Amour Amour (40 page)

He brushes the pumpkin residue. “Dimitri.”

“Did you get him back?” I ask, slightly sad I missed it.
You needed to train. That’s why you’re here, Thora.
I know.

“With a butter cream pie.” His lips curve up in that charming smile, the one I see on Saturday nights. “I wish you were there.”

“This is more important.” I hate that each word hurts to say and to hear.

He nods, this tension stretching between us, from the uncertainty of our futures. It’d be easier if we knew where we’ll stand. But we’re riding towards a big gray cloud.

The double doors click open again, louder voices emanating. “He was
not
flirting with me,” Katya refutes. Nikolai stiffens, but Katya is still in darkness, the door thudding closed.

“I fear for you, sister,” Timo says. “Said boy tells you that you’re pretty, that you have nice legs, and he touches your hair. Said girl thinks he’s friendly. Next thing you know, you’ll be in bed with him and think
oh wait, he
actually
likes me
.”

“He didn’t compliment me like that,” she refutes.

Timo whistles. “Someone’s in denial. What do you think, Luka? Flirting or no flirting?”

“Honestly, I want to self-eject from this conversation.”

Timo laughs, and all three siblings step into the light. Literally. “Thora James,” Timo exclaims with a wide, dazzling grin. He carries a half-eaten apple pie and a bundle of forks. Luka has a pumpkin one in hand. Katya, a chocolate.

“Hey,” I say, a smile growing. “How was the family feast?”

“Boring,” Luka says, sitting next to Nikolai.

Timo plops next to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “Entertaining.”

“Draining,” Katya adds with a sigh. She chooses the spot between me and Nikolai. Which is really the only free place in the circle, since I face him.

Boring. Entertaining. Draining.

“In that order,” Nikolai says to me, lightness in his eyes. I’m having a hard time not smiling right now, even sweaty, muscles achy and heart on a slow descent.

Timo passes me a fork. “Luka’s pie is the worst.”

Luka looks uncaring. “No one taught me how to cook.”

“No one taught me how to cook, but mine still turned out edible.”

Katya pushes the chocolate one towards me. “Mine is actually the best.” When I first met her, I doubt she’d ever consider herself better than her brothers, in any arena.

I believe it.
I try a small portion, the taste richer than I expected, making me smile. It’s really good. I give her a thumbs-up, and her orb-like eyes brighten. After another bite, I ask, “So who’s this boy?”

She groans. “You heard that?” Her eyes flicker nervously to Nikolai. What is he going to do? I think about all his rules with me and training. Yeah—I’m sure he has an equally long list for Katya and dating.

“How old is he?” Nikolai layers on the
no bullshit, no humor
expression to the millionth degree.

“He’s no one,” Katya refutes. “I met him in the hallway.”

Nikolai almost chokes on a bite of pie.

“The hallway?” I say. I don’t get it. Is that a meeting spot for people in the circus—like code for
under the bleachers
?

“He was just here for the weekend,” she clarifies.

It clicks. “Like a bachelor party kind of thing?”

“Yeah.” She nods.

Nikolai starts, “You didn’t give him your number—”

“I know the rules. Okay? I wouldn’t do that.”

“And plus, she was oblivious.” Timo points his fork at Katya. “You need to take my class: Timofei 101. I’ll teach you the ways of men, little sister.”

I don’t see all three siblings together often, only because they spend more time together than they do with Nikolai. And I’m usually with him. So I eat silently, my eyes pinging between the Kotovas.

“She’s
sixteen
,” Nikolai says sternly.

Katya sighs like she’s heard this all before.

Luka rips open a packet of Junior Mints, exiting the conversation and stepping away from the spotlight that his little brother adores.

Timo gives Nikolai a look, as though he’s living in the wrong decade. “And I lost my virginity at fourteen.”

Nikolai pinches his eyes. “I don’t want to know this, Timo.”

Timo redirects his attention to me. “Thora James.” His grin seems to twinkle in his eyes, in a sprightly
evil
way. “When did you lose it?”

A piece of pie lodges halfway down.

Nikolai smacks the back of Timo’s head and says something in Russian that I’m almost certain has to do with tact.

Timo touches his chest innocently. “I’m friends with her.”

