He rubs his eyes and then stares at the ceiling. For answers.
His jaw is already tinted red. “Your interview…” I trail off, imagining him shaking hands with the boss: split-knuckles, bruised cheek and swollen eye. His chances of landing the job are now slim.
“I wasn’t excited about it anyway,” he says under his breath. “I hate the idea of being an athletic trainer, watching other guys compete in the sport that I still want to be in—it’s depressing.”
I don’t ask why he’s taken the classes to pursue this career. His parents pushed the plan as a back-up when gymnastics ended. Shay qualified for the Olympics one year, but he never made the national team. It’s not a pursuit he’s ever tried again. He said the training was too rigorous, and he knew he wouldn’t make it a second time around.
“What are you going to do then?” I ask, my voice soft.
He shrugs and shakes his head a few times. “I have no fucking clue.” He turns and smiles weakly at me. “What a life, right—or I guess you wouldn’t know…You’ve had this crazy circus idea in your head since you were fourteen.”
“You remember how old I was this time?”
His gaze falls to his hands, his bloodied knuckles ten times worse off than my swollen ones. “I remembered before. I just hoped you’d reconsider this.” He checks his watch. “I have to go.”
We both stand and I almost start to cry—scared of him leaving again. It was easier the first time. When I still kept strings attached to him and me. When I knew I’d see him another day. This feels like the end of a novel together, not a chapter.
I hug him.
He hugs me tighter. “Be safe, okay?” he whispers, choking on the last word.
I squeeze him. “Be happy, alright?”
I wait for Shay to say: I am.
But he stays quiet. Then he lets go, picks up his duffel that he left with the concierge, and exits through the revolving glass doors.
Act Twenty-Eight
“I’m not a fortuneteller. Those who award themselves the title either have a penchant for trite metaphors or are liars. If I’m going to lie about something, it’s not going to be about projecting an inconceivable future. To be honest, that’s too stupid for people like me.” On the television screen, Connor Cobalt presses his fingers to his jaw in conceited contemplation, his Rolex watch glitzy on his wrist.
“Damn,” I say, sharing a pint of Cherry Garcia with Katya as we watch an old episode of Princesses of Philly. She texted me about five minutes after Shay left, asking for details about the fight since no one was sharing them with her. And I came up to Nikolai’s suite to explain.
The reality show takes my dazed mind off the turn of events, never ever believing Shay would show up here. Or that Nikolai would hit him. I wear an eternal pained grimace when I even think about it.
Apparently Nikolai and everyone else are still outside, speaking to management. I haven’t even figured out what to say to him yet, so decompressing with Katya is the perfect medicine to a hectic afternoon.
“Nikolai used to be Team Scott,” Katya tells me, pushing more of the fleece blanket on my side. She must see the goose bumps on my arms. I wish I’d brought a cover-up or worn jean shorts over my bikini, at least. But like Connor just said, I couldn’t have predicted the future.
“I liked him at the beginning too, with Rose, but it almost seemed forced at times. I mean, they rarely stood even two feet near each other.”
“I know, it was weird. I always thought she had more chemistry with Connor.”
“Who’s your favorite?” I ask her as the show switches to a series of commercials. “Of all the Calloway sisters and their men?” I expect her to say Ryke Meadows or Loren Hale—the two most popular guys of the bunch. One is overly protective, the other in complete I-would-die-for-you love with his childhood friend.
“Easy.” She eats a scoop of ice cream before saying, “Rose Calloway.”
I flinch in surprise. “Rose?” I think I prefer Lily Calloway, the one who’s a bit shy, but in the face of so much publicity, so many warring voices, she’s stood strong in the end. It’s bravery that I think I need.
“Rose is always so well-dressed and put-together. And she’s smart.” Katya shrugs. “When she speaks, everyone listens. You know, when the show first aired, I’d often think What Would Rose Calloway Do?” She smiles with the spoon in her mouth.
I contemplate this. “What would Rose do in my situation?”
Katya’s smile fades. And I think we’re both mulling over the same answer: she’d choose to be on her own. Be independent. And try, stubbornly, to succeed without help. Without handouts. But she’d have an advantage in the end. She’s rich.
Her family owns Fizzle—one of the largest soda companies. My parents are like gold fish on the career pyramid. I’m more alone in that sense. Less lifelines and opportunities to phone a friend.
“Rose doesn’t always do the right thing,” Katya points out. “She makes mistakes too.”
I think about how the one-and-only season of Princesses of Philly ended, my eyes growing big. “This is true.”
The door suddenly opens. Only Nikolai enters, tensely. I can’t read him well enough to see if his strict demeanor derives from guilt. His quiet rage could just sprout from Shay and the fight.
I quickly peruse his body, a slightly reddish tint to the side of his ribs. That’s it. Clearly he outmatched Shay. He knows he’s bigger than him. And he still hit him. My blood runs cold and not even the fleece blanket stops me from shivering.
“Thora, can I talk to you alone?” He nods to his bedroom, and his chest rises and falls in a heavier breath, maybe preparing for me to say no.
But I want to hear what he has to tell me. I stand, setting the blanket down, and I head to his bedroom in my bikini, Nikolai trailing me. The temperature drops below zero when he shuts the door behind him.
My body shakes, the hairs on my arms rising. To distract myself from the cold, I sit on the edge of his metallic comforter, his bed made, his room minimal and modern. Spotless, the perks of hotel maids, I guess. Why are you thinking about hotel maids, Thora?
Because I feel him towering. I feel him studying me. He slips into the closet for a second, and I tighten my legs together for heat, my shoulders locked and curved forward. When he returns, he carries a black Aerial Ethereal sweatshirt and he holds it out to me.
I’m not too prideful to reject it. I pull the sweatshirt over my head, the soft fabric dwarfing my build, the hem at my knees. The longer we share company in silence, the longer my chest constricts. I strain my neck to look up at Nikolai. He nears me, and very slowly, he kneels, his hand on my thigh, now more eye-level than before.
I remain fixed and unmoving. My face tight. I just wait for him to fill the cavernous quiet.
The first thing he says is, “Are you okay?”
“Can’t you read me?” My voice is stilted and as cold as I feel.
His eyes finished their dance across my features long ago. “You’re angry and confused, and you wish I hadn’t hit your friend. You’re also upset that he left early, but you won’t admit that to me. And you’re freezing right now.”
My nose flares at his on-point assumptions.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I’m not the kind of man who’d stand by while someone berates you. Even if he’s your friend.”