“Do you want to talk to a professional?” he asks seriously.
“Not really,” I say. “I mean, I did for a little while. I had kind of a bad spell last November. Usually my lows only last a few weeks, but that time it lasted… well, a while. But I’m not sure if I wanted to talk to someone because I needed to, or because I just wanted someone to tell me that what I was feeling had a name and it was normal.”
Vas tilts his head, taking all my words in. “Do you think having a name for it would make a difference?”
“I don’t know. It kind of sucks not knowing for sure, because when I explain it to people, they just look at me like I’m making it up. But if someone has a diagnosis and medication? Then it’s ‘legitimate.’ And don’t get me wrong, those things are super important for a lot of people. But I feel like associating legitimacy with a formal diagnosis sometimes leaves people behind—people like me, whose families really frown on anything to do with therapy and meds, or people who have found their own ways of coping with it, or people who can’t afford it. It doesn’t mean they don’t still feel what they feel—they just don’t have the privilege of being told by someone with a degree what they’re allowed to call it. Shouldn’t the focus be on what we’re feeling rather than what box we can neatly fit ourselves into?” My eyes widen. “Oh my God, I’m sorry—I’m totally rambling, aren’t I? Not to mention we were talking about you, and I’m steamrolling the entire conversation.”
Vas smiles—a real, actual smile. “You don’t have to apologize. I like when you talk like this. It’s how you look on the trapeze—like you forget you’re being watched.”
I really hope my face isn’t as red as it feels.
I clear my throat awkwardly. “So… what made you become an aerialist?”
Vas leans back on his heels, trying to wrap his head around the change of topic I so expertly deployed. “I was trained in the circus at an early age; it was something my family expected me to excel in. And I did for a while. My mom and Maggie’s mom were old friends, even though Maggie’s parents lived in London. When I was eleven, I went to live with them. It was around the same time my brothers started getting into trouble. I think my mom wanted to get me away from it—give me a clean slate so I could focus everything on acrobatics. Maggie and I trained at the same school and eventually came to the States together as a duo.”
Together. I hesitate. “Were you a couple?”
“No, never,” Vas says. “I’ll always care about her, but it’s… complicated.” He says it like there’s history there—maybe even hurt—but I don’t want to pry. “She’s the kind of person I can only handle in small doses, which is why working together nearly ruined us. I quit when I realized continuing would permanently destroy our relationship. She’s the closest person to family I have left.” There’s a flash of sorrow in his eyes. “I’m not saying Maggie’s always a good person, but I do think there’s good in her.”
I can’t help but remember her words. “Maggie said we were the same. That our ambition is what pushes people away.”
Vas shakes his head. “I didn’t quit because she was too ambitious. I quit because she didn’t care who she trampled to get where she wanted to be. There has to be honor in success, otherwise it isn’t earned—it’s taken. And I’m not sure she understood the difference.”
Part of me wants to know what happened, but the other part of me hopes he’ll never say. Because what if it’s along the same lines as what I did to my parents?
Or what if what I did was worse?
I chew my lip, hating what I’m about to say. “If you feel that way, I think you’re going to regret working with me. Because I’m not sure I understand the difference either.” I lift my shoulders. “Look what I’ve done to get here—stealing a set list from another circus, begging for Maggie’s spot less than twenty-four hours after she left. I think she might be right. I think I might be more like her than I want to admit.” I think about what I did to Mom and Dad and feel a wave of shame.