I drop my hand.
Where is she? She’s supposed to be here.
Searching the sea of faces packed inside the expansive, dimly lit ballroom, I seek out the angel among the devils who have congregated for their pretentious annual get-together of self-glorification. The Society gala is nothing more than a bunchof narcissistic megalomaniacs stroking each other’s egos, and because Aleksei and I are Nikolai Stepanoff’s only sons and heirs, we are dragged here every year and paraded about like prize-winning thoroughbreds in front of a captive audience. It’s pathetic how much Father kisses their asses, hoping for a discarded crumb of their favor, wanting so desperately to be one of the men with a seat at the Council table.
Aleksei’s elbow jabs into my side, and he juts his chin to the right. “Two o’clock.”
My eyes move in the direction he’s indicating, and my heartbeat skitters a triple beat when my gaze lands on the blonde-haired girl sitting on the floor next to the grand piano, the ruffled skirt of her dress spread around her in a halo of blue.
Aoife Fitzpatrick.
The girl with the cornflower-blue eyes, whose smile is like sunshine. I’ve had an unrequited crush on her for years, ever since the first time I saw her.
“Stop being an idiot and go talk to her,” Aleksei whispers in my ear.
“Can’t,” I reply through clenched teeth when I see who Aoife is adoringly watching play the piano.
My skin begins to itch, and I tug at the damnable bowtie again. Somehow sensing my agitation, Mama absentmindedly pushes my hand down.
Aleksei huffs with a roll of his gray eyes and kicks the side of my leather dress shoe. Lowering his voice so Mama can’t hear, he says, “Fuck him. Tristan Amato doesn’t own her.”
He thinks he does. Him, Hendrix, and Constantine. They won’t let anyone get near her. So, I watch, and I wait, hoping that I’ll get my chance at some point tonight.
My twin shows his annoyance with my cowardly prevarication and tugs on Mama’s sequined dress. “I’m bored.”
Brushing wisps of her blonde hair from her cheek, Mama chuckles, the sound soft and lyrical. “We just got here,malýsh.”
“Still bored,” Aleksei grouses, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and hunching his shoulders.
Father turns slightly from the conversation he’s having with a group of men a few feet away, and Aleksei snaps to attention when cold blue eyes send him a threatening glare.
Mama picks up on the implied threat and takes Aleksei’s hand. “Come and dance with your mother,” she says and quickly drags Aleksei away, unintentionally leaving me there by myself on the periphery of the room.
Mama always shields us from Father’s anger, taking the punches meant for us. One day, I’ll be big enough and strong enough to stop him.
I bore my hatred into the man who sired me as he tracks Mama and Aleksei to the dance floor. As if I’m invisible, he returns his attention to the flute of champagne in his hand and the tuxedo-clad men talking around him.
Taking the opportunity, I quietly slink away and disappear into the crowd, edging my way closer to where the grand piano sits tucked in the corner on the far side of the room.
Through the music and overlapping conversations, I hear Aoife’s beautiful laughter. It draws me in, pulling my footsteps along an invisible string toward her, like the siren song from Greek mythology.
Why am I thinking aboutThe Odyssey? Aleksei always tells me that I’m too hyperbolic about everything. That my brain is wired differently. Funny how your entire personality can be determined from a doctor’s checklist.
More mature for my age with higher than normal intelligence.Check.
Inability to maintain eye contact without feeling discomfort.Check.
Has trouble making friends or fitting in with peers.Check.
Trouble assessing social cues.Check.
Anxiety in social situations.Check.
Adherence to strict routines and has OCD and obsessive tendencies.Check.
Ability to hyper-focus on an interest and is a perfectionist.Check.
Gets frustrated with small changes in his routine or with disruptions out of the norm.Check.
