“I remember that. Dimitri had a fit when they chose Nikoali instead of him.” We smile at the memory.
Luka adds, “Then Dimitri stood in the back of the shot while they were filming Nik.” We burst into laughter because Dimitri took that time to flex in each camera frame like he was posing for Sports Illustrated.
And it’s all caught on tape.
Our laughter slowly fades when my finger skims the credits on the DVD case.
Next to Composer is Joyce Wright.
I won’t dance to her music on stage anymore. Audiences won’t hear all the melodies she strung together, and it hurts. It will hurt for a while, but Marc was wrong.
I was wrong.
My mom’s memory doesn’t end here. She lives on inside of so many people. She has touched thousands on and off this stage, and not even this bag of mementos or this DVD can encapsulate all of my mom.
Quietly, I say, “I thought she’d disappear or vanish if Infini ended, but I still feel her presence. As long as I remember her, I don’t think she’ll ever leave me.” A hot tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away.
Luka draws me to his chest where it’s safe and warm, and just as we hug, our phones buzz, a text from Sergei.
This is it.
We wait to look, our eyes dancing over each other, and he whispers, “You’re not scared.”
“No,” I say, thinking about how we’re together. We’ve been together, and wherever we go from here I’m certain that won’t change. “I’m hopeful. You?”
He nods strongly. “The exact same.”
We inhale together, and then on the count of three, we check our phones. “One. Two,” we say in unison. “Three.”
The text thread includes all of the Kotovas, my brother, Zhen, and several Infini cast members.
I’m only sharing the rumors I’m 100% sure are fact. If you don’t see your name, there’s still some indecision. First what I know: Aerial Ethereal has been developing a new show for the past six months. The name is a little straightforward, but they’re trying new things, and the concept is really fresh. Most of you will like it: celebration of 4 seasons. In the summer, the sets and costumes reflect the summer. The fall, it reflects the fall, etc.
“Did you see the show concept?” Luka asks right as I digest the details.
“Yeah, it sounds like it’ll get people to return to the show all year.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He’s excited.
I hope they need a juggler. Luka clasps my hand and kisses my palm while we read the rest.
Also, the new show has late-night viewings. The name they gave the show is meant to reflect this.
It’s called Midnight.
Midnight.
Here’s the cast of Midnight that I’m 100% sure of:
Erik Kotova
Robby Kotova
Anton Kotova
Abram Kotova
Sergei Kotova
Sergei typed his last name out with an a. It’s so subtle, but he must identify as Kotova more now than when he first arrived in Vegas.
The list of Kotovas goes on and on and on, but four names jump out at me.
Luka Kotova
Dimitri Kotova
Timofei Kotova (pay raise + major lead)
Katya Kotova
“Luka.” My head whips to him, and he looks overwhelmed, hand to his mouth. He hasn’t been in a show with both Timo and Katya since New York.
“Keep reading, Bay,” he urges.
So I do, and my heart stops.
Zhen Li
Brenden Wright
Baylee Wright
I’m in the circus. I’m with my family. His family. No one is splitting up. Not this time, and the fact breathes something powerful inside of me.
As I look up, Luka stands and hurdles over a row of chairs. He walks backwards, his gaze nothing but inviting. “Follow me, krasavitsa.”
I’m already on my feet. I’m already hurdling the same rows at a blood-pumping speed. We’re smiling, and he reaches the stage before me, hoisting himself swiftly and effortlessly. He slides on the surface but he leans down.
And Luka outstretches his hand to me.
I grab hold.
He lifts me in one movement, and I’m against his chest, my palms on his face as he spins round and round in a dizzying circle with me in his arms. His smile magnetizing my smile—and I hear music.
And I think, I have lived partially. Halfly. Incompletely.
To be whole, I did not know until my bones thundered and bellowed for more.
I am whole and happy.
And this is more.
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.