The Uncrossing

by Melissa Eastlake

  Jeremy grabbed two purple Gatorades and left a ten on the register. When Luke pocketed his phone, Jeremy joined him outside. “Here.”

  Luke took a bottle slowly.

  “I paid for it,” Jeremy added.

  “I know,” Luke said, but he twisted the top off much faster and took a drink.

  Jeremy couldn’t figure out what to say next (that was incredible—you are incredible) so he kept quiet and watched a wine bar doing brisk business across the street. Luke tilted his Gatorade toward Jeremy. “Good job with the kid in there. Cheers.”

  “You, too.” Shyness trapped Jeremy so tight he had to push his arm forward to tap his bottle against Luke’s. One little compliment warmed him more deeply than all that fighting in the car had frozen him. He kept swinging like a boomerang, matching his mood to the last thing Luke had said, but knowing he was ridiculous only made him blush hotter.

  Luke was probably just saying it because he’d been rude earlier, or to fill the quiet, not because Jeremy had done anything impressive. Occupying Aviva was a tiny help. For years, Alexei had been wooing the Eyals to exclusive Kovrov service. Freelancing among the different families was lucrative but dangerous—what Alexei offered, what made the Kovrov network unique, was protection. They’d said yes, taken a binding, turned down other buyers.

  And then everything had gone wrong, peculiar molds growing like cancers over everything they owned. Alexei had promised to protect those people but had ruined their lives. Then again, Luke was only there to fix it because Alexei had called for him—oh, Jeremy was too confused. It was over. Luke was wearing a smile that might have encompassed Jeremy, and that was good enough.

  “Are you going to burn those next?” Jeremy asked.

  “Yeah. I was telling Camille. She’ll want to take a look first.”

  “She builds curse bags, too?”

  “What?” Luke said sharply. “No, of course not. She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh. I thought, because she was so interested—”

  “There’s a big difference between being interested in how something works and going after somebody’s kids.”

  Jeremy’s whole body closed up, tight in his throat and chest and jaw. How was it even possible to be this bad at talking? If everybody else in the world was as bad at it as Jeremy, all of humanity would have been exploded off the planet centuries ago, and at least Jeremy wouldn’t have to endure always, always ruining every conversation. Through his clenched jaw, he said, “Obviously, I know that. I was just asking.”

  A wave of laughter from the wine bar washed across the street. When it faded, Luke said, “Right. My bad, I don’t know why I keep—it was a mess in there. Couldn’t you feel the, the—” Luke mimed something scraping down his neck. “Evil?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “I believe you. But no, I couldn’t feel it.”

  “Right. Well, it was bad.”

  “It wasn’t our fault. We came here to stop it.”

  “I know,” Luke said, as if he didn’t think of it that way at all.

  Jeremy closed his eyes, tight against his frustration. He had to decide which would hurt more: having these miserable, awkward conversations with Luke all summer, or asking Alexei to stop pushing them together. Alexei would be so disappointed. But Jeremy was hopeless it would get better—he always imagined that the next, or the next, or the next conversation he’d know what to say, and it never happened.

  Luke cleared his throat. “I guess this is a bad time to ask you for a favor.”

  Jeremy started. “What?”

  “I was going to see if you wouldn’t mind helping us burn these again.” Luke gave him another lopsided smile. “This is some bad mojo, and double, too. We could use your angel.”

  Jeremy’s heart stopped beating. That was bad. You died if that happened.

  “Aw, come on, man.” Luke brought his smile closer and waved at his own face. “You can’t stay mad. I’m doing the charm. Come help us.”

  Jeremy managed a nod as the lights clicked on in the store behind them.

  Luke took out his phone again. “Cool. I’ll give Camille a heads up. I bet Dad has more dumplings in the freezer.”

  “What?” Alexei said, as the crew spilled out onto the sidewalk. “Why do we get dumplings?”

  “Just me!” Jeremy stuck out his tongue. “I’m going to help him burn the bags.”

