I take a seat next to her, and she plucks out a makeup wipe to clean her face.
“Why are there so many steps?” I mutter and rewind thirty seconds.
“It’s like they’re setting us up to fail.”
“Conspiracies I can get behind.” I rewind again, and midway through the video, I peek at Kat out of the corner of my eye.
She peeks at me.
In New York, I became close to Katya around the time that my parents passed away. She was a girl who grew up without a mother figure, and I’d just lost mine. We bonded, not because of Luka, but because we needed someone who understood what we missed.
I’m not her mom. She’s not mine. We just fill this warm place of empathy that no one else can touch or reach, and I want to be allowed to return. I want to laugh about how awful we are at makeup and try hard to make my friend the best Posh Spice she can be.
I vacillate between cans and cants—then suddenly I hear music from the living room. My thoughts torpedo, and I stiffen and look at the closed door.
It’s not just any music.
I shut my eyes, soaking in my favorite music and my current favorite singer. Nori Amada’s “Losing It” plays and floods me with raw energy and vigor. Even on my bluest days, her music can stir something deep inside of me.
Most soca can, the contemporary Caribbean genre affectionately known as the soul of calypso. Really, it’s an evolution of calypso, invented by Garfield Blackman (a.k.a Lord Shorty) who feared the disappearance of the genre as reggae was rising. Soca was a way of popularizing calypso again.
I like thinking of soca as lively with energetic tempos and melodies, creating this upbeat rhythm with steel drums, horns and trumpets, keyboards and synths. It’s music that immediately makes people want to stand up and dance.
It originated in Trinidad and Tobago, but soca has since spread throughout the Caribbean. My mom had so much fondness for it. On Sunday mornings, Joyce Wright would put Winston Soso’s “I Don’t Mind” on her record player. She’d push the kitchen table aside, and she’d dance with her son and daughter.
With Brenden and me.
At the stove, Neal Wright would whip up grilled cheese and watch us. Love behind his black-rimmed glasses.
“He saw your Nori Amada poster,” Katya suddenly says.
My eyes snap open. “Who?” But I know. I think I knew from the start.
“Luka,” Kat says. “You should go. He’s trying to draw you out.” She shakes her head. “He’s so obvious. He’s such a dork.”
I’m smiling. I can’t stop smiling. I agree; he’s way too thoughtful. Too ridiculous. Too much of everything I love. Oh God. My stomach overturns, nervous.
And my lips falter at the thought of being caught by Marc’s two company spies. Even if it seems unlikely.
I say, “I can’t…”
Katya elbows me.
I elbow back.
“Stand up,” she tells me. “Remember how much you really liked him.” That’s not hard. “And if you can find it in your heart, try to be friends with him again?” She smiles morosely at that idea, not believing it’ll ever happen either. “He’s not bad. I promise. He’s the best ever.”
I know.
“If you can’t be friends with me, at least…for Luka.” She has to look away from me, her eyes glassing.
I want that more than she can ever know.
So I stand up.
I follow my instinct which travels towards the music. Towards Luka.
And the consequences fade to the background.
Act Fourteen Baylee Wright
I open my bedroom door to the unknown.
Music grows louder, and Luka—I see him instantly. He rummages through cupboards in the kitchenette while dancing to Nori Amada’s song.
Luka’s body absorbs the beat like he’s a visceral extension of the music, his rhythm natural and the kind most would envy.
It’s mesmerizing and tempts me to join. To dance right alongside him.
If we didn’t have those contracts over our heads, I’d already be in his arms.
Luka flips a glass in his hand, and I near the bar counter. As soon as I put my knee to the stool and elbows to the counter, he sees me fully. And his drop-dead gorgeous smile stretches across his angelic face.
I smile off of his smile and try to suppress the giddy-factor, which is way too high. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Why not?” He sets the glass aside and edges close. Placing his palms on the counter, his hands are right beside my forearms. An inch or so away, and the hairs on my neck rise, apprehensive but eager. So eager.
His chest rises in a deep inhale.
My lungs expand just as much. “What would your girlfriend think?” Yeah, I just threw that out there, and I have no regrets. My curiosity is winning out.
Luka searches my gaze for more. Answers to why I’d ask this. Wondering if I care about him completely, entirely, wholeheartedly.
I do. I wish I didn’t.
I wish I could let go. Because an underlying pain sits beneath every word. Every glance. The pain of knowing nothing can truly happen.
Knowing there is no us at the end of the desire and the longing.
Luka leans closer to whisper, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Friends-with-benefits,” I add.
“None of those either.”
I nod a few times, my eyes burning as I restrain so many sentiments at once. “I should go.” I step off the stool and head towards…well, nowhere yet.
Luka sprints over and blocks my path. “Wait, Bay.”
I’m rigid. Uncertain.
He reaches a hand out to me but wavers too. His arm drops. “We’re allowed to be friends.”
“At work.” We’re not exactly at work right now.
Luka runs his fingers through his hair, and then we both go completely still. Not because someone entered the suite. But because the song changes to the score of Infini.
My mom’s music.
Luka licks his lips. “It’s on shuffle. That wasn’t intentional, I promise.”
I believe him, and I listen to the one drop drum beat and snares that hark back to rocksteady, a genre that originated in Jamaica, the predecessor of reggae. I even pick out a little bit of soca. Infini’s score isn’t exclusively Caribbean—there’s some American jazz and Latin influences—but I think the soul is Jamaican.
Just like my mom.
I shift my weight, and I try to shake off every sentimental and emotional feeling that wrings the air. Stay professional. “Do you know why AE cast you in Infini?” Why would they ever give us room to move towards one another?
It’s dangerous.
Luka shakes his head. “No clue.”
Our eyes graze each other again. Head-to-toe. We unconsciously inch closer. Our fingers toy with the idea of actually touching. Outside of work. We’re outside of work.
He dips his head, really looking at me. Into me. And as he opens his mouth to speak, the suite door blows open.
And we blow apart.
I act like I’m headed to the fridge.
Luka acknowledges his older brother who enters. “Hey, Nik…I needed to ask you about dinner.”
I avoid Nikolai, grab a protein bar, and I aim for my bedroom. All the while, I sense the heat of Nik’s gaze scouring me up and down.
“You couldn’t text me?” Nikolai questions.
“No,” Luka says firmly. “Don’t spin this into something it’s not, please.”
At this, I disappear into my bedroom, shutting the door closed. Not flooded with relief. If anything, my stomach hurts. My heart hurts.
And I’m more conflicted than before.
Act Fifteen Luka Kotova
50 Days to Infini’s Premiere
“Stop making this personal,” I say calmly on my way out of the gym, showered and bag slung over my shoulder. I just had a brutal twelve-hour practice with Sergei on the Wheel of Death, and the last thing I want to do is start a pointless fight.
Sergei keeps my stride as I push through a set of blue double doors. “You’re the one who made it personal.”
I wish the doors would hit him in the face, but I spin around, just as the doors shut and enclose us in the long hallway.
“How?” I question with a shrug. “I did everything you asked me to do.”