“That doesn’t mean you can ask her that.”

“Do you not know the answer?” Timo wonders with the tilt of his head.

I can’t let this progress any further. I simply say, “I was eighteen. But in all honesty, I wish I waited for the right person.”

“Nikolai?” Luka adds.

Nik is about to smack his head, but he sways out of his reach with a humored laugh. And with the extension of Nik’s arm, I notice his tattoo again: long black lines, inked on the inside of his bicep, creating trees at the end. I’ve never asked what it meant to him. There are questions that always sit on the tip of my tongue, but I struggle to let them out. Not knowing the perfect time. Not knowing the perfect way to ask.

I’m not good with words.

At least I’ve known that for a while.

Timo catches me scrutinizing Nikolai’s arm with confusion. He waves his fork at one of the shorter lines. “That’s me.”

My heart skips, and Nikolai meets my gaze with a nod, like
he’s right.
He motions to the other series of lines that form trees, starting with the shortest. “Katya, Timo, Luka, Peter, Sergei, and…my parents.”

His family.

The symbolism is sweeter than he realizes.

Katya asks softly, “What do you think they’re doing today?”

“Eating pie,” Luka states plainly.

“They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” Timo interjects, deconstructing any fantasy that Luka and Nikolai fog her in.

“You don’t know that,” Katya retorts with a frown.

“Ask Nikolai. It’s an American tradition. Dad hates that shit, doesn’t he?”

Nikolai has his eyes on me, more rigid. He sets down his fork. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Does she not know?” Timo squeezes my shoulder. “He didn’t tell you, Thora James?”

Chills snake up my spine. What am I missing? “Tell me what…?”

Nikolai runs a hand through his hair. “She knows, Timo. Let it go.”

“Then why are you being so weird about it?” Timo asks, his features darkening. “You’re keeping something from us then…?” They stare at each other for a long moment, both good at reading body language. Both superior at compelling one’s attention. Both exceptionally talented. And yet, it’s clear who’ll leave with the upper-hand.

Timo shakes his head first, more confused than before. Same. I sit in a mystery with the rest of them.

“Talk about something else.” Nikolai looks to Luka, to save him from this. His younger brother opens his mouth, but Timo springs to his feet, silencing Luka.

He gains a height advantage that he probably rarely has over Nikolai. “I hate when you do this,” Timo proclaims. “I’m not a little kid anymore. I can handle whatever you’re keeping from me. We all can.” He gestures to Luka and Katya. “It’s not fair to
us
.”

“It makes no difference,” Nikolai says to him. “Just sit down, Timo.”

Timo shouts something in Russian, pained, and he points to his chest. His determined tone reminds me of when he had a long screaming match with Nikolai. Months ago, in The Masquerade’s lobby. It didn’t end well.

Katya leans into me. “I hate when they fight.”

I hug her, an arm around her waist. She rests her head on my shoulder. I realize, right now, that I’m not an interloper anymore. I have a place in the Kotova circle, albeit not the loudest place, but there is only so much room for Timo’s and Nikolai’s. I think Katya knows that more than anyone.

I hear Nikolai reply to Timo in calmer, sterner Russian.

In the brief silence between them, Timo stares at the ceiling. Then his glassy gaze returns to his brother. “Don’t lie,” he says. “You resent us. Every day. Peter and Sergei got off free, and you were forced to look after him and her—” he jabs a finger at Luka and Katya “—and me.”

Forced.
I hone in on Timo’s choice of words while he continues on.

“How many times a day do you wish you were with them? Be honest.”

Nikolai’s eyes flicker to me.

Forced.

Oh my God.

Nikolai lied to them. He never told his siblings that he had a choice to be here, in Vegas, and before that, New York—that he could’ve been with the brothers around his age, all this time. If he wanted.

Sounding wounded, Timo adds, “I think it has to be five times a day. Maybe six. What do you think, Luka?”

“Shut up,” Luka mutters, staring right at me. He’s beginning to figure it out, I think. Maybe I wear the answers on my face. The realization. 

Katya whispers, “What’s going on?”

I open my mouth, but my lips press together quickly. This isn’t my truth to share.

Nikolai rubs his eyes wearily and then looks up to me. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

I give him one of my patented encouraging smiles.
You can do this.

