And next to Vas, I feel…
When the next song starts with a violin, it catches me by surprise. I’m so used to hearing Vas play live that hearing him through a speaker is almost disorienting.
And then those familiar notes from the night I saw him sing.
It’s utterly haunting.
I find my voice in a quiet corner of the world where I’ve forgotten how to breathe. “I know this song. ‘Lucy in the—’ ”
Something about his smile stops me.
Vas’s face softens into something so beautifully pure. “This one is different. This one is ‘Harley in the Sky.’ ” His eyes hold on to mine. “This one is just for you.”
I breathe in the scent of him, and my head swirls with need. I tilt my face toward him, his green eyes crackling with lightning, and I know he feels the same.
When he presses his soft lips against mine, I feel like we’ve been catapulted into the Milky Way, and every star in the universe explodes into a trillion more stars.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
A long time ago, a teacher of mine suggested I keep a mood journal. She said it might help me express how I was feeling, and maybe find connections that would help me sense when my mood was about to change.
She suggested something visual, like colors. Something easy to track. Easy to remember.
I kept up with it for a whole year, until my worst spell in November when I kind of stopped doing anything at all.
When I was feeling better, I went through every page, trying to see if my teacher was right about a pattern. I couldn’t find one—not in the way she meant. But I did realize that I never once used the color yellow. No daffodil, canary, lemon, or goldenrod anything.
I avoided yellow like it didn’t exist at all.
And I think I finally know why.
I was saving yellow—the happiest color I can think of—for the most perfect day I’ve ever had.
Today I woke up in a trailer with two incredible roommates. I’m an aerialist in a beloved traveling circus. I have an audition next week for a lead role in the show. And the memory of Vas’s mouth on mine still lingers in my bloodstream.
Today my world is shining the color of the sun.
Charlotte, North Carolina November—Week 13
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Okay, I think you were right. The combination of burger and orange Creamsicle float was not the best decision.” I make a face when I step onto the sidewalk, shoving my hands quickly into my pockets to hide from the early evening chill.
Vas tugs at the collar of his leather jacket and grins. “You’ve been living on a circus diet. Your body doesn’t know what to do with all that grease and sugar.”
I try to feign queasiness—or at least exaggerate what I’m feeling—but it’s too hard to stop smiling for longer than ten seconds these days. I’m too happy. I’m too excited.
And I’m wandering around the North Carolina suburbs with Vas on the most perfectly beautiful evening in history. There is no way I’m going to let a tiny bit of nausea ruin the day. Newfound sugar intolerance be damned.
“So”—I motion ahead with my lifted chin—“we’ve been to the Soda Shop. What about the Book Shop? Or wait, what’s that one? Ah, the Village Store. Hang on, so is this a village? Are we in a real village?” I pause. “Do you think they have a town crier?”
Vas shakes his head, his grin overtaking his face. “You are a long, long way from Las Vegas, aren’t you?”
I match his pace, feeling a sudden urge to rest my head on his shoulder just to feel closer to him. “I really want to hold your hand right now, but I also don’t want to get frostbite and have my fingers fall off.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you nobody has ever gotten frostbite in fifty-degree weather before?” Vas asks.
“I’m not taking any chances. But just know that if it was safe, I’d hold your hand,” I say with a shrug.
Vas rolls his eyes, takes my hand in his, and tucks our hands into his jacket pocket. “Better?” His green eyes twinkle. A twinkle meant only for me.
I’m practically beaming. “Yes. Much.”
We continue down the main street, crossing a small park with a white gazebo decorated in lights and surrounded in bright pink hydrangeas. Bells and chimes sing each time a door is opened, and people trickle out into the street with their eco-friendly cotton shopping bags. Up ahead I can see the bell tower, the sky behind it a pale violet.
“This place looks like a postcard,” I say, almost impatient with the way time stills here. Isn’t anyone in a hurry? Doesn’t the quiet make them anxious?
Right now, it’s making me jittery.
Vas starts to reply, but I don’t hear him because I’ve spotted something across the street—a brick building with a long white sign, and etched in bold letters: THE TATTOO PARLOR.
I must’ve stopped walking, because suddenly Vas is tugging at my hand, his brow raised quizzically.
“What is it?” he asks, following my gaze across the road. “Wow. They really don’t like to leave anything up to interpretation with these names, do they?”
“It’s a village thing, probably,” I say, pulling him across the road in a hurry.
The window display is full of framed pieces of artwork—art that I imagine has been inked onto someone’s body at some point in time. They range from cartoonish vampires to elaborate stories woven together with various symbols. Behind the art display is a scarlet red curtain, concealing the rest of the shop like it’s a circus tent.
And my heart is thundering with so much intense, raw happiness that I don’t think. I just let my feelings speak for me.
“I should get a tattoo,” I say brightly.
Vas laughs. “Well, a place called The Tattoo Parlor can surely help you with that.”
“I’m serious.” I hold my arm out, motioning to the skin near my wrist. “I could get something here. Or maybe on my forearm. Something I could look at easily, when I want to be reminded.”
