I’m a part of Maison du Mystère, just like it feels so deeply a part of me.
So why does it feel like there’s suddenly a gaping hole in my chest?
I wonder if it’s always been there. Maybe I’ve just become good at ignoring it.
And I know the circus isn’t going to make me feel whole again. It isn’t going to fix the damaged parts inside me that I’ve neglected for far too long.
No.
There’s only one way to fix what’s wrong with my heart.
And it starts with me.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It takes me forty-five minutes to finally hit the call button.
Mom’s number and photo appear on my phone, and I wonder for the entire time it takes her to answer if I’m making a mistake.
“Hello?” She sounds calm. Too calm.
“Hi. It’s me.”
Three excruciatingly long seconds pass. “I was wondering when you’d call,” she says finally. “How are you? Is everything okay?”
My eyes are already watering. “I’m fine. And—I’m sorry it took me so long to call.” I pause. “I’ve been busy,” I add, as if that’s supposed to make everything okay.
“Yes, I know,” Mom says, and I get the feeling there’s nothing about where I am and what I’m doing that’s a surprise to her.
“Did Popo tell you?” I ask quietly.
“Of course she did.” Mom sighs. “She let me read your emails. I wish you would’ve called.”
“I know.”
“I hate that you ran away,” Mom says, her voice picking up like her emotions are kicking in. I guess she could only contain them for so long. “It wasn’t right, leaving without saying goodbye like that. You don’t know what could’ve happened—what could’ve been the last thing you said to us.”
“I wasn’t in trouble,” I say. “It wasn’t like that.”
“You don’t have to be in trouble to get in a car accident,” Mom argues. “Not to mention you ran off with a strange man who had no right luring you away like he did.”
“He didn’t lure me,” I say, my voice picking up momentum. “I was the one who called him.”
Mom goes quiet. I guess I forgot to tell Popo that part. All this time they thought Simon was the one who sought me out.
I wonder if it would’ve been easier to let them think that—for all of us.
“I know it wasn’t right, but I didn’t have a choice. You and Dad wouldn’t listen to anything I said. And I couldn’t go to school—it would’ve killed me.” I shake my head despite the fact that she can’t see me. “I told you all of this before I left, and you didn’t care. I left because I couldn’t live my life around you. Because I couldn’t be myself around you.”
“It breaks my heart that you feel like that,” Mom says. “Because it’s not true.”
“It’s true to me,” I say. “That should matter.”
Mom sighs. “And what did your truth cost?”
I blink.
“We know copies of the set list went missing. And we know Simon Tarbottle doesn’t do favors unless he’s getting something bigger in return,” Mom says.
The tears burst out of me, and I’m engulfed in the shame I’ve spent weeks hiding from.
“Oh, Harley. How could you do that to your father? To me?” she asks, and it’s too gentle for what I deserve.
“I don’t expect you to ever forgive me,” I say through heavy sobs. “But I want you to know that I never would have done it if there was another way. But it was either ‘throw my life away and go to school’ or ‘join Maison du Mystère.’ Those were the only choices I had.”
“Nobody ever has only two choices,” Mom says, and her disappointment is big enough to fill a whole room.
“Well, you and Dad seemed pretty determined to only give me one, so I disagree,” I say sourly.
“I know how badly you wanted to train in the circus, but was it really worth it?” Mom asks.
And I hate how easy it is for my heart to scream, “Yes!”
“I love it here. I know you’ll never understand, because even if you loved being a trapeze artist once, you still quit. But I would never quit. This is everything I wanted, and I’m good at it, and people treat me like I’m one of them. Maybe you don’t understand how much I needed that, but I’m tired of trying to convince you.” I wipe the tears away from my cheeks.
Mom is quiet for a long time, and it occurs to me that she might be crying too. “When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know.” I pause. “Is Dad really mad at me?”
“You really hurt him. Really hurt him.” Mom keeps her voice steady. “But we both love you. That will never change.”
I can’t see through the blurry haze.
I manage to come up with an excuse as to why I need to hang up, and then I crumple into my open palms and cry until my face hurts.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I step on Vas’s feet more times than I can count. Our noses collide twice. I’m so distracted that during a move where Vas swings me from my toes and I reach up to grab his arms, my fingers slip and I end up falling ten feet onto the safety net below.
Which is frustrating, because it’s the first time I’ve fallen since we’ve raised the bar high enough to need a safety net.
I’m better than this. I know I am.
“Are you okay?” Vas grabs the bar and lowers himself to the net, the impact making my body bounce back up. I take the opportunity to get back on my feet.
I rub my shoulder, steadying myself. “It was nothing. I’m fine.”
Vas looks at me carefully. “I don’t just mean about the fall. I mean are you okay, generally?” He crosses his arms. “You’ve been distracted all night.”
“No, I’m not. I just want to train,” I say stubbornly. Motioning to his hands, I say, “Can you give me a boost back up?”
He blinks, unmoving.