And he nods like,
I know, I have to tell them.

He stares up at Timo, who has yet to sit down. “You want honesty?” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “My life would be drastically different if I lived with Sergei and Peter, if I never had to take care of you.” He shrugs tensely. “Is this what you want to hear: you drove me crazy, you fucking
worried
me sick every day of your life, and I kept chasing after you, expecting you to slow down, just once, to make it easy on me. And you never did.”

Timo is crying. “No, I didn’t want to hear that, you asshole.”

“It’s fucking true.” Nikolai’s eyes are past reddened, restraining his own emotion.

I hear Katya sniff beside me, and my emotions begin to rise. Luka watches like someone is unveiling blinds to his world—intently, keenly, cautiously.

“
Every day
I wonder what my life would’ve been like had I stayed with them,” Nikolai says. “And I know I wouldn’t be the same person. I don’t even know who’d I’d be, but it’s not someone I ever want to meet. Not for a moment or a second. I love this life, with you three.” He pauses. “So every day, Timo, I am
thankful
for you, for Katya, for Luka—for giving me more than I had.”

Timo is motionless, tears streaming down his cheeks, while Luka stares faraway at the wall.

My chest swells. This is the most accurate portrayal of Nikolai that’s ever been spoken. Most of his twenties has been devoted to them, and I can’t imagine who he was before. It must feel like another lifetime.

“I had a choice six years ago,” Nikolai explains the crux. “You didn’t.”

“What?” Luka chokes.

“Peter, Sergei and me—we were older than you. We could do what we wanted. I chose to be here, with the three of you. I don’t regret that decision.”

Katya lifts her head off my shoulder, her jaw unhinged. “But…why wouldn’t you tell us that?”

“I didn’t want you to think poorly of Peter and Sergei for their choices.”

Timo drops to the mat and cries into his hands. I hug Katya as she tears up more from her brother’s sadness.

Nik reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Timo—”

Timo looks up, his face splotched red and slick with tears. “You bastard…you made me hate you growing up!” His voice trembles with grief. “I thought you didn’t want to be here. You could’ve at least
acted
like you gave a shit.”

“You mean all those nights I drove around New York City, searching for you? Helping you with your homework assignments, making sure you had lunch, spotting you at the gym when I should’ve been training—is that not giving a shit?” He’s still strict, severe. He has trouble softening for them completely, even when Timo is crying.

Timo buries his face in his hands again.

Luka crawls over to his little brother and he wraps his arm around his shoulder. Then he meets Nikolai’s gaze. “Thanks.” My heart fills. “For choosing us.”

I engrain Nikolai’s expression for life, a look measured in deep, familial love. As though the galaxy parted, just for one moment, to show another blindingly beautiful universe. He responds with a Russian sentiment, sounding tender.

Katya whispers, “I can’t even imagine…”

Timo lifts his head. “I can,” he says to Nikolai. “I couldn’t…I needed you. Growing up, I needed you.”

“And you had me,” Nikolai says lowly.

Timo exhales deeply, his eyes traveling over the pies. And then he looks to me and back to Nikolai. “I need you to not worry about me anymore. I want you to live the life that you gave up for us. Can you do that?”

“I didn’t give up my life,” Nikolai explains. “You’re a part of it, Timo. The good and the bad. You’re not keeping me from living, brother.”

Luka squeezes Timo’s shoulder, and Timo nods a few times. He says something in Russian, that I’m certain means
I love you
, or a form of the endearment.

Nikolai replies with the same words.

Then Timo nudges the barely eaten pumpkin pie towards
me.
“You be the judge, Thora James.”

This one gesture somehow unwinds the coiled air. Alone in a gym, surrounded by pies and four siblings who maddeningly, unequivocally love each other—it’s a moment I won’t forget.

Even if I have to leave their world, I promise myself that I’ll always remember this. Because when I grow old and gray, I can only hope to have a family as passionate and faithful as theirs.

Act Forty-Three

Living with a guy is strange.

It’s not a sleepover, where you legitimately know you’ll return home after a brief weekend, back to your own shower, your own sink, your own bed. It’s been about a month, and I’ve just barely accepted that I share all of those with another person. A male person. A guy.