Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  Then a figure splashes down beneath and scoops me in his arms. My head breaches the surface with Nikolai’s and I gasp, the cold even worse up here. But I feel better.

  Without a word, he pulls me out of the water. I wobbly stand, my teeth chattering. He towers above me with the most concerned look.

  “I’m…okay. I just…I needed that,” I try to explain, tears rising again. No, don’t cry.

  “You didn’t make it,” he assumes right.

  I nod, watching water drip from his shaking body, the cold biting our skin. His gray shirt is plastered to his chest, his jeans soaked. I can tell he wants to lift me in his arms and carry me to warmth, but I’d rather stay outside. I feel less in a daze. So I walk to one of the outside cabanas with an overhang and pillows.

  I rub my nose with the back of my hand.

  Nikolai collects a few white pool towels from the take one, please stand. And when he returns, I already claim a seat on the soft cream cushion, hugging a navy-blue pillow to my wet body.

  He pushes the long strands of his damp hair back, and climbs on, spreading his legs in front of me so I fit more between them. But he’s still facing me. Which means he wants to talk. A serious talk.

  “You don’t…have to say anything,” I tell him.

  He wraps two of the towels around my shoulders. “I have to.” He uses the other to dry his hair that keeps dripping. “This isn’t over, Thora.”

  I laugh weakly, my voice cracking. “That’s what I always say, you know? It’s not over yet.” I point at my chest. “I can do this.” My chin trembles and I shake my head a couple times. “But I can’t do this anymore…I can’t spend another year trying just to see the same outcome.” I stare off, my eyes pooled with hot tears. “I’ve been defeated…okay?”

  He cups my face with one hand, brushing away my tears. “No, myshka. I’m not okay with that.”

  Why can’t he let me give up? “Let me give up,” I say, pain fisting my lungs. “I don’t want to fight for this anymore.”

  “Let’s go down to the office.”

  My body shudders with a cry. “No.” I’m done.

  He pulls me closer. “Let’s tell them the truth.”

  “Give up on me,” I beg. “Please.”

  His bloodshot eyes bore into me. “Let’s tell them how you should be in Amour. How you know the aerial silk routine.”

  My face contorts in confusion and hurt. “I don’t…” I don’t know that routine. “I don’t know that routine.”

  “You’ve never seen it performed. So how would you know if you do or don’t?” He wipes some of my tears while my brows knot, processing, but not understanding…

  “Thora,” he says lowly, “I taught you that routine. For months, I’ve been teaching it to you.”

  No…

  “Every trick,” he explains, “is one that you needed for Amour.”

  It hits me like a forty-foot wave. I sway back, and he holds my hips so I don’t drift too far. I barely whisper, “The death drop.”

  “The modified straddle slide,” he rephrases.

  I digest our months of time together. I never saw the aerial silk routine. It was removed from the show before I even arrived in Vegas. And I never watched Elena and Nikolai practice together. I remember that Nikolai was incessant I drop closer to the ground for the straddle slide. He wouldn’t let me leave it at seven feet.

  He wanted it to be perfect, I realize. To the choreographer’s standards.

  “No…” My voice cracks again. “No, you didn’t do that.” I shake my head again and again and again.

  “I did,” he refutes, his emotions welling to the surface, his features as brutal as mine.

  “Why would you…?” It doesn’t make sense.

  “Because I wanted you to be my partner.”

  “Elena—”

  “Never had chemistry with me. And the entire piece is about passion.” The way he says passion, it’s with his entire soul. “And you—we had it. From the first audition, it was there.”

  I point at him accusingly, tear-streaked and still overwhelmed. He taught you the entire routine, Thora. He wanted you to be his partner. “You tricked me.” I don’t know why I land on this statement, of all statements. But it’s what comes out.

  “Because you wouldn’t have wanted me to teach it to you,” he explains. “You would’ve thought I was screwing over another girl.”

  My stomach drops. “Did you?” Elena was fired. She was let go because she couldn’t “cut it”—was he resigned with her since he had a backup plan? He had me.

