I might not be here long enough to even try.
New Orleans, Louisiana October—Week 8
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Load-in finishes on Monday evening. I pull a thin sweater over my head because it’s a touch chilly, when someone knocks on the door.
I can’t explain why I think it might be Vas, or the disappointment that follows when I realize it’s not.
Vivien’s smile is wild. “Want to come into town with us? We’re grabbing dinner at the Fire House.”
“Dinner?” I look toward the people gathering in the open space behind her, all dressed for going out. I see Dexi, the Terzi Brothers, Jin, Sasha, and the contortionist sisters from Zimbabwe, Danai and Aneni.
Vas isn’t there, but I’m not surprised. He might be the reason I’m still here, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. Guilt can do funny things to a person, like when you feel obligated to offer the last piece of cake to someone and then they accept it and you spend the rest of the day quietly irritated because deep down you didn’t want to share in the first place.
And Vas often looks irritated.
When Maggie turns up in her white shorts and red leather jacket, I’m sure I’m not understanding correctly. Maybe this is less a group thing, and more of a roommate one.
“Dinner with who?” I ask carefully.
Vivien motions all around her like it encompasses everyone. “With all of us, of course.”
“You say that like Maggie isn’t standing right behind you,” I hiss. “Are you sure that’s okay?”
Dexi pushes past both of us, reaches inside the room, and grabs my bag from the hook. “It’s a troupe outing, and you’re part of the troupe,” she says, thrusting it toward my chest.
I feel the flutter of a thousand hummingbirds inside me.
We pile into two cars, with me, Dexi, and Jin in one of the back seats, all cramped together without any elbow room.
I don’t stop smiling for the entire twenty-two minutes it takes to drive into the city.
We park the car in one of the multistory garages and set off on foot through the French Quarter. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a city with so many distinct smells—smells that change in a matter of footsteps, depending on what restaurants or street corners you’re closest to. It’s a mixture of sautéed vegetables, dark coffee beans, fried shrimp, fragrant jasmine—at one point I can even smell fresh bread. There’s also the smell of cigarettes, cheap booze, and urine, which seems to grow stronger near Bourbon Street.
I’m enamored by the street art and brass bands and hidden courtyards, and when we get to the restaurant, I feel like we’ve barely seen a fraction of the city’s rich culture.
The Fire House turns out to be an actual firehouse—or at least it was, at some point in time. It’s clear there used to be three garage doors, but the two on the sides have been replaced with big glass windows, and the one in the center is now a metal door with the words THE FIRE HOUSE spray-painted on the front in white. The rest of the building is faded red brick, wedged between a bar and a small café that resembles a dollhouse.
When we get inside, a doorman asks to see our IDs. Everyone who is twenty-one or over gets a stamp on the back of their hand—which basically only leaves me, Dexi, Vivien, and Maggie.
“Aw, you guys are such babies,” Jin mocks, flicking Vivien’s ear. She turns around and pretends to upward-jab him in the stomach, and then he blocks her, thrusts both his wrists forward, and says, “Hadouken!”
I’m laughing so hard, my sides hurt.
Dexi shakes her head. “And we’re the babies?”
When I look over at Maggie, I realize there’s an actual smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. And not a condescending one—a real one.
But then she turns, following after Sasha and the others toward the stage at the back of the building, and maybe that’s all I’ll ever get from Maggie. Glimpses of who she is that are never meant for me.
After everything, I think I’m okay with that.
The host seats us in one of the large private booths in the corner, and the way Sasha is talking to him makes me think they’ve been here before.
I look through the menu, my skin buzzing as I listen to everyone talk about their lives and inside jokes and behind-the-scenes stories. Hearing them describe the world of the circus captivates me.
When Mom and Dad discuss Teatro della Notte, it’s always about numbers and contracts and policies. To them, the circus is a machine with pieces that need to be perfectly right. And I’m sure that part is important, but it’s not how I look at the circus. It’s not how the people here are describing the circus.
I think the circus is less a machine and more like those hypnotic YouTube videos of people mixing paint together. It’s never exactly the same as the time before, and the possibilities are quite literally infinite.
It’s a world of color and emotion and constant change.
Being here with them makes me feel like I’m a small part of that world. Like maybe the colors I am—the ones that never fit anywhere else—aren’t so unusual here.
At some point a woman makes her way to our table and gives Sasha a warm hug, and I find out she used to be one of the acrobats at Maison du Mystère before she decided to retire at the ripe old age of thirty-two.
And when I look around at the restaurant, at the pianist onstage playing earthy jazz and singing with a gravelly voice, I think about what Mom and Dad once told me—about needing a backup plan.
And the more I think about it, the more frustrated I get by the entire concept of a backup plan. Because it only ever seems to pertain to people who are interested in art, music, theater—and yes, the circus. Nobody would ever dream of going up to someone in medical school and telling them, “Gee, I really think you should have a backup plan. You know, just in case this doesn’t work out for you.”
I realize the end payoff of becoming a doctor might be more financially viable than an aerialist, but money isn’t everything. Not to me, at least. Besides, formulating a backup plan takes time, energy, and money—all of which could be used on the original plan.
