Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy #3)

Script

SCRIPT

Rose

I’m sitting in my RV, visualizing every detail of the show to come. The exact turns I need to take. The pitch and whine of the engine. The smell of exhaust. It’s my first performance since I got out of the hospital and came home to Texas. The first off-season show of the year. And it’s the first time I haven’t felt the swell of excitement for the metal cage that’s been my home for the last decade.

Usually, I’m buzzing to perform. The first shows after a few weeks off are always my favorite, because they’re the closest it will ever feel to that fateful day when I rode the Globe of Death for the very first time. I was only sixteen. I remember my hand trembling as I firmed my grip on the handle of my dirt bike and crept forward until I entered the metal cage. I’d been working for the circus for a year by that point, doing all the jobs I could possibly volunteer myself for, no matter how shitty they were or how long they took. I begged José for that chance in the cage. There wasn’t anything to prove I could do it, no credentials other than I knew how to ride a motorcycle. I had nothing to go on but guts. I didn’t actually know if I’d be able to pull that throttle back with enough precision to spin through the globe until I was either upside down without losing control completely or chickening out and falling flat on my face. I just had belief . And as soon as I tried it and experienced the rush of adrenaline, there was no turning back. I chased that high every time I got on my bike and faced the globe. Being in the cage felt like freedom.

But now?

Now, it feels like I’m trying to squeeze myself into a life that doesn’t fit me anymore. It’s as though I’ve taken the two halves of my cast and put them back together and taped them on. Even though I could run and jump and swim and kick, I’m not doing any of those things. I’m just limping along, coping with a broken heart by encasing it in a familiar routine.

I take a deep breath. My hand presses over the scar on my side. Sometimes, I’m sure I can still feel the burn of pain beneath my skin. Maybe it’s a phantom ache, one I imagine so I don’t let myself forget that everything that happened was real.

Not that my girls would let me forget about them, at least.

LARK: Good luck tonight, Boss Hostler! Thinking of you! You’ll rock it.

SLOANE: I’d say break a leg … but please don’t.

LARK: We don’t want anything getting in the way of your mad dancing skills!

A photo comes in from Sloane next. The girls are standing on either side of a cardboard cutout of me, a photo they took at Sloane’s wedding where I was pissed drunk at the little pub after the ceremony, dancing with an inflatable dinosaur as Rowan sang “The Rocky Road to Dublin.” I’m not sure whose sunglasses I was wearing, but I liked them, so I kept them.

That T-Rex was the real MVP.

Miss you bally broads. See you in August!

I know that subtle reminder is not what they want to hear. August is still eight months away, and they were bummed that I didn’t make it for Christmas. I just didn’t think I could bear it, being around two other couples, especially not the brothers of the man I love who just … disappeared. Especially not when those brothers have questions that I simply can’t answer, because I don’t know why he left or where he went. Sloane and Lark told me what happened that day in Portsmouth at the bakery after I passed out, of course. The blood. The tears. The hospital. The things he said that I didn’t hear when I was unconscious, clinging to life. How I was saved by his hands.

I slide my phone into the interior pocket of my jacket and then grab my helmet and get ready to leave.

When I pull my door open, Baz is standing there, his fist poised and ready to knock.

“Hello, young sir,” I say with a theatrical bow. “What are you up to?”

Baz shrugs, then holds a white envelope up for me to take. “This came for you.”

“A letter?” I ask. My gaze pans the circus grounds as though the mystery might unravel itself. I pin my attention back to Baz, my eyes narrowing as I take the envelope. “How?”

“Don’t ask me, I don’t know. I just work here.” Baz winks and then he turns and starts jogging away. I don’t know if he’s being honest or spinning a lie—the older he gets, the harder it is to tell. I open my mouth to yell after him, but he disappears between two motor homes before I manage to get out anything more than “but.”

I sigh and turn the letter over. My eyes immediately fill with tears.

I take it to the little folding table and sit down, reading and rereading the handwritten text.