My frustration overpowers me. The conversation with Mom floods through my mind like a dam bursting, and hot tears spill down my cheeks. I throw my fingers against my face to shield myself from Vas, who’s staring at me curiously.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. When did the jagged edges of his voice become so soft?
I don’t know if I’m ready to tell anyone the truth about my parents. But if there were ever a person I could trust to keep it a secret, it would be Vas.
But would he understand?
Would he forgive me for keeping it from him? He thought he was giving up his music for someone who needed a break, not a girl whose parents own a circus in Las Vegas.
Maybe he’ll decide I wasn’t worth the trouble.
But when I look at his dark lashes and parted mouth and the way he has too much hair on the right side of his head, I don’t see someone I want to keep secrets from.
I see someone I want to share the whole world with.
“I did something really horrible,” I say, tasting salt on my tongue. “And I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t think there is a way to make it better.”
Vas tilts his head. “Is this about stealing the set list?”
I look up at his eyes, deep and green like a galaxy of trees, and nod. “But it’s more than that. It’s about where it came from. Who I stole it from.”
He stills, and I wonder if maybe he preferred never knowing. Maybe it was easier to tweak music he just ignorantly assumed Simon acquired less than legally. But to know the name behind the writer? I think it makes things more real.
But he waits anyway, willing to listen because I so desperately need to speak.
“It came from Teatro della Notte,” I say.
Vas’s eyes don’t change. He knows this much. But the rest…
I look away. “My dad… My dad is the composer. Actually, he and my mom kind of own the circus. That’s why it was so easy for me to get the set list.”
Vas shifts his weight. Takes a step back on the net. Turns to the side.
All of his movemen
ts are jerky, like I’ve disrupted his thought process, or distorted his understanding of what’s happening.
Of who I am.
“I know you’re probably mad because you thought this was my last chance, and you’re probably thinking having parents who run a circus would mean I had a million chances, but I didn’t. I came here because my parents wouldn’t let me train, and I couldn’t give up the circus. This isn’t just my last chance—it’s my only chance.” When I used to say the words in my head, and even to Popo and Mom, they felt like the entire truth.
But telling these things to Vas? The words are sticky. Tart. Foul.
I think my truth is rotten at its core.
“I understand if you regret giving up your music for me—” I start.
Vas spins around, eyebrows furrowed deeply. “I don’t care about the music!”
There’s broken glass in my chest, and every heartbeat hurts. “Then why are you so mad?”
“You shouldn’t hurt people you love. You shouldn’t hurt people who love you. There has to be rules for how we treat the people we care about. You’re acting like—” He stops himself. But he didn’t have to—I know what he was going to say.
He thinks I’m like Maggie.
I feel like everything that’s been building between us shatters.
And then I get angry back. “You don’t know everything. You’re making assumptions about me based on one bad thing I did—which I already admitted I know was bad! Whatever Maggie did to you isn’t the same as what I did. It doesn’t make us the same.”
“I don’t think you’re the same,” he says without hesitating, and I guess it’s a small relief. “But I also don’t think it’s okay to take whatever you want out of this world without thinking about how it might affect other people. How it might hurt them.”
I know if I sat and broke apart this conversation, I might be able to see that Vas is being triggered by something else. Something other than me. Maybe understanding that could’ve given me more patience.
But I don’t break apart the conversation. I don’t try to see where he’s coming from.
I mentally shove him toward Mom, Dad, Chloe, and everyone else who doesn’t agree with me and build up a wall to protect myself.
“My parents were making choices that were hurting me.” I cross my arms. “I’m not going to defend myself to you, and I don’t care what you think.” More lies. “I told you the truth because I thought you were my friend. Clearly, we don’t know each other as well as I thought we did. So forget it—let’s just go back to not talking. I’d rather not be friends at all than listen to you judging me like you know anything about my life.”
We go back to rehearsing, and the tension between us is so thick, it’s almost easy to not look at each other.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Vas finds me at breakfast and tells me he has to work on the new composition, so we’ll have to skip the morning rehearsal.
To anyone else it probably looks like Vas is being his serious self, passing on information that doesn’t mean anything at all.
But they don’t know about our fight last night.
They don’t know that Vas used to look at me differently than he looked at everyone else, until I told him the truth about my parents and saw the version of myself in his eyes warp until I became unrecognizable.
To him, I didn’t just tell a lie. I am a lie.
“Lovers’ quarrel?” Vivien asks with a grin.
I snap back so quickly that even Dexi looks startled. “It’s not like that. We’re barely even friends.”
Vivien holds up her hands. “Sorry. It was just a joke.”
Dexi narrows her eyes at me, ready to defend Vivien. “You’ve been in a bad mood since last night.”
Oh my God, what am I doing? Am I going to set every relationship I have on fire?
I press my face into my bunched sleeves and sigh with regret. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m tired, and stressed out, and I’m being rude.”
“Why don’t you take the night off?” Vivien offers, trying to smooth things over. “Your body could probably use a break.”