I think telling someone to have a backup plan is just an attempt at shaming someone for their life choices while also trying to appear well-meaning.
I don’t want a backup plan.
I want this.
When our food arrives, the musician trades places with someone else. It takes me a moment to recognize him—maybe because I’ve spent so long looking for his face in the crowd that seeing it here doesn’t make sense—but when I see his thick hair pushed to the side and the dip of his eyebrows as he rolls up his shirtsleeves, I feel my heart pound.
Vivien cups her hands around her mouth and lets out a cheer. When the others turn, they all clap and call his name.
And even though it’s impossible that Vas doesn’t hear them, his face doesn’t change even a little bit. He sits down at the piano, brings his fingers to the keys, and starts to play the opening to “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” Except Vas doesn’t play it the way it’s written—there’s a haunted quality to it, like he’s rewritten it in his own style.
It’s the same way he plays the violin.
When his voice croons through the microphone, every inch of me comes to life.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
I almost forget where I am completely, until Dexi bumps her shoulder against mine and motions to the bread basket, implying she wants to know if I want the last piece.
I shake my head quickly. “You can have it,” I say breathily.
She makes a face and a small grin builds in the corner of her dimpled cheek, but she doesn’t say a word.
Vas plays cover after cover, all of them so beautifully morphed with his own personality. Mysterious, atmospheric, and full of longing.
It’s hard to remember to eat, but I try anyway.
Jin offers to buy everyone a round of drinks, and when he does, I realize half our table is now dotted around the bar socializ
ing with strangers. Even Maggie is up there, cradling a glass of water in her hand and chatting with Sasha.
When the song ends, Vas seems to look out at the audience for the first time. His gaze is aimless, like fingers brushing over grass. But then our eyes meet, and his entire body stiffens.
Heat rises through me, building in my chest and shooting out in every direction.
I tell myself to look away—order myself to stop staring—but I can’t. I’m transfixed.
And despite everything that’s happened in the last few weeks, I see his green eyes soften.
I’m afraid to wonder what it means.
The next notes make everything in the room disappear except Vas and the piano. I’m no longer in a restaurant—I’m somewhere in a distant galaxy, floating to the sound of his soul.
A dark, raspy version of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
And when he hits the high notes of the melody—when his voice fills the room like the aurora borealis in the night sky—I burst into stardust.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Vas spends the entire night with Maggie and Sasha at the bar.
He doesn’t know what his voice did to me, and good, because I never want him to find out.
But staying near Maggie—that part feels intentional. Because wherever Maggie is, I know I’m not supposed to be.
After an hour of watching them deep in conversation, boxed in by Jin and Galip flirting hard with a couple strangers, I feel silly for even imagining he might’ve been singing to me.
At some point the venue seems to transform from restaurant into nightclub, and the line at the bar becomes a full-blown crowd. Galip’s new friendship has already fizzled out, but Jin has his arm wrapped around a woman with ridiculously long legs and perfect makeup. Dexi’s been bored for at least the last hour, and eventually everyone is rounded up together and in agreement to head back to the campsite.
Outside, everyone starts to pile back into the cars until I’m all that’s left on the sidewalk, staring awkwardly as Jin, in his half-drunken stupor, realizes his date has taken my seat.
He starts to get back out of the car. “My bad, Harley. We can call a cab.”
“No,” I say, desperate not to screw up my first night out with the troupe. “I don’t mind waiting for a taxi.”
Jin’s waving his hand furiously, his feet clumsily hitting the sidewalk. “There’s no way I’m letting you wait here all alone. Me and Charley will be right behind you.” Charley smiles behind him, unable to get out of the car because Jin is still blocking the way.
“That’s not necessary,” Vas’s voice sounds from behind me. When I turn around, I see he’s thrown his black leather jacket over his dress shirt. There’s a helmet under his arm, and another smaller one held out toward me.
My stomach flutters.
He’s offering me a ride. On the back of his bike.
My brain is malfunctioning, like someone on Mario Kart has set off too many green shells and banana peels and I’m struggling to make sense of what’s happening.
I glance at the car and see Vivien practically beaming from the driver’s seat. “Jin, get back in the car,” she orders.
“But I really don’t mind—” Jin slurs.
“Now,” Vivien barks, and I see Dexi reach across Charley’s lap and yank Jin backward until he topples onto them both. “See you back at the trailer,” Vivien sings, and the car peels away in the direction Sasha and the others already left in.
I turn back to Vas, the helmet still in his outstretched hand.
“Is it safe?” I ask.
His frown deepens. “I wouldn’t offer you a ride home if I wasn’t absolutely positive I could get you there safely.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to offend you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I really don’t mind taking a taxi.”
“Would you prefer a taxi?”
“No, I just don’t want to bother you.”
“The only thing that’s bothering me is that my arm is getting tired.”
My face flushes.
He hesitates. “That was… supposed to be a joke.”
I laugh, like I’m not sure that was the joke. “Sorry, I couldn’t tell. Most people smile when they’re joking.”
