The rush of it. The thrill of stepping onto the stage, her arms spread as wide as wings, her violet dress shimmering in the flickering candlelight as the audience before her hushed. Lillian had told her once that performing was just like dancing – putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to miss a step, trying not to fall. And sometimes it had felt like dancing.
But it had also felt like … love.
For love, too, was a flame that could flicker and grow hot just as easily as it could blow out entirely, and leave nothing but smoke. And when it burned bright she bathed in it. And when it stuttered, she stuttered, too.
And when it was extinguished entirely?
She heard a thunderous clatter inside then and she finally twisted her key in the lock.
‘Oliver?’
The sound of crashing was getting louder, and now it was coupled with curses shunted through gritted teeth. When she stepped into the kitchen she saw why – for her mother’s casserole dish lay in shattered shards across the floor, brown liquid pooling into the cracks between the tiles.
‘Useless,’ Oliver growled, slamming his good hand upon the kitchen table, making the plates chatter. ‘I’m so damned useless.’
Ava looked from the mess, to her brother’s red face, and back again. ‘It’s salvageable,’ she said, bending to pull her skirts from the gravy slowly seeping towards her feet. ‘You can make a soup, or—’
‘It’s not salvageable, Ava. It’s all over the bloody floor!’
Oliver was breathing quickly, now – chest heaving – and he ran his good hand through his hair, pulling it back with such force it looked as though he wanted to rip it clean off his head.
‘Oliver,’ she said, stepping past the mess, resting a hand upon his forearm. ‘It’s just stew.’
‘It’s not the dinner,’ Oliver said, his blue eyes watery, his voice hitched. ‘It’s … it’s me. What’swrongwith me?’
Ava looked at her brother, a frown creasing her forehead, and she pulled him into a tight hug, holding him in place. ‘It was an accident.’ she said, softly. ‘A mistake. That’s all.’
‘God, don’t.’ His voice was muffled against her shoulder. ‘Don’t pity me, Ava. I don’t need the guilt of that on top of everything else.’
She frowned, pulling back slightly. ‘I don’tpityyou,’ she said.
‘Really? I’m jobless. Worthless.Useless.’ He shook his head, staring down at the shattered mess upon the floor.
Ava rolled her eyes, reaching to pluck up some of the largest shards of ceramic – though they were still hot from the oven.
‘You’ve had a setback,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
‘That’s a lie, Ava. I’ve had nothingbutsetbacks. Nothing but failed ventures – and a list of jobs I’ve either quit, or been fired from. And what doesthatmake me?’
She paused, the ceramic warm in her palm. For if she’d asked herself that question – the answer would be simple.A failure. Not good enough. And yet now, when she looked at her brother – those weren’t the words that came to mind.
‘You’re trying, Oliver. And you haven’t stopped trying, and I think that makes you courageous. Brave.’
Oliver huffed a sour laugh through his teeth. ‘I am the very opposite ofbrave,’ he said. ‘If anyone in this family deserved to be called such a thing, Ava, it’s you. I could never go on stage as you did. Put myself up there for all the world to see. Keep Ma’s act alive.’ He shuddered, crouching beside her to help collect the last, white fragments from the mess on the floor.
‘Oh, yes – I was very brave,’ she said softly. ‘I put on a costume, I spun grandiose stories about widows and long-lost loves … but towards the end, that’s all they were. They were stories – told so that when the audience looked at that stage, they didn’t see me, but her.’ She felt the words catch in her throat – felt them bunch there. ‘I was hiding, Oliver. The world knocked me down, and I hid behind scripts, and then when that didn’t work anymore – I left.’
Oliver’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘I wasn’t wrong in what I said before, but I wasn’t wholly right, either. Hiding isn’t always cowardice, Ava,’ he said quietly. ‘Sometimes, it’s survival. You can’t always be what people wish you to be.’
She watched her brother’s expression flicker, watched him turn his gaze to the floor.
The kitchen door swung open then, and her father stepped through, his greying eyebrows lifting slightly.
‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked mildly – as though the entire floor was not already covered in it.
‘Sad sandwiches,’ said Oliver – and Ava smiled, for ‘sad sandwiches’ were what her mother would make when they came home from school, with slices of cheese, red onion, and thick white bread, and half an apple on the side. ‘And if you want to make yourself useful, you can get the cheese out and start slicing it.’
Her father looked as though Oliver had asked him to parade naked down the street. ‘Can’t you just bring them up to me?’
