“Pierced what?” Tanner asks. Or not.
My thirteen-year-old brother is taller than me. It’s not right. He has his hands in his jeans, sizing up Nikolai.
“I pierced her friend’s ear,” Nikolai lies easily.
Tanner looks impressed. “Really?”
“It’s easy if you have a piercing gun.”
“Huh,” he says.
I’m in a death-grip with my mom, frozen at the string of lies. No one thinks they’re lies but you. Right. I release my mom so she can breathe and then gently hug my dad.
“I’m proud of you, Thora,” he says again. He tells me that almost every day now. Even though I achieved this position with my boyfriend’s help—they see it as a true success. I didn’t think they would, but their joy—it’s everything to me.
Don’t cry.
I’ve been doing well so far. “Thank you. And thanks for coming.” I hug Tanner next.
And he whispers, “Your boyfriend is a fucking beast.” He has an f-bomb problem.
“He’s not that tall.”
Tanner steps back from me and gives me a weird look. “Did Vegas make you stupid?”
“Hey,” my dad cuts in.
“Just saying,” Tanner says, raising his hands. “I’d still live here…even if it rots a couple brain cells.” He nods his head, fixated on a much older cocktail waitress at the casino bar.
“I’m sure,” I say. Now for the hard part. “Mom, Dad…this is Nikolai.” I gesture between the three of them. My two worlds are colliding again. This time, it’s a much smoother fusion.
Nikolai shakes my father’s hand, both amicable.
“Thanks for looking after my daughter,” my dad says.
“She did well on her own.” He looks down at me, his lips rising.
My mom is full-blown smiling. “How long have you two been together?”
“Almost seven months,” he answers.
Seven months. It went by quickly but in the same breath, I feel like I’ve spent years with him. Maybe because we shared every day together training.
“Seven months?” She smiles more, if that’s even possible. “Wow.”
I say, “It’s been wow.” I end up grimacing. What even was that? It’s been wow. That’s not how you describe a relationship. “I mean…you know what I mean.” Stop while you’re ahead, Thora.
“Well, you have a show to get to,” my dad begins. “We just wanted to wish you good luck. And we’ll see you after?”
“But we won’t keep you too long,” my mom interjects. “We know you’ll want to celebrate with your friends.”
I start crying. I don’t know why. Maybe having them here. My two worlds meeting. Their pride. Their love for me. My mom hugs me again, tears welling in her eyes.
“We’re so very proud of you, Thora,” she whispers again.
No matter how many times they say it, it will always overwhelm me. I think it’s the part of me that wants to please them the most—the piece of my heart that craves their satisfaction—that soars with that phrase.
I’m flying today. In all ways.
Act Forty-Nine
Behind stage, I wait for my cue.
My heart races, not matching the slow-burning tempo of the music to our act. Nikolai is already in front of the audience. I exhale a few trained breaths, my costume’s white wispy fabric away from my feet. Icicle lights are strung, the background a romantic, cloudy night sky.
And I focus on the melodic sounds of a violin.
Another exhale.
Relax, relax.
My mind traverses a million miles an hour, but I land on Nikolai’s advice, from a long time ago. His deep voice resonates in my mind like a whisper.
Whatever passion you’ve ever encountered in your life, you use it now, Thora.
It’s not hard to search for it, existing right at the surface, unlike before. I peek out, where the audience can’t see me. Nikolai descends from the aerial silk, eyes masked in purple and silver paint, his chest rising and falling in a powerful rhythm.
This is our act.
Our passion.
He looks my way.
Someone taps my shoulder, my cue. I’m ready. Without second-guessing, without falter, I sprint onto stage. I run towards him without slowing.
Nikolai stands tall, beckoning me, and I leap with all my strength. He bends only slightly, my left leg catching above his shoulder as I latch onto him. The gasp from the audience is the last thing I hear, blocking out the rest.
I clutch his hair, and he grips my back, our inhales in sync. Our exhales timed. My heart explodes.
In a billion pieces at the way he stares at me. At how he holds my face, caringly, like the love of his life just ran into his arms. He whispers something in Russian that I know means: I love you.
It builds something in me.
And his desire fuels mine.
Slowly, he kisses me, an ache in my throat, and he grasps me like it pains him to be away. I lean backwards, breathless, and flip onto the cold stage. Smooth, agile. He grasps the hem of my costume, tearing off the extra fabric with my momentum. Leaving me in a thinner, shorter white slip.
My nerves are gone. I think he knows it, a smile in his eyes. Almost like you’re doing well, myshka. I contort my body, languidly flipping onto my feet. He circles me, stands behind me, and I only watch him, looking up.
Over my shoulder.
He lowers his head, lips touching mine again, the silk wrapped around each of his hands. And I spin to face him and hook my arms around his neck, like I’d rather slow dance.
In the air.
The riggers pull the fabric higher, so he’s lifted off the ground, and we stay in the same position, Nikolai’s strength keeping us airborne, afloat. And soon slicing through eighty-feet of nothingness. Of uncharted, untouched space.
I trust this man.
With my life.
My heart. My soul.
* * *
We’ve dressed into regular clothes and washed the makeup off our faces, Amour ending about twenty minutes ago. I realize that I don’t mind what people thought. I felt alive. Happy. For one of the first times, I know I belong in this world. It can be mine too.
After I zip my gym bag backstage, Nikolai leans against the vanity, smiling. “You were beautiful.”
I try not to smile too much. My cheeks hurt during the standing ovation for the entire cast. It was a lot to take in. Overwhelming. “Thanks for not dropping me…” That’s what I choose to say? Recover. I clear my throat. “I was worried during that last half.” I think I made it worse.
He wears that no-nonsense, all business look for a long moment. And then he bursts into a charismatic smile. It sends me dizzily backward, into the bottles of hairspray and trays of makeup.
He clasps me around the waist. “I never drop my partner, myshka.”
“That’s…good to know.” My lungs have catapulted out of my body.
When his humor fades, what remains is longing. In deep Russian, he whispers a phrase that I’ve only heard once before. The day of The Masquerade’s pool party.
“What does that mean?” I ask, my pulse beginning to race again as I catch certain words.
“Here is my heart.” His thumb skims my neck. “It is full of love.”
“You said that to me before…”All the way back then. I mean, that alone is reason to start flipping through a Russian dictionary. I’m getting better at the language. I’m trying.
“I did,” he admits. “I also have something else to tell you.”