place is unoccupied, and so I slip into a stall.

I squat by the toilet and check my watch. About forty minutes until practice. I take one deep breath, and then I stick my finger down my throat.

I puke.

Everything appears in the toilet bowl. My throat scalds, the rising acid all familiar. I make sure that I vomit all the shit I’ve eaten. A minute later, I pause and try to poke at my esophagus, but nothing more comes out.

I spit a few times. And I suppress any guilt from this action. I’m fine.

Blowing out a breath, I stand, grab my water bottle, and chug. Hydrating.

Starting new.





Act Eight Luka Kotova



Passing many sets of blue double doors—right outside of Aerial Ethereal’s performance gym—I aim for the end of the long hallway. I always enter the last door.

It’s as much superstition as it is procrastination.

I feel invisible.

No one notices me; no one really cares, not even as my torso and shoulders move to the beat of a song, blasting in my earbuds. My head bobs, and I lock eyes on the dead-end ahead of me, double doors to the left.

I see the wall and my lips lift. Quickly, I toss my gym bag aside and then I sprint. Straight at the ivory-painted concrete wall.

I run up it. Two huge steps, I gain height, and then I backflip.

Midair, I sense the double doors opening beside me, someone exiting the gym into the hallway. I land on my feet. Startled, I stagger backwards into the incomer.

Our shoulders collide.

“Fuck, sorry,” I immediately apologize and stabilize my balance. I hold out my hands towards a guy I’ve never met, afraid I hurt him.

He fixes his gray blazer, his beady brown eyes narrowing at me. I sweep his features quickly: slicked-back ash-blond hair, goatee and slight mustache. Yeah, I’ve definitely never met this guy before. He can’t be any older than thirty.

His mouth moves, and I realize that I can’t hear him.

I pop out my earbuds. “Sorry. I didn’t get that.”

“Your name,” he snaps.

I stiffen and eye his shirt beneath the blazer. No Aerial Ethereal paraphernalia. No sign that he’s with Corporate. My guards still skyrocket. “Kotova,” I answer.

“First name.”

I shift my weight. “Luka.”

“Luka,” he repeats like he’s filing this moment for life. “What does that say?” He points at a sign above the blue double doors behind him.

I don’t have to look to read it. “No running, tumbling, or acrobatics in the hallway.” My face is stone. “Sorry.” (I’m not sorry.) His pinpointed gaze drops to my right leg. I wear white gym shorts over black compression shorts, but I’m positive he’s not staring at my clothes.