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I nod, inhaling him: he’s all sandalwood and sage. “I’m dying to see what you guys do.”
Arrow, looks over at us. He carries an intensity that the other men can’t match. He has a chiseled jaw, raven-colored hair and dark-as-night eyes. It’s like he is taking everything in, especially me. He nods at the other men and they seem to be silently making a plan.
“You ready?” North asks as he moves with Vaughn across the stage floor, not wasting a moment before he begins climbing the fly tower.
“Ready for what?” I ask. But before anyone can say another word, Vaughn and North leap, already gliding, arms spread, flying in the air.
I cover my mouth, gasping. Surely they are going to fall. But they don’t. They somehow manage to move their bodies, spin in the air, and stretch their arms out wide, soaring across the stage, back and forth. They don’t stop to hold on to anything at all, before landing on the ground, on their own two feet, in the most seamless and elegant way I could imagine.
Flawless.
“How did you do that?” I ask, not quite believing my eyes. “You’re not the only one who can fly,” Vaughn says, coming up
to me with a grin that has me weak in all the wrong places. Or maybe the exact right places.
I said I wanted to be more in charge of my sexuality now that I’m an adult, and maybe North is the person to take me to new heights. He is seriously handsome: light hair and a nose that is crooked in just the right way. He isn’t magazine cover perfect, but I can’t take my eyes off him.
“You liked that?” Vaughn asks. “Because you haven’t seen anything yet. Sit down and watch the show.”
I do as I’m told–sitting on the stage’s apron, my face turned up, watching as these men climb thick curtain ropes with ease, twenty feet high, then thirty, then forty. This theater is huge, and while there is no set, there are a few leftover props from an old Cirque du Soleil show that we used during auditions.
As the guys begin crisscrossing through the air, stretching their arms, I swear to God they are flying. I know there aren’t wings spread across the breadth of their arms, but when they let go of the ropes that hold them suspended in the air–they should drop–gravity says so.
Yet, these men don’t. They are captivating.
And somehow, Mark discovered this talent and offered them a spot in my show. But as I watch them effortlessly move in the air, my throat goes dry. This show shouldn’t be mine. It should be theirs. I am nothing in comparison to them.
When they finish their impromptu performance, I rise to my feet, clapping. And I hear another person clapping behind me. I turn to see who it is, a smile spreading wide across my face. Mark. He’s off the phone.
He comes up behind me, squeezing my shoulders. “I told you, Lark. They are incredible, right?”
I snort. “That’s the understatement of the century. Where’d you find them?”
Mark smiles. “They found me. Say they saw your videos on YouTube and wanted to be a part of the show. How lucky are we?” The guys walk toward us, all sweat and smiles, and a charged energy fills the space. I always perform solo. It’s going to be so much fun to have a group of people to work alongside. And these
men? I feel the heat rise to my cheeks at the thought.
“We can’t wait to get started on rehearsal,” Sawyer says, shaking Mark’s hand. “We feel so lucky to be here.”
“Wanna come back to the suite, order in some food?” Brecken asks, flashing his new key card.
Mark raises his eyes, then steps away. “I’m just the old guy in the suit. You kids go play.” He shakes his head. “What I’d give to be twenty-one in Las Vegas.” He gives a low whistle and wishes us good luck with rehearsals this week. He won’t be present for those. Our choreographer Melanie will.
With him gone, it’s just me and the guys. It might be awkward, to have all their eyes fixated on me, but I like it. It sends an unexpected thrill up my spine. And when North steps forward, taking my arm, I practically swoon.
“Let’s eat,” I say, eyes bright, pushing away my self-doubt and choosing to be right here, right now.
* * *
ON THE WAY to the suite, I pull out my phone and text my mom.
Me: Don’t be pissed. I got the show. Signed the contract. Try and be happy for me?
Mom: Happy? Come home now. We can talk in person.
Me: I’m out with my cast. Don’t wait up. Mom: I need to do the evening ritual, Lark. Me: Enough, please.
Then I switch off my phone and give the men I’m with my full attention. I love her, I do, but it’s so much. Her care for me borders on obsession.
