Act Twenty-Five
Luka Kotova
31 Days to Infini’s Premiere
“You can blame being late on me,” I tell Sergei, an offer I shouldn’t even consider—but I let it out almost subconsciously.
“I was going to,” Sergei says while we ride down the Masquerade’s elevator to the lobby. We were supposed to be at Retrograde, the Elvis-themed diner, about twenty minutes ago. He adds, “You’re the one who couldn’t land a triple-sault today.”
I’m not reigniting a pointless argument. Geoffrey quickened the tempo of the music for Wheel of Death—and we’re only thirty-one days away from the premiere. These little changes affect the whole routine, and I lose time for extra rotations in the air.
I feel like I can’t keep up with the music anymore, and I’ve never had that problem. Rhythm—it’s one of the few skills I actually excel at.
Sergei keeps glancing at me. Waiting for me to reply.
I unwrap a peppermint from my pocket. I already offered him one to break the ice, and he said no thanks before I could toss it to him.
I haven’t hung out with Sergei outside of work yet, and now we’re about to have a dinner with immediate family only: Sergei, Nikolai, me, Timofei, and Katya.
(It’s going to be awkward as fuck.)
Our dark hair is wet from quick showers, and I half-expected Sergei to dress in sportswear like me: black Under Armour pants, a plain blue tee. Instead, he wears a Metallica T-shirt with black jeans.
Metallica. As in, the heavy metal band. I’m still shocked.
If I try to understand my twenty-eight-year-old brother, then that means I care about him—and I don’t want to care right now.
Sergei exhales a tense breath.
I frown as he wipes his clammy palms on his thighs. “You’re nervous?” (So much for not caring.)
His eyes flit to me. “Yeah. I haven’t been making any ground with Timofei, but he probably told you.”
I nod. Timo still isn’t welcoming Sergei at all.
The grudge is simple and also explains my reservations with Sergei. Our history: we believed for the longest time that Nikolai was forced to take care of the three of us. Not even a year ago, we learned that when our immediate family split up, the only ones given a choice between a touring show or a resident show were the three oldest sons: Sergei, Nikolai, and Peter.
Sergei and Peter chose to travel the world with our parents.
Nikolai chose to stay with us. To become our guardian.
Their choices are loaded with emotion and feeling that none of us can separate out. Sergei decided to leave us and also let his younger brother carry a massive responsibility alone.
I think about how different my life would’ve been if Sergei chose us and New York. I wouldn’t have filled the co-parent role with Nik part of the time. I doubt I’d be the same person I am today—and isn’t that bizarre? That one person’s choice can drastically change the outcome of multiple lives.
Maybe even the foundation of who I am.
It makes me think of my decision in Marc Duval’s office. If I quit AE and gave up my family back then, Kat and Timo—they’d be affected more than I can even process. But I thought about them.
I chose them.
And look, I’m not trying to blame Sergei for how I turned out and my own issues—I wouldn’t. I just think he has a lot to prove to Timo. To Katya. To me. And I can’t lead him there.
I don’t know the path to redemption. I’ve barely even cracked the door.
“Katya has been ignoring me,” Sergei mentions, the elevator still descending. “Nikolai said to try English instead of Russian, but she won’t reply in any language.”
Kat and Timo offer a lot of love if you’re on their side. To be against them, it’d be a fucking nightmare. I can’t imagine it. Nik can probably relate more, but I’d hate for that to be me.
“They’ll come around,” I end up saying, wrapping him up in a fantasy. I like making people feel good, and the truth is cold. It could take them years to accept Sergei into their lives. It’ll take me less, even if he agitates me. Even if I can’t stand to be around him or listen to his voice.
I’ll be cool with him in a couple months. I already know this about myself.
I already feel it happening.
Sergei exhales. “I hope so.”
I suck on a peppermint. “Why are you telling me this anyway?”
His gray eyes, identical to mine, flit to me again. “Nik told me ‘while everyone loves Timo, Luka loves everyone else.’ I thought you’d care.”
What shocks me more: that Nikolai knows me this well or that Sergei looks to me to help bridge the divide in our family?
I’m all out of answers.
* * *
Sergei and I walk down the single aisle of red vinyl booths and a bar counter with retro stools. The diner is small and open-faced to the casino floor, so I easily spot my family in the back. And chances are, they’ve already spotted us.
