Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(41)

I can’t tell if I’d be able to do any better. “I’m still Sporty Spice,” I say, noting how we used to both be the same Spice Girl together. We liked sharing the title. We liked sharing a lot of our things, actually. “But if you want to be Posh, I can try to help.”

“Why?” she asks, eyes watering.

I shrug, searching for words that I’m allowed to say. “Because I…” miss you. “…because we’re suitemates and roommates.”

“Right…” She nods to herself and tucks another piece of hair behind her ear.

I click into a smoky eye and bold lip tutorial. We watch the video together, not all of the tension has been expunged. Our past still stretches uncomfortably between us.

“You can sit down,” Katya offers a minute later. She scoots and gives me room on the same chair.

I take a seat next to her, and she plucks out a makeup wipe to clean her face.

“Why are there so many steps?” I mutter and rewind thirty seconds.

“It’s like they’re setting us up to fail.”

“Conspiracies I can get behind.” I rewind again, and midway through the video, I peek at Kat out of the corner of my eye.

She peeks at me.

In New York, I became close to Katya around the time that my parents passed away. She was a girl who grew up without a mother figure, and I’d just lost mine. We bonded, not because of Luka, but because we needed someone who understood what we missed.

I’m not her mom. She’s not mine. We just fill this warm place of empathy that no one else can touch or reach, and I want to be allowed to return. I want to laugh about how awful we are at makeup and try hard to make my friend the best Posh Spice she can be.

I vacillate between cans and cants—then suddenly I hear music from the living room. My thoughts torpedo, and I stiffen and look at the closed door.

It’s not just any music.

I shut my eyes, soaking in my favorite music and my current favorite singer. Nori Amada’s “Losing It” plays and floods me with raw energy and vigor. Even on my bluest days, her music can stir something deep inside of me.

Most soca can, the contemporary Caribbean genre affectionately known as the soul of calypso. Really, it’s an evolution of calypso, invented by Garfield Blackman (a.k.a Lord Shorty) who feared the disappearance of the genre as reggae was rising. Soca was a way of popularizing calypso again.

I like thinking of soca as lively with energetic tempos and melodies, creating this upbeat rhythm with steel drums, horns and trumpets, keyboards and synths. It’s music that immediately makes people want to stand up and dance.

It originated in Trinidad and Tobago, but soca has since spread throughout the Caribbean. My mom had so much fondness for it. On Sunday mornings, Joyce Wright would put Winston Soso’s “I Don’t Mind” on her record player. She’d push the kitchen table aside, and she’d dance with her son and daughter.

With Brenden and me.

At the stove, Neal Wright would whip up grilled cheese and watch us. Love behind his black-rimmed glasses.

“He saw your Nori Amada poster,” Katya suddenly says.

My eyes snap open. “Who?” But I know. I think I knew from the start.

“Luka,” Kat says. “You should go. He’s trying to draw you out.” She shakes her head. “He’s so obvious. He’s such a dork.”

I’m smiling. I can’t stop smiling. I agree; he’s way too thoughtful. Too ridiculous. Too much of everything I love. Oh God. My stomach overturns, nervous.

And my lips falter at the thought of being caught by Marc’s two company spies. Even if it seems unlikely.

I say, “I can’t…”

Katya elbows me.

I elbow back.

“Stand up,” she tells me. “Remember how much you really liked him.” That’s not hard. “And if you can find it in your heart, try to be friends with him again?” She smiles morosely at that idea, not believing it’ll ever happen either. “He’s not bad. I promise. He’s the best ever.”

I know.

“If you can’t be friends with me, at least…for Luka.” She has to look away from me, her eyes glassing.

I want that more than she can ever know.

So I stand up.

I follow my instinct which travels towards the music. Towards Luka.

And the consequences fade to the background.





Act Fourteen Baylee Wright



I open my bedroom door to the unknown.

Music grows louder, and Luka—I see him instantly. He rummages through cupboards in the kitchenette while dancing to Nori Amada’s song.

Luka’s body absorbs the beat like he’s a visceral extension of the music, his rhythm natural and the kind most would envy.

It’s mesmerizing and tempts me to join. To dance right alongside him.

If we didn’t have those contracts over our heads, I’d already be in his arms.

Luka flips a glass in his hand, and I near the bar counter. As soon as I put my knee to the stool and elbows to the counter, he sees me fully. And his drop-dead gorgeous smile stretches across his angelic face.

I smile off of his smile and try to suppress the giddy-factor, which is way too high. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

“Why not?” He sets the glass aside and edges close. Placing his palms on the counter, his hands are right beside my forearms. An inch or so away, and the hairs on my neck rise, apprehensive but eager. So eager.