  “No,” he says. “I didn’t screw her over.”

  “But she was fired—”

  “For not showing enough emotion on stage,” he clarifies. “There was a point, Thora, where I needed Elena. I thought you’d be going to Somnio.”

  I shut my eyes tightly as I recall the timeframe of all these events. Elena was fired after we learned that Somnio was being revived. So he was genuinely upset when she was let go. He truly thought his act would be retired. Because I wouldn’t be in it.

  “I was prepared to lose you,” he suddenly says.

  My chest rises in a sharp inhale. He was prepared to let me go to Somnio. “Why?”

  Beads of water still roll down his temple. “You worked hard to land a contract on your own, and I wasn’t going to take that from you.”

  We’re closer. We’ve drawn together somehow. I’m clutching onto his arms. And he’s holding me around the waist, his body warm.

  “Even if it benefited you to have me stay?” I ask. If I left, then there was a greater chance they’d retire his act. After months of training me for that role—he’d give it all up.

  His eyes dance over my features, reading me well. “I knew what I was losing. But you would’ve been more proud of earning a spot in Somnio than feeling like I pulled strings for you in Amour.”

  I wish he was wrong. But this isn’t the purest avenue. It’s cutting corners. I will cut corners if I go down to that office and tell them what I can do in Amour. You know the routine. God—how did I not realize? He had to have taught me it in fragments, trick by trick.

  He adds, “If you landed a role in another show, I wouldn’t have offered Amour as a choice.” He’s saying that I would’ve never known he taught me the routine.

  My eyes sear, scald. Burn. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  I do. There’s a stigma attached to this role: you slept your way to the top. You’re only in Amour because Nikolai is your boyfriend. You cheated. “…so the only way I could ever be in the circus is by being with a guy,” I say aloud. I feel ashamed by it. Every time I think of myself in this role, I will hear my conscience say you didn’t do this right. You don’t deserve this. You’re not good enough to be here. I don’t want to feel that. Not even a little bit.

  I just want to be happy and proud. That I finally made it.

  “You’re wrong,” he says, holding me tighter. He looks at me like he so desperately wishes I could see his view. Where it’s better. And brighter. I wonder if that’s usually where I stand.

  “Don’t you see it?” I breathe, tears dripping. “Had I not met you, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Had you not met me, you wouldn’t have the skills to try out at all.” He removes the pillow from my chest, so there are no more barriers between us. “If you think for a second that you haven’t succeeded, you need to look at my little sister.” His voice softens.

  And I notice more redness in his eyes, from stifling tears.

  “You inspired her. Not because you were with me, but because you tried. You never gave up on the things you wanted. So she tried harder, she became better, and she accomplished her goal.”

  “She made Noctis?” I’m happy. And proud. I’m proud of Katya.

  He nods. “She made it.”

  “I’m glad,” I whisper. “I’m happy.”

  He’s too perceptive to take faith in my words. “You’re in pain,” he states.

/>   “I’m trying not to be.” I exhale, but my chest is still tight. You can still be in the circus. It’s not over. I’m searching for my lost optimism.

  “I know this still feels like failure to you, but there are two things you need to always remember.”

  I listen intently, letting him rope me into his gunmetal eyes. He lifts my chin, our lips close, aligned as much as we can be.

  “Regardless of what anyone else thinks, you earned this spot. You trained seven months for it. If you couldn’t land those tricks, they’d never even consider you.”

  I nod, letting this sink in. He’s certain that it’ll only take a run to the office to land the role. And maybe a small demonstration. If I know the routine—if Aerial Ethereal doesn’t have to spend money to train someone else—I can see how it’d be easier to hire me.

  “What’s the second thing?” I ask.

  “Every day you’re on stage, prove them wrong.”

  I nod again, tears rolling. Prove them wrong.

  “That you deserved to be here from the start. That they made a mistake, that you and only you, Thora James, my little mouse…my demon—were meant for this role.”

  He begins to fill me with things that I’ve lost.