Timo slides out of a circular corner booth, his effervescent grin on me. He used blue glitter to line the bottom of his eyes, and he pinned a tiny disco ball to his leather jacket. “We waited for you to order food,” he says as I greet him with a hug.
“Thanks, dude.” I slide in next to Kat.
She scoots a glass-bottled soda to me. “We got you a Fizz.”
I reach into my pocket and slyly hand her a packet of Starbursts. (Yeah, I have to do this beneath the table like it’s a drug deal. Nik lectures me every time I supply her candy because she’s prone to cavities.)
Timo takes a seat beside me—all without acknowledging Sergei, who loiters uncomfortably. An awkward second ticks by before he slips into the booth next to Nik. Knowing how much Sergei wants to mend things, I almost feel badly by the cold-shoulders.
Nik clears his throat, his terrible attempt at breaking the tension. “I ordered you water,” he tells Sergei.
In Russian, he replies, “Thank you.”
Now that they’re side-by-side, I realize Sergei looks young: clean-shaven, hair short. In contrast, Nikolai appears older: unshaven jaw, dark hair long enough to curl around his ears. Nik also sits like he has a stick up his ass.
I smile. It’s just who he is. Twenty-six going on seventy-five. Life aged him—we aged him. My lips falter, and I take a swig of Fizz and check my cell.
I miss Baylee.
With fire being added to her juggling act, the tempo change in mine, and Infini’s premiere in sight, we haven’t had time to see each other outside of the Masquerade. Not since Two Kings. We would be with each other more if we snuck around somewhere in the hotel, but it’s clearly more dangerous.
Which is why I asked her in text: you up for meeting in the hotel, krasavitsa?
It’s her choice, but it’s been a few hours and she still hasn’t replied.
I push the thoughts back.
Timo hums a song and taps his drink. He beams at me, and I drum the table to the tune. Kat clinks my bottle with a fork—
“Stop,” Nik says.
Timo sing-songs, “Someone sucks the fun out of everyone.”
I laugh with Kat, but the humor ends when Timo expels a resigned breath, giving into Nik’s request.
“What are we supposed to talk about?” Timo asks. “The weather?” He leans forward. “I heard it’s nighttime.” He wears real enthusiasm. “Such a revelation. Night.”
Sergei rolls his eyes.
“You don’t like the night?” Timo asks, his grin turning bitter. “That’s too bad.”
“Why?” Sergei says
Timo swings his head to me. “I own the night.”
Smiling, I put my arm around his shoulder and nod to him. “From two to five a.m.”
“Damn right.” He mimes grabbing a star from the sky.
We all laugh, except for Nik and Sergei, and thick silence returns even faster. I drop my arm off my little brother, and Sergei eyes me like help me out, man.
He hasn’t given me a reason to help him, and yet, I’m going to. “Have you met John yet?” I ask Sergei. Instantly, I regret it.
Timo rocks backwards like I sucker-punched him. I hold my breath, my muscles flexed, hurting just as much. I shake my head at Timo and mouth, what?
“Who’s John?” Sergei asks.
Timo shoots me a pointed look like that’s what. I didn’t know he hasn’t even mentioned John Ruiz to Sergei.
Nikolai explains, “Timo’s boyfriend.”
Sergei looks confused at Timo. “Why didn’t you tell me that you have a boyfriend?”
“Thanks, Luka,” Timo says, upset.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Sergei sets his arms on the table, inching closer. “What am I missing here?” Silence. “I already know you’re gay, Timo. When you were a little kid, you asked me to help you come out to the family. We baked a cake and had a party. Don’t you remember?”
Timo nods, eyes glassing. “I remember.” He produces a pained smile. “I also remember being devastated when I thought you were forced on a touring show. Because you”—he points at Sergei and takes a short breath—“you meant everything to me.”
I look down.
Timo confided in Sergei the way I’d guess most sons would confide in fathers. In New York, my little brother used to tell me, I wish the company picked Sergei instead of Nikolai to live with us. He believed Nik hated being our guardian—mostly, I think Timo imagined Sergei would’ve loved it more.
But Nikolai was the one who chose us. And Nik never wanted Sergei and Peter to be viewed as villains in our eyes, so he kept this fact hidden until it came out on its own.
