the window. “But now I realize I’ve done just what my father did. I’ve pushed you into a life you hate. I’m just like he was.”
“You’re not,” I said. “You’re nothing like him.” Dad looked at me, his face tight with hope and regret. “I don’t hate magic, Dad. I love it. The feeling of being onstage. It’s like flying.” He blinked rapidly, and I put a hand on his arm. “But the crash afterward . . . It’s brutal. It takes me days to recover, but the next morning we’re on the road again. I have no base. No routines.” I swallowed. “The ups and downs are just—”
He turned toward me suddenly, put his hands on my shoulders. His eyes flashed with hope. “But that’s normal, Ellie! All performers experience that. The highs and the lows, that’s just part—”
“You’re not listening!” Dad flinched. “It’s not normal. Not for me. My highs and lows are not like yours. They’re vicious. Unbearable. I don’t bounce from happy to sad; I go from invincible to suicidal, then back again. And again. I can’t live like that anymore.”
He looked away, his face growing paler by the moment.
“I know you wanted a different life for me, a performer’s life. But I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
Dad let out a long breath, closed his eyes. “I’m the one who should be sorry.” He looked at me, his eyes wet and fierce. “I’ve been selfish. You take such good care of me—but I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you.” He took me in his arms then, and I hugged him tight. Tighter than I had since I was a little girl.
When I let go, he turned and placed his hand against the window. Silhouetted like that against the Vegas skyline, he looked like something from an old cover of Time magazine.
“All right, then,” he said, turning to face me. “We’ve got work to do.”
When I got outside, I scanned the parking lot below, but Heather’s Hyundai was nowhere in sight.
Ripley was gone.
I pulled out my phone and tapped his contact. It went to voice mail. I called again; same result. A cold fist pushed against my breastbone, and for a moment I thought I might be sick. The things I had said to him. The way I had treated him, after he’d driven across three states to rescue me. I paced the concrete walkway, squinting against the hot red light of the afternoon sun.
It was times like this when I hated my illness, hated myself—and where was the line between the two? Was there a line? Even when the gray had loosened its grip, even when I was riding high, I did and said terrible things to the people I loved. I’d brought Dad to tears, and I’d driven Ripley away. If that’s who I was off meds, wasn’t that the “real” me? Didn’t that make the medicated, “functional” version of me nothing more than a chemical marionette? Did the illness disfigure my personality—or did the medication build me a false one? I didn’t know which Ellie was real. I just knew I didn’t like her.
I looked down at my phone and typed out a text to Ripley:
I’m sick. I’m sorry. Please come back.
I clicked Send and stared at the screen for I don’t know how long, dreading what I had to do next and trying to gather the courage to do it anyway. Then I opened voice chat, scrolled to the contact I needed, and tapped the Call button.
It rang three times. Four. I was about to hang up when his face appeared on the screen.
Liam had cut his hair since I last saw him, and it was now buzzed almost to the skin, making his ears look larger and giving him a goofier, friendlier look. I didn’t want to, but I liked it.
“Ellie?” he said, leaning toward his camera as if he didn’t believe what his screen was showing him.
The sound of my name on his lips seemed to cut through my anger. I tried to steady my voice.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I’m so glad you called. I— How are you?”
“It’s complicated,” I replied.
Behind Liam, I saw a Bob Marley poster tacked to the wall and a thick stack of textbooks on top of a minifridge. Was he in someone else’s dorm room? Was it hers?
“Am I bothering you?” I asked, hating the simpering tone in my voice.
“Not all at, no. How . . . Is your dad all right? How’s his heart?”
“He’s