TO: Mayhem

Dorothy, Silveria Circus

Texas

In the upper left corner:

Secret Admirer

Nowhere without you

There’s a stamp in the upper right-hand corner, one from Croatia, but there’s no mark on it from a post office. It takes me a minute to just sit back down at the table and stare at the text. I run my finger over every line of script. I didn’t see his handwriting much when I stayed at his place. But there is only one person it could belong to.

I tear back one slide of the flap and run a finger beneath the top edge of the envelope, careful not to damage the stamp or handwriting as I rip it open. Inside is a letter folded around something. When I take it out, a tarot card falls onto the table.

The Five of Cups.

I unfold the letter, carefully placing it next to the lone card.

Dear Mayhem,

You know more about tarot than I ever will. So bear with me. I might make some mistakes. Lord knows, I’ve made plenty already.

I want to start with the Five of Cups—not to look into the future, but to talk about the past and present, and the regret and sorrow the card symbolizes. I’m so sorry for the way I hurt you. You deserved more from me from day one, and I didn’t think I was a good enough person to give it to you. And when I finally felt like I could be that man, I was forced to let you go. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But it was the only way to keep you safe.

The grief and loneliness represented by this card haunt me every day. There isn’t a moment that goes by when I don’t think of you. And maybe you’ve let us go, maybe you’ve moved on. Maybe this is the only letter you’ll read. I have to accept that possibility might be true. Ultimately, all I want is for you to be happy, no matter what you need to do.

But I am not done fighting for you.

I love you. I’m not letting you go. I never will.

FK

I take a shaky breath, wiping away the tears that trail down my cheeks. Part of me holds on to the anger and loss I still feel at being ghosted, left behind with questions that might never be answered. But another part of me wants to be warmed by the first little bit of light that’s seemed absent from the cold darkness of my heart these last few months.

I reread the letter, over and over until Jim knocks at my door to tell me I’m going to be late for the performance. I do my show and then come back to my trailer and read it again until I can recite it from memory. It’s on my shelf next to my bed so it’s the last thing I see when I fall asleep. When I wake up the next morning, it’s the first thing I grab, touching it just to make sure it’s real.

The next week, there’s another letter. Another tarot card, the Moon. In his letter, Fionn talks about how it symbolizes secrets and deceptions and illusions. He tells me about the things he feared—his own darkness, the secrets that he kept from his brothers. He talks about the secrets he’s keeping now too, but only in the loosest of terms. He worries about his brothers and the people he left behind. But it’s the last lines of his letter I reread that night until I fall asleep.

The hardest secret I ever kept was the one I kept from you. It was not telling you how much I love you. How much that love has consumed me, even when I tried not to let it. You unraveled the life I’d convinced myself I wanted. I didn’t think the man left behind was one I could trust. I thought I was keeping you safe from me by hiding those feelings away. But I was wrong. I’d give anything to go back and break every rule before the day we made them. Because I know now that I loved you even then.

Another week. Another letter. Two tarot cards this time. The next week, another letter, a single card. Week after week, they keep coming, each letter accompanied by at least one card, sometimes two or three. Every letter relates to the meaning of the cards sent with it. Every one ends the same way.

I love you. I’m not letting you go. I never will.

The closer we get to the first of April, the more the anxiety churns in my guts. Because that’s when we hit the road and start touring for the season. Maybe my last season, for real this time. Or maybe not, I don’t know. Maybe I’m clinging to this life I no longer want because it’s safe. It’s known. And the last time I dove headfirst into the unknown I ended up with an edge beveler in my belly and my heart torn out of my chest. All I know for sure is that Fionn’s letters have been something I’ve come to depend on, even on those days when I’ve tried to convince myself not to. I’ve even started replying, writing pages to fold and put into envelopes with nowhere to send them. I tell my own stories about anger and forgiveness and love and loss. And maybe hope too. It might be a one-sided conversation, but there’s a relief in putting those feelings onto paper and sealing them up, even if they’re never read.

