Harley in the Sky

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

  “I’ve been to your trailer plenty of times,” I point out with a laugh.

  “Yeah, but that was before, when we were working.” He pauses. “And Jin is… sleeping over at a friend’s house.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks go pink too.

  “But we could go to the Lunch Box, if you’d feel more comfortable. They do hot chocolate and—” Vas starts.

  I take a few steps toward his trailer door and motion toward the lock.

  His shoulders relax, and he finds his keys.

  When we’re inside, Vas gets out honey, jam, and a combination of spices from one of the kitchen cupboards. He places a pot on the electric stove, and before long a sweet and spicy fragrance fills the trailer.

  “That smells amazing.” I breathe in deeply.

  Vas grins. “It’s called sbiten. My mom used to make it for me when I was sick. I guess I’ve always associated it with comfort, in a way.” He stirs the simmering liquid carefully, his eyes lost in thought.

  “What was she like?” I ask.

  It takes him a moment to gather his words. “Strict,” he says with a laugh. “But kind, too. Her entire life was the circus, but it was such hard work. I think she wanted me to have an easier time with it, which is why she sent me to London to live with Maggie’s family. She wanted me to share her dream, but with more opportunities. But I never loved it like she did. I loved the violin.” He adjusts the stove a bit. “When I was still in London, I was going to quit my training, but then my mom got sick before I got the chance to tell her. I didn’t really feel like I could quit after that. It felt like I’d be letting her down too much.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He nods.

  I wonder if he wants me to change the subject, but then he says the words that seem to break his heart all over again.

  “She died when I was out here, performing with Maison du Mystère. When I was still partners with Maggie.”

  My throat knots. “Is… Is that why you really quit?” I ask carefully.

  He shakes his head. “No. I mean, I’m sure it made it easier. But I was telling the truth when I said I quit because of Maggie.” He clenches his jaw, his eyes burning into the hot liquid. “She—she knew my mom died before I did. Her parents called her first, on the morning of one of our performances, because they wanted her to tell me in person. They thought it would make it easier. But she kept it to herself all day—waited until after our performance to tell me.” He takes a deep breath, like it’s been a long time since he’s told this story. I wonder if he’s ever told it at all. “Turns out there was a scout in the audience for some big show in New York. She didn’t want to risk the performance. She was afraid that when I found out about my mom, I wouldn’t want to perform that night, and she needed me.”

  “Oh my God,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry, Vas. That’s awful.”

  “It’s not your fault.” He looks at me with a weak smile. “But thanks.”

  “What about your brothers?” I ask, remembering what he told me about them getting into trouble. “Are they…?”

  “Dead? No.” Vas thins his mouth, and the relief I’d expect from his answer doesn’t seem to exist. “But we don’t talk. I think they resented me a lot growing up—they thought our mother coddled me. And when she passed away, they wanted me to come back to Russia—help with the family business.” He’s choosing his words so carefully, I wonder if “business” is just the term he uses in polite conversation. He shrugs. “But I haven’t lived in Russia for a long time. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. And they don’t feel like family.”

  “It’s not… too much, is it? Performing when you have so much history? Because if it is, please tell me,” I say. “I don’t want you to do something if it hurts you.”

  Vas shrugs. “I don’t mind performing. I spent a lot of years training—I’ve worked hard to get to the level I’m at, and I don’t regret that. So no, it’s not too much. But sometimes I wonder how far I could’ve gone if I had put everything into music. I guess maybe some dreams are meant to stay dreams.”

  He turns the stove off and scoops some of the hot liquid into two mugs before joining me at the small table.

  I blow at the steam, testing the side of the mug with my fingertips and pulling them away when they get too hot.

  Vas grins. “You’re so impatient.”

  “Character flaw,” I say, making a goofy face.

  He watches the steam rise, his head tilted slightly to the side. “Have you told your parents about next week?”

  My heart stops.

  “I know you said they don’t support you,” Vas says, “but I know what it would probably mean to you to have them there.”

  I shake my head. “Even if they came, I’d feel like it wouldn’t be for the right reasons. I don’t want them to feel sorry for me, or obligated to show up. I wanted them to care right from the start. And, I don’t know, I guess I’d rather they didn’t come at all than have to beg them.”

  He nods, taking a careful sip of his drink. I do the same and feel myself overcome with warmth.

  “Wow,” I say. “I definitely like sbiten.”

  He laughs. “I’m glad.”

  When we’ve finished our drinks, Vas takes the dishes to the sink and starts rinsing them under the tap. And I don’t know if it’s the curve of his shoulders, or his adorably pointed ears, or even the way his hair is hanging at his temples, but I suddenly want to wrap my arms around him.

  So I do.

  The faucet creaks, and I feel him press his wet fingers against my hands. He turns, slowly at first, and then our fingers are lost behind each other’s necks, our lips closing against each other’s parted mouths like we don’t care about coming up for air.

  I run my hands under his clothes, gripping the hard muscles of his sides, and I guess he’s impatient too because he yanks the shirt up over his head and flings it to the floor, lips returning to mine.

