Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(52)

“Yeah…” I draw out the word to bide my time. “And I think you can help me fix it. You may be able to, you might not. It just feels like my only shot at healing. So I can move on.”

“Move on from me?” he asks tightly.

“I don’t know, maybe.” I would’ve said yes before this season. Before the Infini shakeups. But I feel myself clinging to him more now than ever. “Can you just…?” I hand him the journal, my pulse out of control.

I sweat and overthink. And I scrutinize his focused eyes as they absorb my list.





Act Nineteen Luka Kotova



I raise the journal higher and nearly smile at her handwriting. It’s always had character. Some letters swoop and pull together, connected but not cursive. Other letters stand on their own. Beautiful like her.

I have no theories about what this list could be, but a chill bites my neck—and I find myself reading slowly.



I lost my parents at 12. I lost you at 14. Maybe this isn’t something you can help me with. Maybe it is. I’d be remiss not to try. (My dad would like that word “remiss”—it’s in the summary of his novel Bones Against Bones. You also drew a carrot next to it in my thesaurus. No reason why. You just did it. I miss being random with you.)

I pause here and glance up at Bay.

We were just talking about her thesaurus, and she’d written about it here—who knows how many days ago.

Our lives have been circling back to one another. To these moments. Not temporary like the throw of a boomerang. Not flashy enough to be fireworks, but we’re something subtle—yet bigger. Greater.

Infinite.

Baylee holds my gaze, and I see a pain in hers that says she’s still terrified.

“You look scared,” I say.

She makes a face at me.

I make one at her. “Come on, I can tell.”

She shrugs, tense. “What I wrote is heavy and it’s not like we’ve been…” She gestures from her chest to mine.

“Communicating?”

Bay nods. “We just started talking outside of work.”

“Right…” I wish we could erase all the years of silence. Replace them with actual memories of us together. So my name doesn’t sit side-by-side with her parents, in a pool of everything she lost. More than anything, I want to return to what we were. To be here for her.

To give her what she needs.

But it’s not real. Because “giving myself” means breaking the contract even more, which I’m not sure she’s willing to do. Me—I’d do just about anything at this point.

(I realize I’m reckless like that.) I return to her list.



We ended things abruptly (no breakup, no closure, nothing) and ever since, physical intimacy has been difficult for me. This is a more detailed list of what I’m having trouble with: 1. any over-the-clothes touching: every time I’ve done this with another guy, I feel really numb.

2. all kissing: refer to explanation #1.

3. skin-to-skin contact: I’ve been called a wooden board and a corpse by two different guys.

4. oral (giving & receiving): I freeze up. Every. Single. Time.

5. sex: refer to explanation #4. I haven’t been able to go this far with anyone else but you. Honestly, every time I try, it just feels like I’m betraying the memory of you (and I know that’s so inaccurate and weird—we’re not together). But I’m still holding onto you, and I have to figure out how to let go emotionally. I eventually want to be able to have sex again. I can’t cling onto you forever.

I can’t.



I reread the entire list three more times. My muscles strain, burning up—and the only time I move is to lean back, stunned silent.

She’s still holding onto me.

All this time—I had no clue. I didn’t even recognize the impact it’d have to leave Baylee the day after we screwed behind a costume rack. Without ever talking to her. We should have had time to discuss us.

Everything physical we had was layered in emotion. She was fourteen. I was only a year older, but we’d lost our virginities a year beforehand. We were both anxious, nervous, excited, so many sentiments pooling together as we fooled around, but I did everything I could to make her comfortable.

On a rare day her brother was gone, we had sex in her bedroom. I lit candles and put on a playlist of her favorites and mine. I can still see her escalating smile when “Hold Me Tight” by Johnny Nash started playing.

In our extraordinarily abnormal lives, that night was the most typical teenage experience we’ve ever had.

After that, it became hard to find locations to have sex. We didn’t own cars. (Still don’t.) Our places were almost always occupied, bedrooms shared, and so we chose riskier spots like the elevators, the hotel guest bathrooms, the seemingly empty backstage.

It’d all been good up until we got caught.

I put my hand to my mouth, thinking.

She can’t move on physically until she moves on emotionally…is that it?

(Corporate did this.) I blame AE for not giving us a chance to have closure. Four-and-a-half years ago, I pleaded to talk to her. To end this cleanly.

I look up just as Baylee sips her coffee. She’s watching my hands as I flip through the rest of the journal. The pages are blank except for this one. I close the journal but keep it near me.