  “Outstanding.” Alexei took his giving-a-speech stance, squaring his enormous shoulders and lifting his nose. Most of the time it was hilarious, but Alexei took it seriously, and anticipation was a tight fist in Jeremy’s chest. “Great work today. I’m very proud of both of you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Luke said, and averted his eyes politely as Alexei took out his wallet. Jeremy rubbed a fist over his giddy smile. They had done a good job—Luke had done a good job. A little binding paled in comparison to saving a whole family. They would keep him around, and Jeremy would show him what was past the name.

  Chapter Ten

  Luke got through the rest of the afternoon without any more fights, though Jeremy stayed weirdly quiet throughout Camille’s investigation of the mojo bags, his prayers, and Luke’s ritual. The best part of the afternoon was the wad of cash Alexei threw at Luke.

  He used some of it to buy his family dinner, two whole chickens and a mess of sides from the grill up the street. Since the food was Luke’s treat, Helene bought a bottle of wine. Yuri got out the building keys and took them up to the roof, spreading out a sheet next to the gently humming HVAC unit. Camille pulled some music up on her phone.

  And dinner was a party. Their roof didn’t have a spectacular view of the city or anything, but they got a lot of sky, painted in soft blues and buttery peaches by the setting sun. That was the light of the Kovrovs’ favor: a little extra money, and a great story.

  Luke told his broadly, with a lot of campfire-horror detail around the mold in the Eyals’ store, how it had smelled and tasted and felt slimy against his skin. There was a lot to lie about, though: he wasn’t going to tell his parents about fighting with Jeremy Kovrov, pestering him with questions he knew not to ask. He was ashamed of his reflexive disgust at the little girl’s affliction, so he couldn’t explain how remarkable Jeremy had been with her.

  He was still trying to figure Jeremy out. Once he’d caught the vibe of the light Jeremy made, he had it, and he could study it at his leisure. It was distinct from what he thought of as the Kovrov vibe, a low, staticky hum that all the Kovrovs shared—both swirled around Jeremy, two notes that didn’t harmonize. The higher tone rose when he did magic, and maybe when he got mad at Luke, but settled down when he was quiet. Something about it, the two separate pieces jangling for space on one person, wasn’t right. It was an infernal problem and also not Luke’s problem at all. He’d already asked about something that wasn’t his business and was lucky he hadn’t gotten fired or worse.

  So he discarded all those details and told a story where he was a hero—the light rose as the air cleared, the little girl’s skin washed clean—and Luke nodded as his family applauded.

  “That sounds like the old days.” Helene elbowed Yuri in the side.

  He guffawed. “We didn’t do much uncrossing during the old days.”

  She smacked his chest lightly, and they leaned into each other, laughing together at nothing particularly funny. The wine bottle lay on its side, and behind them, Camille made wide, delighted eyes and mouthed, “They’re trashed.”

  She leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “What did you do in the good old days?”

  Helene shook her head. “Y’all don’t know what it was like. Nowadays everyone has their territory. Everyone knows who they work for. Back in the day, it was a dogfight. You were playing defense every time you left the house. And you know, the best defense is a good offense,” she added slyly, and dissolved into giggles again.

  “You mean the best uncrossing is crossing the other guy first,” Camille said, turning her nose up at Luke.

  H
e ignored her. “What changed?”

  Yuri waved toward the city. “After all the Malcolm business I told you about, things settled down. There’s a shake-up every twenty, twenty-five years or so—the one before the Malcolm war was in the seventies, when the Zhangs took Manhattan from the Damianis. Find someone to tell you that story.”

  Camille sat up straighter. “Then aren’t we about due? The Malcolm war was about twenty years ago.”

  “Why would you want a war?” Luke snapped.

  Helene intervened, voice soothing. “Nobody wants a war. We’re just telling old stories.”

  Luke nodded, but he hadn’t been telling old stories. He’d been talking about today. The second attack in a couple weeks on Kovrov associates, if that’s what those mojo bags from the family lunch had been. He should ask for more details about the Malcolm war—

  He stopped his thoughts and wiped a hand down his face, exasperated. No, no more questions. He wasn’t heading trouble off with this foolishness; he was causing it.