It’s why I undeniably love Nik. I respect him more than I respect any other man on this planet. If he needs me to help, I’ll be there. No matter where there is.
Sergei leans back, submerging his emotion. “I was twenty-two. I chose my career.”
Timo’s face twists. “If I was given the choice to leave for higher pay or to stay here—I’d choose to stay with my brothers and sister.”
“I wasn’t alone. Peter left too.”
“Peter who?” Timo says. Pretending to forget our twenty-four-year-old brother.
Nik puts a hand to his face, one second from groaning. He sees the fast decline of this conversation like I do.
“You can’t resent me forever,” Sergei says, almost pleadingly.
Timo stares sadly at Sergei. “I don’t resent you. I’m just giving you exactly what you chose. Your career. Not me, not my life. And John Ruiz is the biggest part of my world.”
The waitress steps in at this, and we tensely order from the menu. I pick something called the kitchen sink: a double cheeseburger, fried egg, bacon, tomato, onion, and green pepper. I’m also given a disapproving glare from both of my older brothers.
As soon as the waitress leaves, Sergei says to me, “You have practice tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah,” I say casually, “I’m aware of my schedule.”
Nikolai pinches his eyes and whispers to Sergei in Russian, but I can’t hear. I wonder if he’s saying something like: see what I’ve been having to deal with.
Guilt knots my stomach. “I’m twenty,” I say easily. “Please, back off.”
No one says a thing, and the tension only strengthens. Everyone is looking at me.
“I’m fine,” I tell them. “I have everything under control.” I flip my cellphone in my hand and comb a hand through my hair.
Nikolai veers onto Katya. “How’s your new porter?” (He means the dude that replaced me in the Russian bar act for Viva.)
Katya sips her pint of root beer.
Nik stares darkly and disapprovingly. “We talked about this, Katya. You said you’d make an effort.”
“I said that I’d be nice. I’m nice.”
He snaps in Russian, “You’re being rude.”
Katya sighs, and her eyes soften on Sergei but she speaks to the whole table. “My new porter is infatuated with Rachel Bevens, the Olympic-gymnast-turned-trapeze-artist—you know her?”
We all nod.
She twirls her straw. “He ogled her from halfway across the gym, and then they started talking, which was more like shouting, about butt glue of all things.”
Nik’s features darken. “What is this about?”
Timo smiles. “Katya has a crush on her porter.”
“No,” Katya says adamantly to Timo. “I would’ve said something. I told you when I had a crush on Teddy—”
“Teddy?” Nik asks.
“A waiter at Imperial,” Timo says, naming an expensive restaurant on the rooftop of the Masquerade.
I frown. “Wait, was this recent?” She never told me.
“A week ago,” she says and shrugs like, we haven’t seen each other much.
I hate that.
Sergei clutches his water. “I still don’t understand the significance of Rachel and your porter.” He returns to the main subject.
I’m just as lost—and worried because she’s hiding something. Her eyes dart around the diner before landing on Nik.
“I was doing a full-in full-out,” she says slowly, “and he was so caught up in butt glue and Rachel that he shifted…well, he moved the beam too far to the left.”
“What?!” we all yell, causing half the diner to flinch and glance at us.
“I recovered!” She raises her hands. “Calm down. One foot reached the bar and slowed my momentum. Then I kind of…”
“You kind of what?” Nik snaps, his anger directed at the porter. Not her.
Katya makes a motion with her hand that looks a lot like a body-flop.
My eyes widen. “Onto the bar?”
“Yeah.”
I sway back, pummeled. I can’t look at her—or anyone. I stare haunted at the table, and Nik starts asking about her ribs. Sergei mentions the hospital for X-rays; AE will pay for it.
“Luk,” she whispers, ignoring Nik and Sergei. “It’s not your fault.”
If I stayed as her porter in Viva, this wouldn’t have happened. I have distractions more weighted than flirting about butt glue, but my personal life has never compromised my work. I’ve been drilled since birth about safety inside the gym and on stage.
It is my fault.
She’s lucky she can even walk—in fact, Nik asks her if she can.
“You saw me walking here,” she says with a tone like you’re being dramatic.
“Do you have a bruise?” I ask my little sister.
