The Immortal Circus: Final Act (Cirque des Immortels) by A. R. Kahler Page B

wrench.
    He cooked me breakfast?
    And there, with a flash, I can see it. It’s not like the visions of the future, with their fire and blood and brimstone. No, this vision is warm, shellacked with the amber of age. Me, stepping into the kitchen behind Austin, him wearing only jeans as he fries bacon and eggs; I laugh as I run my hand down his muscular back, whispering, “I won’t feel sorry for you if you burn yourself,”and he chuckles and points to the coffee pot. I shake my head and the vision sifts away, but it doesn’t disappear; it collects in the corner of my mind like a swathe of gold silk, brilliant and light and strong.
    “You okay?” he asks.
    I brush a hand across my eyes. My fingers come away damp.
    “I…” I begin, and when I look at him my words lodge in my throat.
    Something cracks.
    Suddenly, it’s there. All of it. The two of us curled up on the sofa at three in the morning, talking about college and the future and how many acres our dream house would have. The touch of his skin pressed against mine, the covers twined around us like a knotted promise as our breath rose and fell to the sway of our hips. My bedroom a riot of red and pink on Valentine’s Day, every surface covered in roses and candy hearts and pink petals. Each of those petals is a memory, each rose a blossoming reminder, a heat that uncurls in my chest as it’s not just memory that returns, but feeling: all those feelings, an upturned bottle of love and pain and hope that pours through my veins in a flood stronger than magic, more binding than contracts.
    I gasp and his hand is on mine on the table between us, his eyes not leaving my face. His blue eyes, the eyes I peered into every night and every morning, the eyelids I kissed and the strong fingers that held me together when I couldn’t do it myself.
    “Viv,” he says, “what’s wrong?”
    For the first time in what seems like ages, the warmth running down my face and neck isn’t blood; it’s tears, and I’m not going to wipe them away.
    “I remember,” I say. The whole world seems to hold its breath and condense into this one moment, this one exchange. “I remember everything.”
* * *
    Austin and I walk back to the site hand in hand.
    After the memories came back, we fell into a night of laughing and reminiscing, though it wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped. Because underneath it all were three realizations: one, I still had feelings for Kingston; two, the life Austin and I wanted to build was moot in light of the show; and three, he didn’t remember I had a sister. Which meant he still didn’t know I was a murderer. And I had no idea how things would change if or when he remembered.
    Still, if there were some chance, any chance, that I could hold onto this feeling, this sense of happiness, of finally having someone who knew me for more than what I was onstage or in another life, I would clutch it as long as I could. I squeeze Austin’s hand tighter and lean into him, letting the familiarity replace the alienation from before. I still feel like a traitor to Kingston and things aren’t right between us, not entirely, not yet. But there’s hope—and that isn’t a feeling I’ve had for a very long time.
    “This town reminds me of when we tried to go camping,” he says, squeezing my hand.
    I chuckle.
    “Emphasis on tried . It doesn’t really count if you end up in a motel.”
    “Sort of like that one, actually,” he says, nodding to the motel beside us. The exterior is a faded teal, and the neon sign flickers lazily in the darkness.
    “So romantic. Still, it was better than sleeping in your truck.”
    “Well, if someone hadn’t forgotten to pack the sleeping bags…” he says. I nudge him in the ribs and he wraps me in a hug.
    We pause there, under the flickering neon, and my heart is flickering, too. My breath catches when he pulls back and looks down at me, brushes a strand of hair from my face.
    “I missed you,” he says. His thumb doesn’t leave my