Epilogue
One Month Later
Luka Kotova
“Jump!”
I jump straight up with over a hundred other artists. All of us in a huge casual circle, the middle empty. We wear workout clothes for a troupe warm-up. Morning light crests the windows of the performance gym, and the air is loose and free as we all bounce in unison.
“Hands up!” someone else calls out.
Arms raise as we jump, and Nik slips into the open center, claiming the attention. He may be my uptight older brother, but performing, he’s as smooth and graceful as water.
He dances, his feet and body in harmony, and his eyes glimmer at Thora who jumps on the outskirts with the rest of us.
She’s scowling, but her RBF begins receding at the sight of her boyfriend. She signed a two-year contract for Amour, but Nik and Thora will most likely be in aerial silk for much longer than that. The Masquerade signed paperwork to keep Amour in the hotel for twelve years.
“Pat!”
We drop to our feet and pat our thighs. The soft drumming noise reverberates off the eighty-foot ceilings.
Nik extends his arms and points at two people. Not wavering, Sergei and Dimitri slide on either side of him, and they mimic Nik’s dance to the tee. Watching the three of them together, I can almost picture them as teenagers. Not as many responsibilities, daring Sergei to streak, ribbing on Dimitri for everything, and fighting over Nikolai.
Then again, they still do all of that shit, and they’re in their late twenties.
“Timofei,” Serg calls.
Timo bounces in front of all three men, and his aura literally outshines them. He backflips, slides his feet out and then together, twirls and finishes with an aerial. Everyone is smiling.
“Clap!”
We all clap to a new beat.
Older guys slipping back to the outskirts, they leave Timo alone in the center. My little brother is now the highest paid Aerial Ethereal artist. He’s carrying the weight of Midnight, his time spent on stage tripling some of us, but if anyone thrives best inside a spotlight, it’s Timofei Kotova.
“Stomp and clap!”
Someone sets the rhythm: stomp stomp, clap clap. We all fall into the beat.
Timo juggles invisible balls, his face pulling theatrically, pretending to be surprised at his own talent. I grin wide, and he calls out, “Sister!”
Katya steps into the center, and Timo tosses an invisible ball to her. She pretends it’s on fire and hot-potatoes it, her hair billowing down her back.
I love being in a show with my little sister, but more than that—I’m happy she’s not working with anyone she can’t trust. And that she’s safe.
“Brother!” Timo calls cheerfully, and he chucks an invisible ball at me.
I catch the ball with two hands, and I eye my girlfriend next to me. “Bay.”
She wears her cool-as-steel New York attitude, but as we join the center circle with Kat and Timo, I dribble my invisible basketball around her frame.
My eyes are teasing, saying: what? Can’t catch it?
Wearing a tank top, Baylee mimes rolling up her imaginary sleeves and she tries hard not to smile.
I act like I dribble between her legs, and then I stand an inch from her face and spin the invisible ball on my finger.
Baylee steals the ball and pretends to kick it away, and my smile stretches and I nod my head to the beat the artists make around us.
Bay mimes a baseball bat dropping from the air into her hands.
Then she gears up for a pitch.
Timo, Kat, and I angle our bodies like we’re eyeing the pitcher.
“Bases are loaded,” I call out. “She’s the indomitable, undefeatable Baylee Wright. Never missed a ball in her life.”
Bay’s gaze flits to me, smile peeking, but she tries to act concentrated on batting. Then she swings, and in unison, Kat, Timo, and I whip our heads to the right and shield our eyes from mock sunlight. Gawking at a homerun.
Timo whistles a fading whistle like it’s the baseball, flying off into the distance.
Baylee mic-drops her invisible bat.
I rush up to her, our lips a breath away, and in a split-second, I pretend the invisible ball just landed on my finger.
Baylee shakes her head, trying to keep her lips pressed together. Trying to look serious.
“Whisper!” someone shouts. Everyone shhhhs.
I spin the ball faster, and she’s close enough to murmur, “You’re unbelievable.”
I grin more, and she can’t suppress her own smile any longer. I dip my head, forehead nearly touching hers, and I murmur, “You’re just now realizing this moment never ends?”
It can’t disappear.
It’s already invisible, unseen. Something we feel.
We’ll never lose this. It burrows into us like an endless light.