“No.”
She’s lying. I can just tell. I’ve known her for too long. Spent too many hours around her at work, at home. “Can you show me?” I ask nicely enough that she lifts up the corner of her purple sweater, knowing Sergei and Nikolai can’t see from behind the table.
I expel a pained breath. Dark yellow and purplish blemishes surround her ribs like marker bleeding into a paper towel. Only it’s her skin. It looks excruciating. She should’ve immediately contacted Corporate, but Nik will be the one to say so.
My eyes lift to hers.
Katya raises her chin like she’s tough, and I remember her saying, I’m a woman. Getting older shouldn’t be about ignoring pain and emotion—but who am I to talk. I’ve shoved mine in drawers.
Nik never cries.
Sergei bottles his feelings.
And Timo will explode all at once.
Performing on stage is the one cathartic release we all share, and maybe it’s too late for some of us to let go off stage, but Kat is still finding herself.
I hug my sister, careful of her ribs, and I whisper in her ear, “I love you, Kat. Tell me next time?”
She sniffs and nods, and I lean back as she rubs her watery eyes.
A half-wall separates us from the casino floor, and Timo must notice someone familiar by the slots because he stands up slightly on the seats. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he starts shouting, “Looking good, Thora James…” His voice teeters off, his face falling.
Something’s wrong with Thora.
Katya and I slide up against the half-wall. Peering over, I spot the short blonde by a slot machine about twenty feet away. Face splotched—crying.
She’s crying hard.
Nikolai sees and his demeanor changes to fierce urgency. Not even waiting for Sergei to let him out of the booth, my brother hurdles the wall and rushes to his girlfriend’s side.
“Do you know what’s wrong?” Sergei asks us, and we all shake our heads and watch.
Because of their noticeable height difference (six-five to five-two), he has to squat down to be eye-level.
From two booths over, I hear a person whisper, “Look, look. See how short she is compared to him?”
“Oh my God—and he’s really built.”
“Imagine them in bed.”
“Ouch. I would not want that inside of me if I were her size.”
I’m irritated, but Nik would kill me if I confronted hotel guests. Nik and Thora deal with worse when we go out. A drunk guy tried to fight Nik by insulting Thora, saying how “stretched out” she must be.
(People are fucking ridiculous.)
“I can’t hear Thora,” Katya says. “Can you hear anything?” She looks back at me.
“No.” I see Thora’s lips moving, but her voice is drowned by pinging of slot machines and waitresses yelling food orders to cooks.
Thora sees us and tries to rub her bloodshot eyes—Nik looks back, and then he turns his body to block our view of his girlfriend.
“You think he’ll tell us what’s wrong?” Timo asks.
“No,” I say, knowing Nik likes to keep his personal life private. But it doesn’t always mean it stays that way.
My phone buzzes on the table. Sitting back, I grab my cell before anyone can read the screen.
Out to dinner with my brother, so not tonight. But yeah, let’s meet in the hotel sometime :) – Baylee
My lips rise and I type back: I like your smile.
Her next text is quick.
Where’s yours? – Baylee
I reply back with five emojis.
They’re all hearts.
A second passes before my phone buzzes again, but when it does, my smile expands.
I love you too. – Baylee
“Who’s the girl?” Sergei asks—at first I think he’s talking to Timo or Katya but they’re still watching Nik and Thora.
And his gray eyes are on me.
“What are you talking about?” I pocket my phone.
“The look on your face while you were texting,” he clarifies.
I shrug. “She’s just a girl.” It underscores every ounce of what she means to me, and I feel like I’m betraying her by calling her that—I don’t even know what just a girl is.
Maybe he’s recalling how I stepped forward on stage and held plank beside Baylee first. We all lasted the three hours, thank God. Maybe he’s thinking of how I defended her. How we “did cocaine” in the past.
Maybe he’s about to chew me out.
He wouldn’t be the first or the second or the motherfucking third.
I wait.
I wait for it. (Come on, Sergei. Chastise me, too.)
“I’m starting to think,” he says lowly so only I can hear, “that I don’t really understand you.”
I nod slowly.
Too stunned to do anything else.
Sergei looks at Timo and Kat. At Nik and Thora. And I think he’s realizing, for the first time, just how much he truly missed.