  Thank you, I want to say.

  And he kisses my cheek, his lips scorching my flesh. “Your choice,” he whispers.

  My choice.

  He wanted me to have this role. Maybe even before we started dating. Maybe when he propositioned training me. I wonder if we weren’t in a relationship—if I would’ve had an easier time saying yes to this offer. I know I’d feel less judgment, but I don’t regret that first date. Or all our times at The Red Death.

  Love isn’t a mistake.

  Neither is courage.

  And I want to be courageous enough to not care about what other people think. My choice.

  In my heart of hearts, I know what it took to reach this place. I know how hard I worked. That’s all that should matter. My heart, my love, my passion.

  My choice.

  What are you going to do, Thora James?

  Act Forty-Seven

  I’m in the circus.

  I wonder when it’ll stop feeling surreal. Maybe when I perform on stage in Amour for the first time next week—then it’ll hit me. Right now, it’s the third day of practice with Nikolai at The Masquerade’s gym, and the directors greenlit the aerial silk act yesterday, when we went through the whole routine.

  He had taught me all the tricks, with him as my partner, so it took one training session to put it all together, seamlessly.

  “Don’t trip when you walk over to me,” he warns.

  I gape. “I’m not going to trip.” We’re practicing in wardrobe for the first time, his red slacks on while he breathes heavily, hands on his waist and silk rigged above him. His bandana is tied around his forehead like usual, pieces of damp hair hanging along the fabric—not part of his costume. So technically he’s cheating.

  I pointed this out and he gave me a look like and what are you going to do about it?

  It was a look that deserved a great response, but I was too tongue-tied and open-mouthed to say anything. I shrugged and walked away, feeling his grin on my back.

  Now I’m about twenty feet from him, more in the middle of the gym, wearing a white draping costume. With so many thin, wispy pieces of fabric that it skims my legs and the floor. It’s a hazard, I realize too. But it’s not supposed to stay on my body for long.

  His lips curve upward. “Then come to me,” he says, huskily.

  My heart bursts.

  Just standing here.

  Just seeing him.

  Knowing that this is going to turn into a bigger reality next week. I almost can’t accept it fully. I hesitate to bask in the joy and accomplishment. After so much disappointment, I guess I expect more to hit me soon, another stipulation, another setback.

  I’m not the fool-hearted, idealistic girl anymore. I’ve been shaken enough to be wary. And it’s a mark that’ll stay with me. For better or for worse.

  I inhale a deep, motivational breath.

  And I sprint towards him, as fast as my feet will go. In a split-second, the fabric tangles with my foot. You’re going down. I realize that too.

  I thud to the mat like a sack of flour, catching myself on my elbows. I mean, it’s not the most terrible place to land. My face would’ve been worse.

  I hear clapping. Not from Nikolai. Turning my head, the Kotovas on the metal cube apparatus give me applause and whistles for my fall.

  “Looking good, Thora James!” Timo calls, sitting on the highest rung like he’s just chilling.

  A smile stretches my face, and I pick myself up and kneel. Nikolai walks over with lightness sweeping his strong, masculine features.

  For the first time, I’m not the outsider looking in. I’m a part of this grand, magical thing called the circus. Where every person on stage is family.

  “What were you saying about not tripping?” he asks, a few feet away.

  I open my mouth to reply, but someone in my peripheral catches my attention. Shay adjusts his duffel bag on his shoulder. It’s not a gym bag but his luggage. He’s leaving. I quickly stand as he approaches.

  “I came to say goodbye.” His eyes cautiously flicker to Nikolai behind me. A lot of us went to Club Zero a couple days ago for happy hour, including Nikolai and Shay, and the uncomfortable tension between them never dissolved. It is what it is, I guess. I can’t make two people like each other.

  Nikolai’s hand brushes my hip before he gives us space, returning to the red silk.

  “When’s your flight?” I ask.

  “At four,” he tells me. “They’re sending all of us to Montreal for training first, and then they’ll start staging the show.”

