Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(84)

Act Thirty-Three



I bring my mom and dad to an Elvis-themed diner in The Masquerade, somewhere quieter where we can talk. They sit across from me in the red vinyl booth, music playing softly from a retro jukebox, frequently interjected by an “order-up” call from cooks.

The only thing they’ve told me is why they showed up at Phantom. A place I never told them I worked.

It was Shay.

He called them, out of worry for me, they said. And he confessed all of my sins, all the lies I’ve been telling for months. The betrayal sinks beneath an overpowering sentiment: guilt. Horrible, gut-wrenching guilt. A knife twists in my stomach, barely able to meet their eyes.

A phone call was too impersonal, my mom said.

They wanted to see for themselves. So they purchased plane tickets and saw my act tonight. They heard some guy scream at me to “show your tits” and watched another smack my ass.

I don’t think this is what my parents hoped for me. It’s not what anyone would want for their child.

When I raise my head, I see it in their eyes.

Disappointment in me. Hurt in them.

I drop my head again, my finger running over a sugar packet after we all order drinks.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” my mother says, her voice cracking. Her blonde hair splays on her thin shoulders, her makeup soft, with understated colors. Nothing like the bright red that stains my lips.

“This isn’t how I wanted you to find out,” I whisper. My eyes continue to burn, but I don’t cry. Not in a semi-crowded diner, people sipping on milkshakes.

My dad remains silent, his fingers to his lips. His wispy hair has grayed almost completely. He’s twelve years older than my mom, a fact that never seemed to be an issue for them. Not even when they accidentally became pregnant with Tanner—my dad already fifty-one at the time.

I know love when I see them.

Unfailingly together, their hands cupped beneath the table, as though prepared to confront this problem, me, with unity. I never even dreamed of finding love. It’s been low on my list of pursuits. I thought I’d tackle that later. Maybe in ten years. I’d fall in love for the first time then.

I wish someone would’ve told me that you can’t search for love. That one day, it will find you.

An unexpected thing.

“Where are you staying?” my dad asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken.

“I have an apartment.” I let that hammer drop. My mom’s eyes shift to the table. I add, “In a good location. Safe.” These facts are important to them. Vital. Necessary things. And even as I say it, I know they won’t believe me. They’ll go back to their hotel room, Google search my address and research crime rates in the area, snoop on forums to see what real life people have to say.

“Why wouldn’t you tell us, Thora?” My mom practically cries. No, she is crying. This opens the floodgates on my emotions, my heart palpitating as tears drip off her lashes. “If this is what you wanted…you know we would’ve supported you.”

Don’t cry, Thora. I’m trying not to. “Would you?” My voice quivers. “Because I didn’t get the job, Mom. I wasn’t good enough.” A rock in my throat, I add, “I didn’t have a place to stay. I didn’t have a job at the time. You would’ve told me to get my ass home. Please don’t say differently. I know you both too well.”

“We would’ve helped.” She dabs her eyes with a thin paper napkin. “You could have flown home and we would’ve started job hunting—”

“If I flew home, I would’ve stayed in Ohio.” She would have broken down and cried, convincing me to stay. My father would’ve pointed at my mother and said you’re making her sick over this. And the fear of leaving would’ve poached all my resilience that I mustered to come here in the first place.

“Stop it,” my father cuts in, his voice like nails, full of angry disappointment. “Stop talking, Thora.” His gaze shifts to the seat beside him, my mom burying her face in her hands, tears streaming full-force.

I look away.

And that’s when I catch someone watching us. A girl at the bar. Long legs and arms and pale skin. Katya’s round, globe eyes fix right on me. This is her favorite diner, so of course she’s here.

Concern reflects in her gray irises, empathy for me.

Tears sting, clouding my vision. Once upon a time, I saw a broken girl sitting in a booth. That’s how I met Katya. And now here she sees me. Fracturing in a booth, splitting apart. Life is a rollercoaster with no volunteers. We’re all forced to take a seat and ride it out.

She mouths, are you okay?

Hot tears roll down my cheeks, but I nod. She shouldn’t worry over my problems. Last month, I confessed to her that I’d been lying to my parents, after she asked what they thought of me being in Vegas. Wrong confession. To the wrong people. Always.

I turn my attention to my parents, both silent in thought. “I’m sorry,” I say what I should’ve started with. I choke out the rest. “I didn’t…I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You lost your scholarship,” my dad says, his face reddening in ire. “You had a year left of school. That’s it. Was your college education not worth it to you?” For my father, this is a rhetorical question.