Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(85)

I find a jar of dill pickles. Dimitri’s food, but he won’t care.

Brenden stares at me weirdly as I exit with the pickles. He hangs onto the fridge door and watches me unscrew them and search for a fork in the drawers.

“What are you looking for, man?” he asks.

“A fork.”

“No, I mean food.” Brenden points at fridge shelves. “I was going to make myself a sandwich.” He pauses. “If you want one, I have more cheddar and turkey. Wheat bread, though. And it’s all organic.”

I’m caught off guard by the offer and a little on edge. Still, I nod. “Yeah, sure.” I nod again. “Thanks.”

Brenden pulls out cheese, turkey, and mustard, and then he points to the cupboard. I follow the silent direction and grab the loaf of wheat bread.

When we collect plates and silverware, we run into each other and awkwardly side-step. Then tensely, we both start making our sandwiches. Side-by-side on the same counter.

For as many moments I shared with the Wright family, there’s not one stretch of memory where Brenden and I bonded. We were nothing stronger than acquaintances. Not friends. Not enemies until after I got Bay in trouble.

A quiet, invisible divide has always separated us.

Brenden is bookish and intellectual. When we were being tutored, we shared the same table in a hotel conference room. At sixteen, he aced every school exam that I failed. He worked hard for his grades and his physical victories, and he saw me leaning back on my chair, listening to music. Staring out the window.

I wonder if he looked at me and thought that I had it easy. I was a Kotova. Born into a legacy more sturdy and predictable than his life would eventually be.

I wonder if he looked at me and thought Baylee deserved a better friend. Someone smarter. Someone less reckless and wild. Because I ran with his sister to vast unexplored places. In a city more new to me than to her.

And even when I remembered to ask, he never wanted to come along.

In the kitchen, Brenden meticulously spreads mustard on one slice of wheat bread while I just throw cheese down on mine.

The air strains the longer we share company, and I feel something brewing.

My cell vibrates on the counter. I try not to grab it too fast, but I’m also worried he’ll see the sender on the screen. Discreetly, I check the text.

Are you okay? Usually you reply faster… – Baylee

I text quickly: I’m talking to your brother (and yes to hanging out at the club. I’d risk more than that)

After I send the message, I glance at Brenden. He looks at me with an unreadable expression. I set my phone on the counter and reach for the turkey, but I realize it’s in his hand. Not purposefully since he hasn’t put meat on his sandwich yet.

But he’s still staring at me.

(It’s nothing.)

I believe it’s nothing.

I try to believe, at least.

“Something wrong?” I ask just as the main door opens.

Zhen crests the doorway and then skids to a stop. His confused and slightly alarmed eyes dart between Brenden and me. “…is everything okay?” he asks Brenden. I hear, do you need me to stay?, beneath his words.

“I’m fine,” Brenden says.

Frazzled, Zhen spins on his heels and leaves through the same door. He looks back once before shutting it closed.

I rotate my taut shoulders and hold his gaze.

“Tell me you’re not texting my little sister,” he says, freezing my muscles. “Tell me I’m just imagining this nightmare in my head with you at the center.”

“I’m not texting her,” I lie in one breath.

Brenden gauges my features and then shakes his head. “I don’t trust you. I don’t think I ever trusted you.” His jaw tightens and he caps the mustard.

“I’m not texting Baylee,” I repeat, suppressing all of my emotion. Numb—I want to be numb. I want to not fucking care, but Brenden is Baylee’s rock. He’s her world. Her brother, her heart.

Slowly, he rotates to face me. “Show me your phone then.”

I rest my elbow on the counter and grab my phone, but I don’t pass it to him. I open my mouth and expect to let out a million excuses—but I say, “I love her.”

His nose flares, jaw muscle clenching. Trying just as hard to trounce uncomfortable sentiments.

“I’m in love with Baylee,” I say again, my heart on fire.

“I heard you,” he says flatly.

I breathe deeply through my nose, and I rake my fingers across my damp hair. I thought it’d change something if he knew, but it only makes it worse. A rumor about “my love” for Baylee can’t spread through the troupe. It’ll somehow reach Marc Duval.

The no minors policy will be enforced.

We’ll probably be fired.

So I backtrack. “Just as friends,” I clarify. “She doesn’t know either. I’ve never told her.”

He processes this. Staring me dead in the eyes. “But you text.”

“About work. Sometimes about Katya. It’s my sister’s birthday today—that’s what the text was about.” (I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.) Lying to Brenden feels equivalent to ripping at his relationship with his sister. I don’t want to touch it with malicious hands.

Brenden scrutinizes me, discomfort mounting between us, and I can’t tell what he believes. He might not even be sure himself. “Katya’s turning seventeen, right?” he asks.