“I can’t.” I shake my head. “Simon wants to see our act next week. If it isn’t perfect, he’s going to hire someone else. I can’t afford a night off.”
Dexi leans in, head tilted to the side. “If it’s any consolation, you’re an incredible performer.”
I look up, surprised, and find Vivien nodding.
“It’s true. Everyone talks about it. They say it’s too bad Maggie left when she did, because she would’ve had to eat her words about calling you a starry-eyed newbie. You’re really good,” Vivien says.
“Thanks,” I reply meekly, with a combination of embarrassment and appreciation. “That means a lot.”
We finish our breakfast, and it occurs to me that maybe I won’t find my family just by proving myself as an aerialist—but also as a friend.
As a daughter.
I might be succeeding in my dreams, but I am failing abominably when it comes to my family.
But maybe there’s still time to make things right.
CHAPTER FIFTY
I text Chloe when I’m back in my trailer.
I’m sorry for being a horrible friend. I know I’ve neglected you, and I haven’t been around much. I guess I’m not really good at balancing the circus with everything else. Maybe I’ve never been good at that. I mean, you always did say I could only focus on one thing at a time, right? (Please be laughing. I don’t want you to hate me.) Anyway, I’ve been a garbage friend and I’m sorry. So if you want to talk about school or Jack or literally whatever you want… I’m here. Always. Even if I’m a thousand miles away. Kind of like Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice inside Luke’s head.
She reads the message a few minutes after I send it.
But she doesn’t write back.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Vas is in the big top, standing over an iPod dock he’s perched on the wall surrounding the inner ring. I expect to feel the air turn to peanut butter when he looks at me, and I dread the thought.
I don’t like fighting with Vas. I hate that I might have ruined what little we had. And I especially regret that he might hate me.
But when he turns, he doesn’t look angry. He looks… tired.
Maybe we don’t have to fight forever.
“Hey,” I say, stopping at the bottom step.
He looks at the iPod dock, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I finished the song.”
My heart pings, and I take a few steps forward, unsure of how excited I’m allowed to be. “That was fast.”
He shrugs. “I had a lot of inspiration.”
I nod like I get it. “Conflict. Right.” I force an awkward laugh and regret it immediately.
I really need to stop trying to be funny when people are mad at me.
Vas turns, his arms hanging at his sides like he isn’t ready for combat. “I’m sorry about before.” He lifts his shoulders. “It’s a character flaw—forgetting to give people space to not be perfect.” He pauses. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”
All the walls crumble to pieces like they’re made of sand. “I’m sorry too, for getting so defensive, and for saying a bunch of crap I didn’t mean. Because you weren’t wrong—I am very aware I did something unforgivable. That’s why I was so upset. I’ve made a mess I don’t know how to clean up.”
Vas looks down at the floor, rolling back on his heels. “And you needed a friend to talk to, and I massively blew it. Next time I promise to be better at listening.”
I smile with the side of my mouth. “You were still being a friend. Maybe a more honest one than I was hoping for in that moment, but still a friend. Everyone needs to be called out on their bullshit now and then, right?”
He looks up, relieved. “So we’re okay?”
“We’re okay,” I say. I nod toward the iPod dock. “All right, do I get to hear your masterpiece now or what? The anticipation is killing me.”
>
Vas pushes a hand through his hair, grinning. “I was thinking maybe we could run through our routine while it plays in the background? The whole sitting-around thing feels really forced. And I’ll just get nervous the whole time, wondering what you think. At least if we’re moving around, I’ll be distracted.”
“I didn’t think you got nervous.” I laugh.
He frowns. “Why is that?”
I shrug. “You rarely show emotion on your face besides frustration. You know half the people here think you are part Vulcan, right?”
“I mean, I prefer Cylon….”
We’re both smiling at each other, sharing a joke I didn’t realize we had.
And then he hits play on the iPod, and we’re up on the static trapeze, our bodies moving like mirror images of each other, the tension and heart and passion of the music breathing life into every pose.
It’s poetic and beautiful and Vas in so many ways.
And it’s me, too, sewn into every line. Instruments that aren’t supposed to go together but do. Melodies that move up instead of down. A tempo that plays on the longing of the audience, the hunger for more, and the devastation in knowing something will always be held back.
And that’s how we move too, like we’re both longing for something we can’t have.
Something we’ll never have.
When the song ends, our bodies are pressed close, our arms tangled up together, but our faces pulling away from each other.
I feel his chest rise and fall against mine, our breathing synchronized and heavy.
Normally one of us lets go by now. But in the quiet—in the aftermath of Vas’s beautiful song—neither of us dares to move.
And for a second, I wonder if time has really stopped.
Vas turns his face. I do the same.
We are inches apart—centimeters, if you consider how subjective the way we talk about distance is.
A person could be a moment away, or a lifetime away. Hours, or days. They could be miles, or yards, or inches—it all depends on how you look at it.
On how close you want to feel.
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