“Reminded of what?” Vas tilts his head, the curiosity going serious behind his eyes.
I lift my shoulders like the answer is simple. “That I’m happy.”
I can see Vas trying to speak again, but I’m already reaching for the doorknob.
“What are you doing?” his voice clips from behind me, making me jump.
“Getting a tattoo?” I frown.
Vas’s face shifts into all the many shades of confusion. Startled. Amused. Concerned. He’s looking at me like I’ve said something that makes no sense at all. “Wait, you mean right now?”
I look back at him like he’s the one who makes no sense. “Yeah?” I pause, trying to understand why he looks so bewildered. “I mean, we’re right here.” I point at the sign. “At a literal tattoo parlor.”
“But”—he hesitates, drumming his fingers against his leg methodically—“are you sure? Do you not want to think about it? I’m not trying to tell you what to do by any means. It’s just… Well, does this not feel a bit sudden to you?”
What he means is “impulsive.”
Sometimes impulsive is like a bright red warning sign that I’m afraid to go near. But other times it’s bubblegum pink and cotton candy blue and bursting with confetti and fireworks and the nostalgic music they play when you step foot into Disneyland.
Sometimes impulsive feels like magic.
It feels good.
“You have a tattoo,” I say, as if this small fact should explain everything I’m thinking. Like having a tattoo himself should mean that he knows precisely what I’m feeling.
“I know, but it’s something I thought about. It’s something I knew I wanted. And you have a right to make your own decisions, but maybe sleeping on a decision like this could be good? You know—give the idea time to marinate?” Vas lifts his shoulders. “Tattoos are kind of a forever decision. Are you sure you want to make a forever decision in all of seven point five seconds?”
“I’ve thought about a tattoo before,�
� I argue. “Besides, spontaneity is a good thing.” Doesn’t he see how excited I am? Doesn’t he see the fun in this moment?
His face softens, but his eyes are fixed on mine, like he’s deciphering something only he can see.
“What?” I twist my face.
“You’re not usually this… jumpy.”
“Jumpy?”
“Yeah. Like a puppy when they’re let off the leash.”
I snort.
Vas scratches the back of his neck. “Okay, that wasn’t the best analogy. I just mean that you seem kind of hyper. Not you, exactly—but something in your eyes.”
“I told you. I’m happy.” I shrug like it’s simple, even though happy is one of the most complicated things in the world.
He nods. “Happy. Okay.”
I sigh, feeling the balloon in my chest start to deflate. The slightest hint of irritation prickles my skin. “You don’t think I should get the tattoo.”
“I don’t think you should do anything you might regret in the morning.” He pauses. “But also, tattoos can be quite sensitive for a while after you get them. And I’ve heard from a few very reliable sources that you have a big audition tomorrow.”
The pressure in my chest eases. “That’s a good point,” I say thoughtfully. It doesn’t matter how good of an idea a tattoo seems in this moment—nothing is worth jeopardizing our audition for a place in the show.
I need to be in the healthiest place I can possibly be. Physically and mentally.
I let out a sigh and take a step away from the door, and the buzzing feeling shooting through my entire body begins to dull. Still there, but a little more silent.
“I’m sorry if I ruined your fun,” he says guiltily.
“It’s okay,” I say, fighting the sting I feel in my chest. I can’t help it—when I’m really excited and plans suddenly change, it feels like someone has thrown me from a building. It’s hard to find my footing again. It’s hard not to feel like someone personally attacked me.
But I know Vas, and I know he isn’t trying to be controlling. He’s trying to be helpful.
The problem is that my brain doesn’t want help—it wants to be enabled.
It’s not an easy thing to explain to people. It’s not an easy thing for people to understand.
Our footsteps fall into a similar pattern, and before long we’re walking through a quiet courtyard with old-fashioned lampposts and a cobblestone path.
Vas’s brows are pinched together like there’s more he wants to say. And since his hands are still buried in his leather pockets and there’s a whiff of tension in the air, the only way for me to find my way back to him seems to be with words.
“What are you thinking?” I ask. It’s a polarizing question depending on whether the person thinks it means nothing or realizes it means everything.
Vas lifts his chin back to the world in front of him. “I was thinking about what you said. About wanting a reminder to be happy.” He looks at me gently. “What did you mean by that?”
My feet close together, and suddenly I’m thinking too fast to remember how to walk. “Sometimes—” I hesitate, and then my words start flying out of me like horses at the start of a race. Like each one is in more of a hurry than the one before. “Sometimes the world feels dark and cloudy and heavy, like no matter how many times I take a breath, it will never be enough to fill my lungs. It feels like all the color has been sucked out of the world. But other times I feel happy—really, really happy. Like everything makes sense again and I know where I’m supposed to be going. Where I’m supposed to be. I have to do whatever I can to get there, as fast as possible, because it’s only a matter of time before the dark clouds come back. And I feel like I’m being thrown from one feeling to the other and back again. But sometimes when it’s dark, it’s like there’s a monster telling me it’s going to be dark forever. And right now, when I’m happy, I know that’s not true. I know it’s never forever. But when I’m there? When I’m low? It feels like I’ll never be happy again.”