  It sounds like the start of an adventure. I smile, recognizing that I’ve been on one for a long while. “Are you excited?”

  “Yeah,” he nods. “It’s something new.”

  “No more same-old-same-old.”

  He laughs and stares up at the ceiling, as though a higher power changed his life path. Maybe fate, luck—or him. His choice. He took the risk. That’s all Shay.

  I hug him, standing on my toes to wrap my arms fully around his shoulders.

  He hugs me tighter with one arm. And he whispers, “Be happy, okay?”

  My heart clenches, and I look up.

  “I know you’ll be safe.” He nods, accepting this. “So be happy for me.”

  I smile. “I already am.”

  He kisses my cheek, and we let each other go. I watch him head out the exit where he came from. I know we’ll see each other again. Sometime. In the faraway future.

  This is the bittersweet portion of my life, but I’m happy. For each of us choosing the better life, even if it was a harder road to take.

  Nikolai squeezes my shoulders. “He’ll be okay.”

  “I know,” I say, spinning around to face him. “Which part were we at?”

  “The part where I take your clothes off.” He’s being serious, and he’s also right. My pulse races as his eyes tear through me.

  I think he’s already mentally ripped part of my costume off.

  A girl shrieks. Our head whips towards the trapeze, the group of artists excitedly jump up and down with a magazine in their hand. I squint at the title from afar. Celebrity Crush, a tabloid.

  “Who’s pregnant?!” Timo calls.

  The girl gleefully bounces. “They’re coming here!”

  “What?” I say aloud.

  Every girl speaks at once and I barely uncover the names in their enthusiasm: Ryke Meadows and Daisy Calloway. The reality stars of Princesses of Philly. A famous family. Famous couple. They’re seeing Amour next week.

  My nerves shoot up. “Dear God…” I whisper aloud, on accident.

  “What happened to them being in Costa Rica?!” Timo shouts, interested in the family like his little sister.

  “They’re on route there afterwards,” is th
e reply from about three girls.

  I fixate on the simple fact that famous people will be watching the premiere of the show. Add in my parents and the directors of Amour—the pressure keeps mounting.

  Nikolai’s thumb skims my neck. “You can’t distinguish faces in the audience,” he reminds me. “You’ll be fine.”

  The Calloways are infamous. This show will be all over the news…in a good way. Amour needs the publicity, but what if the magazines are littered with bad reviews? “This is worse than having the cast of The Vampire Diaries here,” I realize.

  “They were here last week,” Nikolai tells me.

  I gape. “What?” I missed them? What was I doing? God, what if you were washing your hair. How lame. I look up and Nikolai is close to laughing.

  “Joking,” he says. “I don’t even know what The Vampire Diaries is.”

  I scowl. “It’s a show, a great show.”

  With a more charming smile, he pulls me closer. My arms swoop around his waist, the heat of his skin warming me.

  “When you’re on stage, stay in the moment,” he says, more encouraging. “Nothing else matters.”

  Loud, coarse Russian infiltrates our conversation, the voice familiar by now. Dimitri stands close with a water bottle in hand, passing our apparatus to reach the teeterboard. He speaks straight to Nikolai, but he’s gesturing to me.

  After hanging around the Kotovas nearly every single day, I can pick apart certain words. “What’s not a good idea?” I ask Dimitri.

  He glances over his shoulder, as though to make sure no one listens in, and then he nears us. My eyes widen as I crane my neck to look up between them, inadvertently being sandwiched between two of the tallest Russian men here.

  “Tell Thora,” Dimitri says.

  Nikolai marbleizes. “We promised her that we wouldn’t tell anyone.” For some reason, I know that the “her” is not referring to me.

  Dimitri rests a hand on my head and speaks in Russian. Um…

  Nikolai smacks his hand away and replies, “It’s not the same.”

  “No one wants the show to suffer again because of a break up.” Suffer again. He’s referring to Nikolai’s last partner. His last girlfriend. Tatyana. His it’s complicated. I’m beginning to think Dimitri is afraid of history repeating itself.