His dark scowl never changes shape. “I like the way I am. I prefer it. The sun is annoying. Smiles are ridiculous, and happiness is for fools.” He says that, but John is also full of contradictions. I never take all of his words at face value.
“Okay, without my opinion, how would you react to Sergei if you saw him right now? I’ll tell you if it’s a good way to go.”
John stares at the ceiling like it has personally accosted him. “Let’s see what I know about Sergei. One”—he counts off his fingers—“he’s the cause of my boyfriend’s daily distress. Which should be enough for me to hate the fuck out of him. But life just has to be more complicated than that. Two: he’s the older brother of Nikolai, who I initially didn’t gel with at all. Do I expect Sergei to be antagonistic or affable towards me? I have no answer.”
I’m about to interject, but John isn’t finished.
“Three”—he raises three fingers—“beneath everything, I see that Timo loves Sergei, but I don’t know how much love is left after what he did.”
I realize that Timo must’ve filled John in on the bad blood. “Is that it?” I wonder.
“I could go to one-hundred, but I’ll stop there for the sake of my own sanity.” He motions to me. “So what is Sergei really like?”
I shake my head with a weak laugh. “A know-it-all. Rigid in thought. If he has an idea, his is the best one. Sometimes it’s like speaking to a brick wall, and not the kind you can knock down.”
“So he’s like Nikolai.”
“No,” I say quickly. “To me, he’s nothing like Nikolai.” I lick my dry lips. “Nik is humble and protective. When Nik clashed with you in the past—it’s because he was guarding Timo. Sergei has no clue…” My throat closes, choked for a second.
I feel John staring at me darkly and intently. “No clue about what?”
“Sergei hasn’t been here,” I say strongly. “Not in New York, not in Nevada. He missed all the terrible shit we dealt with.”
John pauses for less than a second. “There’s a high probability that I will flat-out hate Sergei on the spot.”
“You can’t be a dick to Sergei just because Timo is on the outs with him. You also can’t be too friendly because Timo will feel like you’re not on his side. Stay somewhere in the middle.”
John sighs into an exasperated groan. “What’s in the middle of being dickish and nice-ish?” He rubs his unshaven jaw. “Nothing. It’s just a void.”
“Try not to glare at him,” I suggest while I stand up and outstretch my palm for my ID. “Sergei likes enthusiasm.”
“Fucking A,” John says flatly and puts my ID in my palm. Before I move, he asks, “Will you be at the birthday party next week?”
I frown, confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
John lifts his brows at me like it’s obvious. “I consider The Red Death my third or fourth home, and every Saturday night, regardless of special occasions, Kotovas swarm the place like locusts. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“But weirdly, I think I’ve seen you there twice…maybe three times. If that. You’re not going there tonight, are you?”
“No.”
“But next week—”
“I’ll be there.” I pocket my ID.
“Why exactly don’t you hang out with the Kotovas at The Red Death every week?” he asks point-blank.
It’s simple. “We all weren’t allowed to go to The Red Death until we turned seventeen—Nik’s rule. I turned seventeen, and I promised Kat that I wouldn’t ditch her every week. That I’d wait for her to reach my age.” I give him the same look he gave me. Like it’s obvious. “Most Saturday nights, I go to Verona with Katya.”
Verona is the Masquerade’s throwback dance club. They play eighties and nineties music. It’s tamer than The Red Death, but still fun.
John tilts his head. “And here, I thought you were a Kotova sellout.”
My lips upturn. “Circus is family.”
The love we carry for each other is the strongest and most vulnerable place in us all.
Act Twenty-Nine
Luka Kotova
18 Days to Infini’s Premiere
In my suite, I have one hand on the fridge handle and I text using my other.
Do you need ice for your burn? I can bring some over. I send the message to Baylee. I’ll be in her suite because everyone’s eventually congregating there for Nik and Katya. All before we leave for the party tonight.
I check the oven clock. It’s only 8:00 p.m.—still early.
I mouth the lyrics to “ABC Café / Red & Black” from Les Misérables that blasts in my ears, my headphone’s cord tangled around my cell.
Incoming text.
You know you can’t. – Baylee
Just tell me if you have ice in your freezer’s tray. I type and send it, refusing to pretend like I don’t care about Bay. I’d care as just co-workers. (We’re more than that, but still, no one can know.)
She majorly burned her forearm juggling fire at practice this morning and had to see AE’s on-call docs.
I reread my text and then send a heart emoji.
With my elbow, I rub off water that drips down my temples. I should’ve towel-tried my hair better after my shower. I face the fridge in just charcoal-gray boxer-briefs. Still getting ready.
I scan the fridge’s contents for any food without Brenden or Zhen written on it.
My phone buzzes.
:( -- Baylee
I frown, my stomach dropping. Sad? I send.
Yeah. I feel like sleeping … or just talking to you. Do you think we can hang out at The Red Death in front of everyone? Or is that too much? (no ice) – Baylee
Someone suddenly rips my earbud out.
I flinch and my head swerves to my right. Brenden stands a foot from me, and I instantly lower my cell, hiding the screen from his view.
Brenden sighs like he’s annoyed at the annoyance he feels for me. “I called your name five times.”
“Sorry,” I say casually. “I couldn’t hear you.” My muscles constrict. Unsure of where this is headed. We’ve successfully avoided each other for months.
If I’m in our kitchen, he turns the other way.
If he’s in our living room, I dip out of the suite entirely.
Beneath an unzipped windbreaker, he’s shirtless, and I immediately spot the letters Baylee inked with Mom and Dad over his heart.
I try not to forget how much he means to Bay, and how much she means to him.
“Are you done?” He gestures to the fridge.
“No, but you can go.” I step back, but he’s already shaking his head.
“You can go first.” He motions and then crosses his arms over his chest.
The exchange is more awkward than it even seems. We’re both uneasy, and we’re just standing in the tiny kitchenette opposite a refrigerator.
Quickly, I scour the shelves and realize that I need to go grocery shopping.
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.