I get a letter the day we pack up to head out on the road. It comes with the Knight of Wands. He talks about how I must be getting ready to leave soon. He knows the card can signify travel, and he wonders where I might be going. He wants to ask about my favorite places. Says he wishes he were here so we could talk. “If you’ve kept your fringe, you’d blow the hair from your brow as you think about it. And then your eyes would shimmer when you’d tell me about the best stops on the road.” I write back and say I wouldn’t need to think about it. My favorite stop is the one where I found myself laid up in Hartford, Nebraska. I wonder about the people I got to know there. Is Nate still fighting in the Blood Brothers barn? What about Sandra and the Suture Sisters, have they all started crocheting sex swings now? And why did we never make them form a cover band and play at a Blood Brothers fight with a name like that? Sandra and the Suture Sisters need crocheted merch. I would buy it. “I miss Hartford,” I say in my letter. “I miss you most of all.”

I seal that letter and cry myself to sleep that night. And the next morning, we set off for Archer City.

It’s not a long drive. Our first trip rarely is, just so we can work out the kinks with new staff and old machines and performances that are getting off the ground after a winter season at home. It will take a few weekends before we truly get into the swing of things. We spend a few extra days setting up and practicing. We run an extra night of shows. The day of teardown, I’m about to peel off my dirty, sweaty clothes and hop into my tiny shower when there’s a knock at my door.

“Mail delivery,” Baz says when I open the door and he thrusts an envelope at me. My heart flips over. I reach out with a tentative hand, but he whips the letter out of reach before I can touch it. “Are these love letters from the guy who came to visit when that moron tripped on the fence and offed himself?”

“None of your business,” I reply. I hang on to the edge of my door and reach for the paper that he flaps just beyond my grasp. I finally manage to yank it from him, but only because I think he lets me.

“I’ve never seen you get mail on the road before.” Baz’s teasing smile softens when I look up from the envelope. He’s right. Some of the troupe get mail forwarded by third-party services, or they pick it up from friends and relatives scattered along the route. But I’ve never done that. Never had a reason to. “It’s nice. Dude must really like you.”

With a little salute, Baz shoves his hands in his pockets and then walks away whistling “La Vie en Rose.” A stupid grin must be plastered across my face, but he doesn’t look back to see it.

I didn’t think another letter would come, but now that I have it in my hands, the relief and excitement almost overwhelm me as they compete for the space in my chest. I sit down at my table and slide the letter opener I bought in February beneath the edge of the flap.

Dear Mayhem,

If I’ve timed this right, you’ll be at your first stop. I hope it went great. I never told you that I went to see you perform in Ely for the first time after your accident. I didn’t want to seem like some kind of weirdo stalker. I guess telling you about it a year later in my fourteenth letter that was written in a secret location and sent by phantom postal service is already pretty stalkery. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have been so worried that you’d see me in the audience after all.

The Chariot card probably means a lot to you. I bet it comes up frequently in your deck with all the travel you do. It would have come up for me too that time. I got in my car and drove for thirteen hours just to see you ride in that insane metal death cage. I was so fucking worried about you. I know you know what you’re doing, but I wanted to be there, just in case. But it went perfectly. You were amazing. You came out of the cage and took your helmet off and held it up to the crowd. You looked so fucking proud. And I was so fucking proud of you too.

Ride safe, Mayhem.

I love you. I’m not letting you go. I never will.

FK

I smile at the Chariot card before placing it with the others in the drawer of my nightstand.

Every week. No matter where I am. No matter how busy. No matter if the show is great or a near disaster, if it’s raining or sweltering hot or, one time, even snowing. Every single week, Baz brings me a letter from Fionn.

And then, in the last week of July, it’s José who brings it to my door.

“Hi,” I say as he stands outside my RV in the evening sun, his hat in his hand. “Would you like to come in?”

“No, pequeno gorrión . I just … I came to give you this.” He extends an envelope to me and I drop down from the last step to take it, watching as he shifts his weight on his feet. I hike my brows in a wordless question, and for a moment he seems to deliberate, torn in a war of emotion. “What are you doing here, Rose?”

