Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(5)

“Yeah right,” I say casually. Where I thumbtacked my posters, Timo framed his favorite foreign language and classic films. La Belle et la Bête and The Red Shoes were preserved behind glass.

Timo gapes. “I glued the torn corner of Chicago for you—and you know how much I dislike that one.”

Katya starts singing “All That Jazz” off-key. She takes my side over his, and Timo clutches his heart firmer and drops off the dresser. Gasping for air.

“You’ve killed me, sister,” he chokes, pretending to die better than most people ever could or would.

My lips quirk.

It’s difficult being upset at them. For anything. He settles down when I push the trash bag with my sneaker. I feel the heat of their gazes.

Timo rolls onto his side. Propping his head up with his hand, he grabs a Santa Claus snow globe from the bag, the price sticker stuck to the bottom.

“Technically,” he begins—don’t say it. “These aren’t really your things.” He shakes the globe hard, and fake flurries swarm the glass.

My muscles cramp, and I just stare off. Most stores leave on price stickers, even if you buy the item. But I didn’t buy that.

I didn’t buy any of it.

Timo sits up and leans against the dresser, the globe limp in his hand. My brother and sister know that my room is full of useless, stolen shit.

I seize my brother’s knowing gaze again, and I speak through my own eyes: like you don’t have your own issues.

His reply: this isn’t about me.

Katya swings her head back and forth, realizing one of us is about to explode.

Look, over anyone else, we’ll usually vent to each other about a bad day’s work, grievances, personal bullshit. Because we’re certain that we won’t fucking blab.

We’re in a workplace where everyone knows everyone. Each Aerial Ethereal show employs around 50 to 100 performers tops, and rumors and gossip reach every single ear.

Katya couldn’t even keep her first period a secret. Our cousins (all male) sent her boxes of tampons and pads by the hour.

On top of that, I never attended a typical high school. Aerial Ethereal hires tutors for all minors in between practices and performances, but I bet the gossip here is about as bad as a locker-lined hallway or college campus.

Kat examines us one last time before standing. “I’ll go pack the last of your fridge.”

Our biggest fights start when two of us gang up on the other one, so Kat willingly pulls herself out of the confrontation.

I don’t like when she’s in the crossfires of anything.

Remember how I said there’s a shit ton of Kotovas? Well in our generation, Kat is the only Kotova girl by blood—which means she’s been protected and bubble-wrapped a thousand times over by all of us.

“What about your suite?” I ask as she reaches the door. Kat lives with our older brother, Nikolai, and since she’s still a minor, he’s her legal guardian.

He used to be all of ours, too.

“Already boxed and moved hours ago,” she says.

(Of course.)

Nik wouldn’t wait until the last minute for any Aerial Ethereal deadline, and Timo has probably been working just as long to clean up our place.

My little brother is one of the most professional artists here. Always on-time for rehearsals, stagings, and meetings. Goes above and beyond at practice, and would never send Marc Duval an email that called his decision bullshit.

As soon as Katya shuts the door on her way out, Timo says, “You said you wouldn’t start hoarding.”

“Dude.” I sigh heavily. “I’m not hoarding. I have no attachment to most of this stuff. You can throw out a ton of it.”

(Just not anything that reminds me of her—it’s all I have left.) I ache to say it, to plead, to tell him all that’s weighed on me for years.

But I do what I have to do.

I push her aside. I try to forget.

Yet, I’m still clinging.

Timo balances the snow globe on his bent knee. In smooth Russian, he tells me, “I’m just worried.”

In the same language, I say, “You shouldn’t be.”

He rolls the Christmas globe into the trash bag. “Luka…”

“It’s just my shit to deal with, okay?” I’m upset because I don’t want them to see how much I’ve been stealing recently. I wish I threw out all that stuff ages ago, but I just put things off. Shove them aside and try not to look back.

That’s my life.

I cram my figurative drawers full of shit and more shit and pretend it’s all nonexistent. That it’s not bearing on my chest like a fifty-ton elephant.

Timo rests the back of his head against my dresser. “I like focusing on your Robin Hood tactics. It helps take my mind off our new room situation and the fact that my life is completely fucked.”

I kick the trash bag out of our way. “Your life isn’t completely fucked.”

Timo laughs once. “You, Luk, are the best roommate in the world. You don’t hound me when I stumble in late or blare music. You don’t care when I bring my boyfriend over and fuck loudly. Really, it takes extreme work to piss you off.” He pauses, as though saying, seeing you pissed today scares me.

I rotate my baseball cap, brim in front.

Lately, I just feel like I’m losing all of my control with Corporate. Not that I had much to begin with, but I was artfully fooling myself for a while there.