“Does that happen a lot?” Vas’s eyes flit between my own.
I shrug like it isn’t a big deal. “I don’t know. I guess. It’s not really like clockwork, you know? It sort of just… shifts.”
“When you don’t see it coming?” he asks, trying to understand.
I pause. “It’s kind of like being in this constant state of worry that something is going to go wrong. Something is going to trigger the figurative trapdoor beneath my feet, and I’m going to plummet. I don’t always know what it is, or when it will happen, but I know it will happen. I know the darkness is nearby, waiting for a reason to ruin everything.”
“But knowing that…” He twists his jaw. “Can’t you make it stop? Can’t you just—I don’t know—stay happy?”
I laugh despite the concern in his gaze. “If I could do that, of course I would. But it’s not like that. I mean, I can talk about it now. I can explain to you what it feels like. But when I’m feeling it? I can’t reason with the monster.” And then I’m tugging on his arm like I’m pleading with him to see that everything is fine. “You don’t have to worry. I’m maybe oversharing—I do that sometimes—but I’m definitely not telling you this because you need to worry. But you asked, so I explained.”
He nods slowly. “And you’re happy now?”
I nod what feels like a thousand times. “Enormously. Like, volcanic levels of happiness. I’m so happy, I could punch a unicorn.”
Vas locks his fingers around mine. “Well, if you’re that happy…” He leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’ll save all my worries for the unicorns.”
I make a face. “I doubt this village has them. They don’t even have a town crier.”
I feel his laughter against my hair, and then we’re walking again, through the park and back down the main street, like we’re the only two people who exist in the world.
And my smile grows and grows until it’s so wide, I’m worried it might shatter.
Smiles are like happiness—eventually, they break.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: The time you ate too much ice cream
You wanted to go to that buffet for your birthday—the one at Green Valley Ranch. They had that soft-serve ice cream machine, and you insisted that was all you wanted to eat for your birthday dinner.
You kept going back, again and again. I told you to stop—I said you were going to make yourself sick. Your dad said to let you be, and that if you got sick, you’d learn your lesson for next time. So I left you alone to keep eating ice cream, because I didn’t want to be the bad guy. I didn’t want to be the person that ruined your birthday.
And then you got sick. You cried on the drive home because your stomach hurt. You threw up when we got home, and cried some more.
It felt like my fault. It was my fault. Because I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve been your parent and said, “No, that’s enough ice cream.” I should’ve protected you when you were too young to see when you were making a mistake.
After that, I didn’t care about being the bad guy. I was the bad guy if it meant keeping you safe.
You aren’t young anymore. In some ways you always will be, to me, but you aren’t. Not really. And I don’t know how to stop trying to protect you. I don’t know how to be when I see you doing something dangerous or reckless. I don’t know how to sit back and watch you do something I know in my heart you’ll regret.
It’s always been my job to protect you, since the very beginning.
And maybe you don’t think it’s my job anymore, but that doesn’t mean I can suddenly just stop.
And it’s not fair, you know. It’s not fair that I’m the bad guy just because I care.
I don’t want to be the bad guy. I just want to be your mom.
Love, Mom
The phone rings three times before Mom answers.
“Hello?” She
sounds suspicious, like she’s not sure if it’s my voice she’ll hear next.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
I hear the relief in her voice immediately. “Ah. That’s good.”
“I got your email,” I add.
Mom stays quiet, and the sound of the surviving katydids chirping in the nearby bushes becomes overpowering.
I take a breath, focusing on my words. “You’re not a bad guy, okay? I just… I wanted something different from what you wanted for me.”
“Okay,” she says.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I continue. “Or punish you. Or negatively affect you in any way at all. But you can still be my parent and also let me make my own choices. Because maybe what worked for you isn’t going to work for me. And what you think is a mistake, I see as an opportunity to learn.” I pause. “You won’t be any less of a mother if I live my life differently from what you had planned.”
“Sometimes we hurt people even when we’re not trying to.” Mom’s voice wilts at the end, like a flower too tired to hold up its petals.
Thinking of how I inadvertently injured my parents makes me wince.
Is it my fault for accidentally hurting them? Or their fault for being unintentionally hurt?
Sometimes it feels like a never-ending cycle of who-hurt-who. It’s like a carousel with no start or end, and the more I try to make sense of it, the faster it goes. The dizzier I get.
I hurt my parents by taking the set list and leaving. They hurt me by not letting me live my own life. I hurt them by not being an obedient daughter. They hurt me by not recognizing I was a different daughter from the one they wanted.
Sometimes I think there’s so much blame to share, but other times I think there’s very little blame at all.
Maybe we can be right and wrong at the same time.
Maybe they cancel each other out.
And then, like an island appearing on the horizon, impossible to avoid, I picture Dad. Dad, whose heart and soul was in the music I stole. Dad, who I still haven’t spoken to. Dad, who I hurt probably most of all.
Harley in the Sky Page 20
