“It’s not that,” I interject but then go quiet.
It’s hard to part with things that still have a place in my life. If I’m not being forced to say goodbye to this dress and it still fits, then why wouldn’t I just keep wearing it?
I touch the fabric, and I remember a moment with a boy I’m not supposed to name. I wore this dress when we were together, traipsing around Brooklyn on a brisk, fall day.
I try not to picture the moment. I try not to visualize him at all.
I can’t start walking down a road that has an eighty-foot drop-off into a rocky ravine. There’s only danger at the end of his name. At the end of us.
I have to remember this. Constantly.
Before Brenden offers to pay for a shopping spree or cover half of my fine, I speak up.
“I’m nineteen,” I remind him, “and if I need a new dress, I can always buy it on my own.” I also add, “Aunt Lucy sends me new clothes almost every month, so you really don’t have to worry.”
Our aunt is a brand & marketing executive for a major NYC and Philadelphia-based fashion company. She’s at the very top of her career, but it wasn’t always that way. When my parents died, a lot changed for my mom’s little sister Lucy. At thirty, she paused her goals, moved to Vegas for us, and took her new role in our lives very seriously.
I love her more than she may even know.
Brenden stares at me for a long moment. Maybe he feels our past inside my words. Quietly, he says, “Let’s go.”
*
“It’s dead in here,” I say to Brenden.
We step inside 1842, a bar that resembles an old timey speakeasy: dark-green velvet booths, wooden high-top tables, and mood lighting thanks to gothic chandeliers.
It’s almost completely empty. A bored bartender scrubs the already-shined counter.
Brenden smiles. “Pessimist.”
“I’m just calling it how I see it.”
He lifts up my wristwatch to my face. “We’re also ten minutes early. Do you see that too?”
I shove his side, playfully enough that my lips start to rise with his. “You’re annoying.”
“You’re more annoying,” he teases and then nods towards the array of high-top tables.
I spot a very familiar person in the nearly-empty bar.
Zhen Li places little card holders on each table. The note reads: infinite loophole. I’m not surprised that Zhen, my brother’s aerial straps partner, created the private Facebook group. Besides it being a very Zhen thing to do, I was there when it happened.
After two bottles of wine and wild theories about who our co-workers might be, Zhen whipped out his phone and concocted the bizarre plan.
And I like bizarre things.
So of course, I helped where I could. I spread the news about the Facebook group to two artists who we were sure would be shifted to Infini, and hopefully they told others about the secret party.
Zhen notices us and flashes a dazzling smile. He was born and raised in Beijing and started touring with Aerial Ethereal at fourteen. Now twenty-six, he has a lean build and dreamy, picturesque features that melt most of the females in AE. Sunglasses are perched on his head and push back his thick black hair.
Zhen jokes, “What do you think of the turnout?” His accent inflects his words.
“Horrible,” I say seriously.
He smiles wider and then greets Brenden with a hand-grab and hug-pat. “About thirty-five joined the group,” Zhen tells us.
My brows jump. “Almost half the cast?” I was expecting about ten people out of a cast of fifty. Maybe I am too pessimistic, but I’ve lost a lot in the span of seven years and met way more roadblocks than passageways.
Zhen tilts his head. “No hope.”
Brenden chimes in, “Hopeless.” Also tilting his head at me.
I take a seat on a stool while Zhen says something in Mandarin that probably means some form of no hope and Brenden mimics him perfectly.
They’re way too in sync. On and off the stage.
Not to mention, Brenden switches to more languages that I don’t know: Spanish, German, Russian.
I cringe at him. “It’s less impressive when you do this every day.”
My brother is a polyglot. Able to pick up languages fluently and effortlessly. Jealousy bites me. I still struggle with Russian, which floats around AE’s gym hourly.
Granted, I’m not hopeless. In seven years, my Russian has improved, and I understand Patois, a dialect I hear mostly over the phone from my Jamaican grandparents. They immigrated to Brooklyn before they had my mom and Lucy, and even though my mom always had an American accent, her parent’s lilt stayed.
“You mean more impressive,” Brenden rephrases.
“No, I’m pretty sure I meant less.” I can’t help but smile, especially as Zhen wiggles his brows, eyes pinging between us. He pretends like he’s lost in the banter, but if anyone can keep up with a million different personalities and stay on course, it’s Zhen.
Brenden backs up towards the bar. “Beer?” he asks my drink order. I may be underage, but fake IDs and saying I’m an Aerial Ethereal artist at the Masquerade goes a long way.
I hesitate though. Beer is my go-to, but after the meeting, I could use something stronger. “Whiskey straight.”
Sympathy softens his gaze, and he nods before turning to Zhen.
“Pinot Noir,” our friend says, and then he rests his forearms on my table. “It was that bad?”
It. Brenden must’ve told him about my Human Resources meeting. I’m not surprised since they’re best friends. “HR won’t budge.”
He sighs sadly. “I’m sorry.”
“The good news is that I at least found the box.” Even if it was in the wrong room.
Zhen straightens up. “What was in it?”
Everything that means something to me. “All of my juggling equipment, Rudy—”
“Rudy?”
Brenden calls out, “The deformed cactus.”
I look over my shoulder, seeing my brother leaning against the bar. Waiting for our drinks. “Rudy has character,” I tell him. The pincushion succulent traveled from New York to Vegas, and on very, very rare occasions, a pink flower will bloom upon Rudy’s bulbous build.
“That’s what you call the wart-looking thing on its backend?”
I flip him off.
He air-catches my middle finger and pretends to toss it at Zhen.
Zhen chomps the air and swallows.
I give him a look. “Did you just eat my fuck you?”
“I did,” he says, wiping the corners of his lips. “It was quite salty.”
Brenden laughs, and I shake my head again, my smile returning. Performers. Dull isn’t in their vocabulary.
“So the box contained your juggling clubs and Rudy,” Zhen says.
“And my dad’s books.”
“You still have those?” Brenden asks, his voice tight.
I risk a peek at him, his face even tenser than his voice. Brenden has a hard time talking about our parents, but he hasn’t erased their memory anymore than I have.
My gaze drops to his V-neck, and I spy lines of black ink against his warm brown skin. His tattoo is artsy topography of Dad, Mom, Baylee in the shape of a heart. It rests right over his actual heart.
Our parents died in a four car pile-up on a New York freeway. A fluke accident that involved a tractor-trailer popping its front wheels and spinning out of control.
My mom would’ve found light in the unpredictability of her fate.
My dad would’ve loved knowing he was right beside my mom when it happened.
About a year after they passed, I cried when I saw Brenden’s tattoo. I was thirteen. He was fourteen. Then I punched my brother’s arm and said, “I didn’t die with them.” Still, he included my name.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you too,” he told me.
I’m nineteen now, and heaviness still clings to their memory. Sometimes it’s a good nostalgic weight, but other times, it makes it hard to breathe.
I watch my brother collect a glass of wine, whiskey, and tequila.
“I kept the novels,” I affirm as he sets our drinks on the table. “Do you remember Two Summers of Rage & Delight?”