Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(53)

I have so much to say, but I choose to start with this. “These ‘two different guys’ that called you a corpse—they can go fuck themselves.”

“Funny,” she says, corner of her lip rising, “that’s exactly what I told them.”

“You didn’t,” I say, knowing her.

“No, but believe me, I was put-off. I physically kicked the second guy out of my bed.”

Good. “Kick his dick or balls?”

“I was an inch away. No one was more pissed than me.”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty pissed right now.” I never envisioned Baylee with another guy. I could’ve, but I tried not to torment myself like that. Not even when I saw her with Sergei at the bar.

Now I’m thinking about her in bed with a bunch of pricks—it’s as horrible as I thought it’d be. (I don’t suggest this for anyone who has an ex.) I literally can’t stop shaking my head. It’s like I have a neck spasm, and now I’m grimacing at the ceiling. Fuckfuck.

I reopen the journal.

She watches.

With knotted brows, I reread everything. She’s only had sex with me. If I were another guy, it’d probably make me feel great, but since I’ve slept with other women—I just feel like an asshole. And terrible.

I feel terrible.

I risk a glance at Bay, but she’s unzipping her wrist wallet and inspecting the contents.

“I finished,” I say.

“I saw.” She looks up. “You still weirded out?”

“I wasn’t ever.” But we’re both sitting uncomfortably straight again. I know what the list boils down to, and it kills me that she’s struggled for this long. “How can I help?” (I want to help.) Before she can respond, the waitress carries out my plate of fried Moon Pie. We don’t order anymore food.

I stab a fork into my discolored “extraterrestrial experience” and marshmallow oozes. I take a bite. It’s burnt and tastes like canola oil and soot.

Still, I eat another piece.

Baylee finishes off her coffee. “My original plan was to talk with you about your experiences. How you were able to move on, how you got over me—”

“I didn’t get over you,” I interject, mauling the Moon Pie with my fork.

“Luka.” Baylee shrugs at me. “Don’t make me say it.”

I lean forward. “Emotionally I didn’t get over you.”

“I’m not talking about emotionally. I mean physically.” She eases forward too, elbows on the table. “Do you really want me to say it outright?”

“Yeah.”

“You fucked other girls.”

We both wear a pained expression. A thousand arrows pierce and plunge into my chest—but I force myself to stay close, not recoiling. Not rocking back.

I stay right here. “We were apart for five years. I didn’t think I’d ever be with you. And I never…” I take a breath. “They were all one-night stands, Bay. I never even dated another girl. You could’ve had a boyfriend…”

“I didn’t…it didn’t work out like that,” she says. “Sure, I dated, but none stuck. I tried casual sex, but it didn’t happen either.”

(I realize that.) “Okay, do you think…are you saying that I don’t love you as much because I didn’t wait around?” I shake my head vigorously again. “This isn’t a reflection of my love for you, Baylee. It’s not.”

“Hey, I know it’s not.” She drops her leg to the ground and scoots even closer to the table. As close as me. “I remember what you told me when I was thirteen, right after I asked if you knew what to do.”

She means in terms of sex.

I can’t recall exactly what I said, but thick nostalgia hangs in the air. “What’d I say?”

“You told me that you knew more about sex when you were seven than you did math or science. Not because you experienced it but because you were surrounded by men who constantly talked about ‘fucking’ and ‘masturbating.’”

My older cousins: too many to name. My older brothers: Sergei, Nikolai, Peter. It suddenly reminds me that I did grow up with Sergei. More than just his absence shaped me, and I didn’t really recognize it.

I listen closely as she continues, “You were raised seeing sex as an act of pleasure. Like momentary fun. Love wasn’t a requirement. So I understand.” She exhales. “I just want to know how you do it. How do you shut off the emotional aspect in order to just get physical?”

“You want me to visually describe all of my one-night stands?” I go numb.

She sits more stiffly. “Not all of them—please, don’t give me an exact number.”

If she can’t even stomach that, then how would this ever work? I can’t even fathom sharing the details with her. I want to scrub them all right now, and she’s asking me to push them to the forefront.

I shake my head over and over. “I want to help, not cause you more pain.” She deserves to be unburdened by our past, but this’ll make her freeze-up more.

And I’m not even touching the fact that helping her means she’ll be having sex with other guys. She should be able to, the moral part of me screeches. She deserves to be free of me.