There is. I just made one, and I’m slightly irked that he’s not considering even a morsel of what I said. Even if he disagrees with it.
Am I being too harsh? I don’t know. At this point, I’d probably grab my drink and ditch my own table and him. I’ve done that in the past, but I’m trying to be open here. So I don’t shut him down that quickly.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask.
“Nowhere and everywhere. The moment I was born in California, I started traveling the world,” he explains. “My family moves with the circus, much more than you have, and I’ve been in touring shows all my life. Infini is actually my first resident show.”
The first time he’s in a place for longer than a few months. “That’s a big change…” I trail off as his gaze veers past my frame and his posture straightens, almost like he just spotted a long-lost friend.
He’s about to rise off his stool, but then he stays seated. And he glances at me. “This is my brother.” He gestures to a tall figure that approaches our circular table.
I turn my head, and my lips part. I’m looking at him.
I’m not allowed—but I can’t stop.
Luka?
It’s Luka.
Luka Kotova.
My stomach drops as I stare directly at his angelic yet chiseled face. A face that can easily be called beautiful. I can’t close my lips together. I’m in pure, cold shock. I haven’t seen that face up-close in years.
And he’s so much older.
Oh God. How much time did I miss?
My eyes begin to well, but I fight the emotion.
He’s more a man than a teenage boy. His plain navy-blue shirt molds the ridges of his abs and biceps; his dark jeans fitting perfectly.
His mischievous yet charismatic eyes haven’t touched my eyes in ages. And in one second—one overwhelming, soul-shattering moment—his grays flit over to me.
And his eyes hold my eyes.
We both inhale—and very deeply, Luka says, “We’ve met.”
We’ve met.
Buried memories pummel me fast. I have a flash of New York. Where we ran across the city as kids. I always convinced him to go to the batting cages, and he’d pretend to be the announcer behind the fence while I struck the baseballs.
And then on our free days, he convinced me to play one-on-one basketball at a rundown court. I was awful, but I’d try to show off and spin the basketball on my finger. He’d grab the ball and dribble between my legs before doing layup after layup. Then he’d cheer, and I’d shove his arm.
Somehow we always ended up hugging.
I see Luka in my room at thirteen and fourteen. Depression and grief chained me to the mattress. The mornings I struggled, he’d crawl onto my bed, and we talked softly, quietly until I gathered the strength to rise.
In my living room, we danced to the beat of our emotion. Feelings strung in the air like a million neon lights. Soca music thrummed through my veins while he held my cheeks. And he kissed me. My first kiss.
My first love.
He’s right here.
I look away quickly. My body stiffens like a wooden board. I wait for him to leave, but Luka takes a seat on a stool, much closer to me than his brother.
This can’t be happening.
I just looked at him, and we’re not allowed to look.
I glance over my shoulder, but I can’t spot Brenden through the loud, packed bar. More than just Aerial Ethereal artists are here since 1842 is open to all hotel guests.
The cast part is secret.
Meaning the whole point is to go behind the company’s back and figure out the cast sheet before they tell us. So no one here should be spying on Luka and me.
Still, it’s been years.
Why is he coming near me now? Why is he willing to take this huge risk?
I look up at his brother. His brother. He says something to Luka in Russian.
I’d love to gauge Luka’s reaction and read his expression, but I can’t risk staring at him face-to-face again. It’s too hard. It’s too much.
And I’m afraid.
Luka sits as rigidly as me. “She doesn’t understand Russian.”
His brother makes a face like so what? “I was speaking to you.”
“I don’t care,” Luka says, slight edge to his voice that’s mistakable if you don’t listen closely. Luka isn’t usually confrontational. He’ll help stop a fight before he starts one.
It clicks.
When Luka’s family split up years ago (before I even met Luka) two brothers stayed with his parents: Peter and Sergei. Luka almost never harbors animosity for anyone besides the figureheads of Aerial Ethereal. I sense bad blood between them, and it’s more alarming because of who Luka is.
Loving and very understanding of other people—and caring.
So caring.
Maybe he saw his brother chatting with me from across the bar, and he felt compelled to intervene.
I jump into their conversation and ask, “Peter?”
He peels his eyes off Luka. “Sergei.” He’s the first-born, I remember. Older than even Nikolai. Twenty-eight or twenty-nine? “And he’s Luka Kotov.”
“Kotova,” Luka corrects. Honestly, I don’t know what’s worse: the hostile tension laced between them or the thick, uncomfortable tension threaded between us.
“Not this again,” Sergei mutters. “Our birth certificates don’t really matter. We’re Russian. We go by Kotov.”
I understand what he’s saying. Russian surnames change depending on masculine and feminine. Men drop the a, and women keep the a at the end. When the Kotova family immigrated to America, they had to choose between Kotova and Kotov for their documentation.
Obviously, they picked Kotova.
And every Kotova that I’ve ever come across has identified as just that. Kotova. I remember Luka mentioning that his father upholds Russian customs more than others in their extended family, especially his mother who wanted to pick less traditional names for her children. Maybe their father had a greater influence on Sergei, and that’s why he’s so dead-set on Kotov.
“You can go by whatever the hell you want,” Luka says. “I’m Russian-American. I’m a Kotova. I’ll always be a Kotova.”
“I should leave,” I say aloud.
Sergei reaches out his hand. “No. Don’t leave. We’re fine.” He means him and his brother. “Right?” he asks Luka.
They’re anything but fine—but like I said, Luka won’t be the first person to start a fight. So I’m not surprised by his response.
“Sure,” Luka says. “Fine.”
I sip my whiskey, and as Luka shifts on his stool, I’m overly aware of how close his shoulder is to my shoulder. I feel like he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye.
He drops his hand off the table.
My arm falls to my side.
Do you still think about me?
Are you the same as you once were?
How much have we both changed?
Sergei speaks to his brother but gestures to me with his bottle of beer. “I was just talking to…” he trails off.
“You don’t know her name?” Luka almost laughs. I listen keenly, wishing and hoping that I could hear his full laugh. Don’t stop.
Keep going, Luka.
Sergei snaps at him in Russian, and Luka replies back in a smoother tone.
“What’s her name then?” Sergei retorts like he’s quizzing his brother.
Legally, he can’t utter my name, so I’m about to cut in and say it.
I don’t even open my mouth before he speaks.
“Baylee,” Luka says aloud, and I swear he says my name from deep in his core. As if he’s breathing out years of weighted silence. “Baylee Wright.”
My stomach tosses in good and awful ways—we can’t do this. I’m scared of the no minors policy. I’m scared of hurting other people because of our carelessness. I look over my shoulder again. No onlookers, right? No one will tell on us here?
Selfishly, a very big part of me hopes and wishes and yearns for this moment to extend. I don’t want this to stop, and maybe that’s why I stay seated. Maybe that’s why I cling onto every second I can share with him.
Beneath the table, our fingers brush.
I inhale, a spark zipping up my veins. Our fingers try to grab hold stronger. Longer. We almost do.
“Baylee,” Sergei says.
I retract my hand, our fingers breaking apart, and I cup my whiskey with both palms.