She gives me a look. “It’s true.”
“Sort of, partially. Maybe not at all.” I smile.
“Luka the Dreamer is on the rise,” she says pointedly, starting to smile off of my smile—but we’re both distracted as Nikolai’s lengthy stride aims for us.
He looks antsy.
“Yeah?” I ask him.
“Erik said you know Katya’s porter.”
I easily spot Kat from across the ballroom. She reads a paranormal paperback with Thora, both on velveteen stools.
I look back at Nik. “The porter that dropped her?”
“That one.” His gaze darkens. (Yeah, he’s not my favorite dude either.)
“I talked to him once in passing.”
I remember I said try to stay focused.
Katya asked for a show transfer about a month ago because she doesn’t trust that porter. Since she’s already in AE’s artist database, HR will direct her to a show that has an open slot. Then she would have to audition for the director, etc.
Problem is, she’s a minor and Nik is her guardian, leaving her with only two real possibilities.
1.) our parents could agree to look after her, and she’d go on tour with Noctis. (I’m praying that’s not happening.)
2.) she’d be transferred to Infini, which is…unstable at the moment.
She can’t join Amour; it’s too risqué, no minors allowed. It’s more plausible she’ll stay in Viva.
Nikolai clutches his phone in a tight fist. “Auditions are open for Somnio. I thought you could try to convince him to attend.”
I nod, understanding. If he leaves on his own accord, then Kat will have a new partner. “I’ll see what I can do.” I barely hear him say thank you, my attention on Bay who stares at the carpet, deep in thought. A cookie is frozen between her fingers.
If Infini is cancelled, it’s possible I could be shifted back to Viva and return to my old job as Kat’s porter. And I don’t know where that’d leave Bay.
*
I’m outside the Masquerade’s ballroom. Sitting in the semi-quiet lounge area, I hunch forward on the edge of a leather chair. Before I forget, I take a moment to jot everything I ate in a tiny spiral notebook.
“Hey, man.”
I look up at Brenden and nod in greeting, but it’s not like we’ve talked without Bay present. We haven’t since that long, awkward time ago we made sandwiches.
Brenden motions to the adjacent leather chair. “Can I sit?”
“Yeah.” A pianist must be playing somewhere on this hotel level, music echoing towards us.
His eyes ping from my notebook to a paper plate in his own hands. “I don’t know if you’re allowed, but Bay said to give this to you. She’s in a long conversation with our aunt about PoPhilly.” He stretches forward and hands me the plate. “She said to tell you it’s not an ‘air patty’—and the meat quality is a solid A.”
My lips stretch. “It’s from a restaurant in New York?” Bay had been trying to convince Lucy to freeze a box of beef patties and bring them on the plane.
“Yep.”
My lips fall as I remember the first part of what he said. “Why wouldn’t I be allowed to eat it?”
“Sorry,” he immediately apologizes, being considerate of my feelings.
And I think of Bay. How important Brenden is in her life, and while I don’t like getting deep with a lot of people, I think I should make a better effort with him.
“You can ask, dude,” I say. “It’s okay.”
He slides forward to the edge of his seat like me. We’re closer, and he lowers his voice so no one can overhear. “Do you have to change your diet? If you’re working on controlling it, do you need to eat healthier?”
That’s why he’s unsure if I should eat the beef patty. “No, everyone is different, but for me, my issue is more about moderation and timing…like if I overeat or if I eat too close to practices.”
I stare at my notebook, not able to talk in detail, but I know my issue well.
I convince myself that I’m in control by doing something Corporate would disallow—eating before practice—but then I have to purge at that point. And I become a prisoner to a different monster.
I love candy, hamburgers, all junk food, and I always randomly order off of menus, and in my healthiest months, I still eat the same kind of food—just at healthier times and portions.
When I’m really stressed, I will start believing that puking will make me feel better and more in control. That’s what happened this year.
Brenden slowly nods. “And the notebook helps?”
“Yeah, sometimes. I’m not always at a place where I need it.”
I haven’t thrown up in three weeks, which is good. Really good, and I’d say that my compulsion to steal is down to a 4.5 rating. (Decent for me.)
A long moment passes. It’s an awkward beat, and the more we stare at one another, I think he’s looking at me differently.
The answer hits my head—why he’s being so cool with me. I give him a look, setting down my beef patty.
“What?” he asks.
“Don’t pity me,” I tell him. “I’m the same guy you disliked. I haven’t changed. I’ve been the same person.”
He shakes his head. “I thought you were an adrenaline junkie who stole crap for the hell of it.” He heard about my childhood trauma from Geoffrey in that auditorium. He’s had a couple months to reevaluate who I am.
I’m still Luka Kotova.
A kleptomaniac.
A bulimic.
And I’m more than that. I’m a brother to five siblings. A fourth generation circus performer and a high-risk acrobat. I’m Russian-American, a proud Kotova. A dreamer and a rebel.
“Look,” I try to explain, “it doesn’t change the fact that I steal. It’s still wrong.”
“It changes something.”
No. I don’t want it to. Here’s why. “When I was a kid,” I say slowly, these words edging to the forefront of my brain, “my therapist used to tell me that I need to be accountable for my actions. If I get caught stealing, I can’t just blame it on my issues. I have to take responsibility. I could’ve turned around, set the item back—I could’ve paused one moment longer, and I have to try to be better.” I capture his methodical gaze. “I don’t want it to be okay with you that I steal, is what I’m saying. Because it never was before.”
He understands, clarity flooding his eyes.
I wonder if Bay told him that I found a therapist in Vegas.
I’m going once a week. It’s more expensive than I really like, but I forgot how much it helps. I can’t really put a price value on my health. So Baylee tells me.
Brenden sits back. “Where does this leave you and me?”
We hear commotion in the hallway, our heads turning slightly. Dimitri is inbound. He must’ve taken a piss break.
Brenden and I acknowledge each other again. The awkwardness is literally still there. I don’t think it’ll ever leave. Maybe that’s just how the two of us are meant to be together. Awkward.
I almost laugh. “I like how we were before. In New York, before I got caught with Bay.” We weren’t friends, but we were cool enough to play board games together. For him to share his family moments with me—I was a part of his world.
That’s all I’d want.
His smile gradually appears. “I did too.”
I think we’ll be able to return to that.
“Princess!” Dimitri calls across the lounge area. Our heads swing to the right. Camila is with her boyfriend, Craig.
He’s a redhead. That’s all I can hone in on. Dimitri looks like a kid in a candy store, grinning from ear-to-ear as Camila’s eyes grow like a deer caught in headlights.
Brenden says, “He has no chill.”
I nod in agreement as we stand. I grab my beef patty and pocket my notebook. By the entrance to the ballroom, Dimitri extends his palm to Craig.
“Dimitri,” he says, “Camila’s friend.”
Craig reluctantly shakes. “She’s never mentioned you before.”
“Probably because she nicknamed me.” Dimitri doesn’t say that the nickname is tiniest dick—and it’s not for the obvious reason. He’s not embarrassed. He just doesn’t want Camila to be in hot water with her boyfriend by mentioning his dick.
It’s why Dimitri isn’t peacocking. He’s assessing Craig like he’s learning more about Camila by meeting him. Nothing more than that.