  Distracted, Luke pulled out his phone and turned it over in his hands. He opened his text messages—he’d never written back either way about his schedule, and Max hadn’t said anything else. Torn between wanting to reply that he was home and free, or that he was actually busy and no, he couldn’t see Max, he never wrote back.

  His phone vibrated on his chest a few minutes before one a.m. anyway. He was awake and waiting. He got up before he answered, moving quietly and crossing his fingers his parents were still sleeping off that bottle of wine.

  “One second,” he said into the phone.

  Max mumbled something unintelligible. Luke’s heart sank.

  Max waited outside under the alley’s single light, catching it like an old painting on his yellow hair and the two round spots of pink high on his cheeks.

  “Don’t you look like a picture?” Luke paused a beat. “On missing person posters all over Westchester.” He waited out of Max’s reach. The night alley still smelled like the day’s heat, baking trash and asphalt.

  Max made a weak noise and a lot of loopy movement. “You think you’re so tough. Couple years, your family won’t even afford to live here.”

  That was true. Sort of. It wouldn’t take a couple of years, if it happened. Or it wouldn’t happen, but only because now Luke was getting in deep with the Kovrovs. He stayed quiet for too long, and Max said, “That was mean, wasn’t it?”

  “How was your date?”

  “Grim,” Max drawled. “Maybe I should go out with you instead. Come here and let me be nice to you.”

  “How drunk are you?”

  Max’s hand tottered so-so. “Six out of ten.” He reached over with the hand, but he slumped against the wall. “Don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry.”

  “You are not,” Luke said, but he lifted his hand and put it inside Max’s anyway. Max started to prop himself off the wall, but Luke pushed him back, the littlest bit mean about it, and Max bit him on the chin, a little meaner.

  The brick under Luke’s hands remembered the sun, warmer than the air, but Max’s skin was cool. His second virtue was beauty—he was a pleasure to look at, symmetrical and softly made. His eyes were a misty, mossy green you never saw in the city, where everything was gray or crayon-bright or dingy yellow.

  Luke looked now. Once they went inside, he wasn’t going to be able to turn any lights on. This was probably going to be his favorite part of the night.

  Max wanted his kiss. He didn’t lean up, but he parted his lips, wafting something rummy. When Luke ran his thumb over Max’s lip, Max nodded heavily into his hand.

  “Six, huh?” Luke said.

  “Maybe you’re too sober. Maybe that’s been the problem the whole time.” Max moved his arms around Luke’s body and pulled.

  “Maybe.” Luke dropped his head and pressed his mouth over Max’s slack one. Max’s tension dropped at once, his body and his kiss melting into Luke’s, and Luke rolled his shoulders down and let go, too. It was easy to let his scattered thoughts pitch higher and higher into static. If he closed his eyes, Max could be anyone.

  The best place to make noise was the store, so that’s where they went. The metal grates pulled over the windows let a few narrow stripes of the orange glare of streetlights into the dark.

  Luke hoisted Max onto the counter instead of holding him up. He ran his hands up and down Max’s back, which made Max drop his head and throw his arms around Luke’s neck, sighing musically. It tore the armor off Luke’s wanting.

  “What do you want to do?” Luke was always careful to ask. Sometimes Max started without replying; sometimes he answered with alarming clarity; sometimes he said surprise me. Sometimes he fell asleep. Luke had started to think that was happening when Max sighed again and said, “Whatever.”

  Drunk, cranky Max was hard to handle, but later, when he fell asleep in Luke’s arms, he was so sweet it ached. He usually snuck himself out early, so Luke was disoriented to wake up hot and crowded against his bedroom wall. “Hey.” He reached across Max’s body for his phone. “Hey, it’s after nine.”

  “No.” Max turned into Luke’s chest.

  Luke gave himself ten seconds to feel it, Max’s shoulders in his arm and breath falling on his chest. Then he noticed how terrible Max smelled, sweat and stale booze.

  “Yes. Wake up. Nine. I have to get ready for work.” He pinched down Max’s arm until Max opened his eyes and groaned.