“I—I know. I forget to do that sometimes.”
I raise a brow. “You forget to smile?”
Vas shrugs, letting his arm drop to his side. “I get nervous. You didn’t smile, so I didn’t smile.”
“Nervous,” I repeat in disbelief.
He nods. “I don’t always know what the right thing to say is. I find socializing with strangers difficult sometimes, that’s all.”
“We’re not exactly strangers,” I point out quietly.
His green eyes soften, and this time I do wonder what it means.
I don’t know if it’s the aftershocks of hearing him sing, or the buzz of fresh air after being in a dark room for hours, but something makes me less afraid to speak my mind.
Or at least, less afraid to face the consequences of what I’m about to say.
“Vivien told me what you did for me.” I ball my fists together and try not to lose my nerve. “Thank you. I know what your music means to you, because I think it’s what being an aerialist means to me. But I want you to know I never meant to hurt you, or get in the way of your dreams. I know it seems like I don’t care about anything but getting what I want, but it’s not true. I wouldn’t have made a deal with Simon if I knew it would hurt you.”
Vas taps his thumb against the helmet. I think maybe he doesn’t believe me.
Maybe because it’s a very blurry truth, with too much gray area and uncertainty.
Because hurting someone you don’t know—someone without a face or a name or a history—is different from hurting someone you’ve spent hours with, listening to the cry of their violin and the way their breath catches at the end of a song.
If I could go back in time, I want to believe I’d do things differently. That I wouldn’t hurt Vas, or Tatya, or my parents. That I’d find another way.
But then I wouldn’t be here.
So how honest am I really being with myself by apologizing in hindsight for a reality I’m probably grateful for?
“I’m sorry,” I say, and that part is honest.
Vas’s expression remains unchanged as he fiddles with the helmet strap. Finally, he holds it out again. “Can I take you somewhere? It’s not far.”
Even though there’re a million more words I should probably say, I take the helmet because sometimes words just get in the way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
My arms are wrapped around Vas’s chest as he rides along the road, away from the city, the chill of the wind blowing against us. At first, I try to keep my body a polite distance away from his, but every turn and brake forces me closer toward him.
Eventually I stop trying to inch away and relax against his back, hoping he can’t feel how fast my heart is racing.
If he asks, I’ll blame it on the motorbike.
Every now and then I pick up a scent from his neck—like trees and chocolate, woodsy and warm.
It sets my skin alive like I’m a sparkler on New Year’s Eve.
The moment before the fireworks.
Vas maneuvers across the road, turning down a narrow path. The trees zip past us like we’re fast-forwarding through time. I’m barely conscious of how dark the sky has gotten, or how the bike’s headlights make the road look like a tunnel.
When we reach a small dirt patch at the side of the road, Vas pulls in and kicks the bike stand down. He helps me slide off first, holding my fingers through his gloved hand, and then we dangle our helmets over the handlebars.
Vas’s hair is wild, and it makes me laugh thinking that even a helmet couldn’t tame the mess on his head. “Was that okay?” he asks, tucking his keys into his jacket pocket.
I nod, fighting the flush I’m sure is all over my body. “Still in one piece, so you’re
clearly a man of your word.”
Unsmiling, he points toward the trees. “It’s just a few minutes’ walk through there.”
The thinning woodland lets a considerable amount of light through the branches, but the path is overgrown with marsh grass and reeds. There are mushrooms tucked away near some of the trees, and a symphony of crickets and wildlife is scattered around us. I try not to think about all the snakes that are probably nearby.
And then we step into a clearing, where the grass fades to dirt and rock and there’s an old lighthouse a few feet away, looking worn and forgotten.
“Are we allowed to be here?” I whisper nervously.
Vas pulls the door open, the creak sending an echo through the hollow space. “Probably not, but I didn’t see a sign. Besides, it will only take a second.”
I’m about to argue that I’m almost positive there’s a sign somewhere, and that we probably just didn’t notice it because it’s dark and everything is overgrown. But Vas seems so determined, that I don’t want to be the one to kill the mood.
So I follow him up the stairs until we’re both standing at the railing, shadows rippling across the wide body of water below us.
Vas sets his hands on the metal bar, soaking in the glow of the faraway town on the other side of the water. I’m standing beside him, hypersensitive to the curves of his neck and the way his ears are just a little pointy at the tips. And then I see why he brought me here.
The town in the distance isn’t a town at all. It’s Maison du Mystère, the twinkling lights wound up every tent and the spotlights waving at the entrance sign. And beside it is our campsite, the collection of trailers and motor homes in shades of white, gray, and brown, the massive trucks at the back, the bunkhouses, and even the Lunch Box in all its colorful double-decker glory.
It’s a view of the world I love so much, with the clusters of smoky starlight above it. It’s a view of the place I so desperately want to feel like home.
I lean forward over the railing, taking in a breath of swampy air, and imagine there’s no ground below me. I imagine I’m floating high above Maison du Mystère, like I’m hanging from a static trapeze with silk ropes stretching all the way to the moon and beyond. I imagine I exist among the clouds and stars.
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