  When my eyes drift down to the smooth, bare skin of his chest, I see the tattoo trailing down the right side of his ribs.

  It’s… not Chinese characters.

  Oh thank God, my mind blurts out.

  Vas reads my face anyway, a soft puzzlement in his brow. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say, laughing. “I’m just relieved your tattoo isn’t a cliché. I was worried I was going to have to pretend to like it.”

  He grins. “Well then I’m relieved too.”

  My fingers follow the black ink on his skin—words and lines contorted and twisted to make the shape of a wolf.

  С волкáми жить, по-вόлчьи выть

  “What does this say?” I ask, his breath quickening beneath my touch.

  “S volkámi žit´, po-vólč´i vyt´. It means ‘When you live with wolves, you learn to howl,’ ” he says.

  “Is that kind of like ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do?’ ” I ask.

  “A bit. I think of it a little differently. To me, the wolf is dangerous, and the howl is a kind of pain. If you spend too much time around people whose souls are hurting, eventually your soul starts to cry out too.” He presses his hand against mine, flattening my palm over the words. “It’s a reminder to stay away from people who only bring trouble. One of the few things my brothers taught me.”

  The ache I hear when he plays the violin is what I see in his eyes now.

  “Do you—” I start.

  “Want to talk about it?” He smiles, and the ache disappears. “No.” He kisses me gently on the mouth. “I’d prefer this.”

  At some point we’re walking backward toward his bed, and he lowers me onto the mattress, his body pressed against mine. And even though we’ve been this close a hundred times during practice, it’s never like this.

  Like he wants to trace his fingers over every inch of my skin.

  Like I’m drunk on chocolate and trees.

  Like we want to be contortionists and aerialists and a vanishing act, all at once.

  Hi
s lips brush against my cheek, and then I feel his breath against my ear. “I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” His voice is warm and sweet, like the sbiten we drank together. I can still taste the blackberries from his kisses.

  “I’m comfortable doing this,” I say, and I turn my face so that our lips meet again.

  He presses against me a bit more firmly, his mouth moving against mine like we’ve somehow rehearsed every kiss, our hands and tongues and bodies in perfect synchronization.

  Vas pulls his face back, his breathing growing more rapid. “I just… I want you to tell me if anything is too much.” He gives me a weak smile. “I don’t do this very often. I want it to be perfect. I want it to be right—for both of us.”

  And then I realize what he’s saying. Because he isn’t just asking about the kissing, or the staying in his room. He’s asking about sex.

  I trace my fingers along his arms, trying to ignore the pounding in my chest. Mom’s told me enough times that these conversations can be awkward, and that they shouldn’t be, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

  Talking about sex is awkward.

  At least for me.

  “You were the first person I’ve ever kissed,” I say, and the confession feels like it’s echoing through the room.

  Vas looks genuinely surprised.

  And then I feel like I have to clarify. “I mean, real kissed, anyway. I kissed someone as a dare in second grade, but I don’t think that counts. It wasn’t even my dare, actually. The other girl didn’t want to do it, and so I just—did. I thought I was being helpful or funny or brave or… something.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think that counts either,” he says with a soft smile, resting his body alongside mine, his head propped up by his hand. Clearly, he knows I like to ramble.

  “I know everyone’s different, but for me personally, I’ve never really had those moments where you look at someone and think, ‘I can’t wait to kiss them.’ It always felt like there had to be something more there first. And maybe I’m sappy and romantic at heart, but I always liked the idea of crushing on someone for a long time before a kiss happens. And I guess I’ve never really had a crush before. Not until you.” I take a breath. “But I also don’t care as much about the sex part. I know on paper it’s a big deal—or at least everyone says it’s supposed to be. But I guess I feel like if two people like each other and they both want to do it, there doesn’t necessarily have to be a timeline.” I twist my mouth, hyperaware that it sounds like I’m giving a speech. “But also, I know that sometimes I make decisions without really thinking them through. You know—like the almost-tattoo. And on the off chance I’m being impulsive, I don’t think I should jump into anything.” I pause. “Not right away. Not until I’ve thought it through.”

  Vas smiles gently. “Impulsive? I never would’ve guessed.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say with wide eyes. “I once spent one hundred and fifty dollars on yarn and crochet needles because the night before, I decided I was going to open an Etsy store and sell amigurumi Pokémon. All of it is still in my closet, untouched.”

  His laugh makes his eyes crease, and he takes my hand. “I understand. And… I don’t want to be something you regret. Not even a little bit.”

  I smile. “I don’t want to stop kissing you, though.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” he says, leaning closer. “Because I happen to quite like kissing you.”

  He closes his soft lips over mine, our fingers unwinding to explore the warmth of each other’s skin. When I feel his tongue against the curve of my neck and his fingers trailing up my spine, sparks devour my entire body.

  We fall asleep tangled up beneath his blanket.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Everything okay?” Vas’s violin is tucked beneath his chin, but his bow hangs at his side.

  I look back at Mom’s newest email for only a second—subject line: The time you fell from the chandelier—before locking the screen and letting my phone drop into my lap. “Yeah, it’s fine. Just my mom telling me a story I’d forgotten about.”