  “How did I…?” Max trailed off into swearing and sighing. “I might as well sleep.”

  “No, hey.” Luke slid a hand under the covers and kept pinching down Max’s side and hip.

  The door to Luke’s room flew open, and Max squealed, huddling under the pillow. “Why hello,” Camille sang. “Good morning! I thought I heard your beautiful voices.” She gave Luke two cups of coffee and her prissiest glare. “Mom says to fix this or next time she will.”

  She slammed the door, but Max didn’t move.

  “Camille brought you coffee.” Luke sipped one and waited.

  Max sat up slowly, like he was still sleepy or too hungover or maybe like he was afraid of what came next. Luke handed over the coffee and used his free hand to bring some order to Max’s hair.

  He leaned into the touch like a little cat, inhaling the scent of his coffee without drinking. “That feels good.”

  “Do you ever want more?” Luke asked.

  Max sighed. He leaned back against Luke’s shoulder, and Luke’s heart jumped, but Max lifted himself up quickly. “More of what?”

  Luke couldn’t say of me to prickly, hungover Max. “All of it. Anything. More than whatever.” The words tasted bitter.

  Max huffed. “No. And neither do you.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. You just like having someone to impress with your magic.”

  Luke wasn’t sure. “Sure I do.”

  Max got up and rummaged around the floor.

  Luke touched the now-cool spot on his shoulder, where Max’s head had been. “And I think you’re”—beautiful, gorgeous what’s the—“cute. You don’t think that’s enough to go on, magic and chemistry?”

  Max pulled on his underwear, his jeans, and turned to Luke, face tight and expectant.

  “You don’t have to drink so much,” Luke said.

  Max lifted his eyebrows and nodded, like yeah, there it is, and took his shirt from the floor. He had bruised purple circles under his eyes and a red hickey under his jaw, and he was still beautiful. He was all sand and cream in the morning light, making elegant, limpid angles as he dug through his stuff. He twisted pouty shapes with his lips, like he was talking about how pathetic Luke was to an invisible person in the room.

  “You don’t,” Luke said.

  “You’re right,” Max snapped. “I don’t. But I want to. I didn’t come here for an intervention. That isn’t what this is about, you and me.”

  “What’s it about, then?”

  “Fun. Convenience. You know that. It is fun.”

  “I
t isn’t,” Luke said, so vehemently Max took a step back. Luke’s heart kicked his chest, running him hot all over. Out loud, those words sounded awfully true.

  “You weren’t complaining last—”

  “You were a mess—”

  “Not too—”

  “I shouldn’t even—”

  “Don’t, then.”

  “Maybe I won’t.”

  Max snatched his coffee off the windowsill and hid his face in it. Luke pulled the sheet higher over himself. If Max was going to leave, he might as well go. Instead of telling him that, Luke took a deep breath and tried very hard to say something he wouldn’t regret. “You’re going to get hurt. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  “Yeah, it definitely sounds like you like me. That sounds like it would go great.”

  “Max. Come on.”

  He was right, though. When Luke thought of Max, he thought of looking at him, or touching him, or the way he acted when he was desperate. When Max was happy, he was shallow and vicious and always halfway out the door, and Luke sort of hated him. It was terrible to understand, and worse that Max had already known.

  Max was quiet for a long time. “I think it’s cool, how you save people. But I never asked you for anything else.” He put his coffee back down on the windowsill with a sigh and tossed a wave to him. “Bye, Luke.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Luke gave himself permission to cry in the shower, but nothing happened. He’d always figured he’d lose Max in a blowout fight or a bad night in a hospital, not a careful, almost kind talk on a bright Sunday morning. Good for them, those mature boys who’d broken up. It didn’t feel like Luke was one of them.

  Back in his room, his phone buzzed on the bed. Max?

  He was losing it. Of course, it was only Jeremy, with a work schedule.

  Can you do protection bags? I have to make eighty tomorrow and I could use the help.

  Then Thursday Alexei needs his place cleansed and I told him you should do it.

  So Thursday is definitely and tomorrow is only if you can.