  Vas’s violin falls from his neck like he’s handling glass. Careful but firm. It’s how I should be handling people’s feelings, if only I knew where to begin.

  Maybe I have butterfingers, but with emotions. Maybe I’m not good at knowing the right things to say. The right way to handle with care.

  Which sucks. Because I don’t want to hurt Mom. I don’t want to hurt anybody.

  “Would you like to talk about it?” Vas flashes a smile. “I could make tea.”

  I shake my head and smile back. “It’s nothing serious.” Vas sits down beside me anyway, violin and bow draped across his lap. I take a slow breath. “It was about the first time I fell in love with the circus.”

  “So this is a memory of when you were an embryo?” His grin makes my entire body light up.

  I nudge him with my shoulder and laugh. “Okay, well, the first time I realized I loved the circus. I was probably four or five. My parents had taken me to rehearsals, and I saw the aerialists with their static trapeze and silk ropes and hoops. It was like watching humans turn into fairies right in front of me. It was like peering into another world only I knew the secrets to.” I shrug. “So when I got home, I tried to re-create the act with a jump rope, a Hula-Hoop, and the chandelier that hung above the dining room table. It went about as well as you’re probably imagining.”

  “Did the chandelier make it out alive?” he asks seriously.

  I snort. “Nope. It detached from the ceiling, and I ended up on the floor crying my eyes out because I thought I was going to get in trouble. Which, I mean, my parents were upset, but not anywhere near as mad as I expected. My mom was just worried I had hurt myself. And my dad was more concerned with the damage done to the ceiling.

  “But then a few days later, my parents took me to the park and showed me how to use the monkey bars. They said if I was going to be an aerialist, I needed to build upper body strength. So I practiced as much as I could, and they never complained about taking me to that park. Not even when I’d want to stay for hours on the weekend.”

  Vas tilts his head thoughtfully. “So I guess in a way, your parents kind of encouraged you to pursue the circus.”

  “In a way. Maybe.” I blink. “I’d never thought of it that way before. But they’ve always been so adamant about school. It always felt like they were on one side, and I was on the other.”

  “Maybe they thought there was room to do both?” Vas offers.

  My eyes fall back to his violin. “Like you with music?”

  “My parents were strict, and there was no question that they wanted me to pursue the circus over music. But they still bought me my first violin. And maybe it wasn’t the support I needed, but it was better than nothing.” He taps his thumb against his leg. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who don’t get any encouragement at all. Musicians who never find instruments. Artists who never find paintbrushes. Readers who aren’t able to find books.” He looks up gently.

  “And aerialists who aren’t given the key to their parents’ circus gym.” I make a face.

  Vas nods. “That too.”

  “I can’t tell if she sends these emails to make me feel guilty, or because she’s trying to show me all the different ways she cares,” I say. I wonder if that’s part of the problem—that I’ve only ever seen my parents in black and white.

  I believe in gray areas. I live in the gray area. But when it comes to my parents, I guess it’s always been easier to put them in boxes.

  Even though I hate boxes.

  Because the problem with boxes is that they don’t give people any room to grow.

  “Maybe she’s trying to find a way to be present in your life,” he says. “Relationships are like most living things—if you don’t nurture them, they’ll die.”

  “No sugarcoating that one, huh?” I raise a brow.

  He leans in closely, and I feel my heart thump. “I’m Russia
n. We like to get to the point.” And then he kisses me, and my heart turns to mush.

  Nashville, Tennessee November—Week 14

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  On Monday I start counting down the days until our big performance.

  Three days to go.

  On Tuesday we see our costumes for the first time.

  Two days to go.

  On Wednesday Vas and I have our final dress rehearsal.

  One day to go.

  On Thursday I step outside, see the big top in the distance, and feel all the pieces of my life fitting into place.

  Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  My costume is cream and gold, with a seemingly infinite number of sparkles. Vas’s is similar, but in black and silver. We are night and day, shadow and light.

  The evening star and the morning star.

  When I look at myself in the mirror, my hair knotted up in twin buns and my makeup done to perfection, I search for Mom.

  Is this what she looked like before a performance?

  Did her heart come to life the way mine does?

  Was she nervous?

  Excited?

  Terrified?

  I’m almost afraid to know the answer. Because if she felt what I feel now, it makes everything worse. It means she would’ve known what I’d be missing out on, and she tried to stop me anyway. And if she never felt the way I do? If she didn’t love the circus the way I do?

  Then I feel bad for her. Because she’s lived her whole life never knowing what this kind of euphoria feels like.

  Vas appears over my shoulder, holding a ceramic flowerpot full of miniature bubblegum-pink orchids. He smiles sheepishly, his eyes darkened with stage makeup. “I’ve always thought it was kind of weird to give someone a bouquet of dead flowers, but it’s opening night, so I hope these are okay.”

  I turn around, frowning. “Dead flowers?”

  “I mean, they’ve been hacked off from their roots. So yeah—dead.” He holds the pot toward me. “But these are still alive and well, and they’ll last longer too.”