“What do you mean?” I let out a puff of a laugh as I scan the fairgrounds, gesturing toward the motor homes and campers parked around me. “I live here.”

“No. You don’t. You exist here.”

It’s like a punch to the ribs, one that sucks out all my air. “This is my home.”

“Yes. But you’re not yourself here anymore. You don’t seem excited to perform. You haven’t even set up your tarot tent since we started the tour.”

“If you need me to read tarot, I will,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

“I don’t need you to. It’s just that it used to bring you joy. And others too. You know there was this woman named Lucy at the last stop who found me to ask if you were still doing readings?”

My throat tightens. “Lucy …?”

“Lucy Cranwell. Had three kids with her. She said she saw you in Hartford. That you gave her a reading that changed her life. Her whole life , pequeno gorrión . She wanted to say thank you.”

“Why didn’t you come find me?”

José shrugs, giving me a melancholy smile. “I didn’t think you wanted to be found. At least, not by anyone but him,” he says with a nod to the letter in my hand.

I drop my arms from my chest. He’s right. I haven’t opened my tent since we hit the road. I’ve been scared of how much my need for vigilante justice ended up costing the people I love. How much it cost me. But in my grief, I forgot how much it gave to people who need the kind of help that’s not easily asked for. I look down at the envelope in my hand, knowing there will be another tarot card inside. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s time to become the Sparrow again.

“You’re right,” José says. “This will always be your home. But it doesn’t have to be. I got a letter too.” When I tilt my head and furrow my brow, José spins his cap in his hands. “Dr. Kane said he was sorry that he didn’t take good care of you like I asked him to that day we met in the hospital. And he said he would spend every day for the rest of his life trying to make up for it. He told me not to tell you that part, he wanted to tell you himself.”

I smile through a watery film. “You’re such a gossip.”

“That’s part of the reason why I run such a good circus. I’m in everybody’s business,” José says with a wink. He grins, but his smile slowly turns melancholy. “He wants me to give you time off so he can see you. He loves you, Rose. We will always be here for you, of course we will. But this?” he says, gesturing to the white paper clutched too tightly in my grip, “This could also be your home, if you let it. Maybe it’s time to go. I think you want to. Don’t you?”

Do I? I don’t know. Holding these letters in my hands and reading pretty words that I want so desperately to believe is one thing. Standing in front of the man who shattered my heart is another. It’s been nine months since I last saw him. He’s probably so different now. Maybe he’s not the only one.

Indecision must be written in the tears that cling to my lashes. I catch the shine in José’s eyes too before he draws me into an embrace. “Go, Rose. And if you don’t come back, I wish you well.” I nod. Press my eyes closed. Listen to his heart as we sway in the summer sun. “And take the raccoon with you. She keeps getting into the churro batter. Do you know how many batches I’ve thrown out?” I laugh, though it’s half-hearted. When he pulls away, José frames my face and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you like a daughter, pequeno gorrión . That will never change.”

“I love you too, José.”

I give him a melancholy smile, and he gifts me with a flourish of a bow in return. And then he puts his hat on, shoves his hands into his pockets, and ambles away. When he disappears from view, I enter my motor home, my fingers trembling as I grab the letter opener and slide onto the seat.

I unfold the letter and the Star tarot lands on the table.

Dear Mayhem,

I can’t be sure you’re reading these messages. But this is my favorite card.

When I first bought this deck and thought of you as I shuffled the cards and turned over the first one, the Star is what appeared. I didn’t know for sure what that meant at the time, but I felt like it represented hope. Like you were my North Star. And now, the part of the journey where I have to stay an ocean away is finally coming to an end.

If I’m right and all these stars align, you’ll be reading this in Ellsworth, Maine.

And if you want to meet me, I’ll be waiting every day at Lookout Rock. I’ll stay at Covecrest Cottages but I’ll wait from dawn to dusk at the lookout for you.

I hope you come, so I can prove to you that every word, every letter, is true.

I love you. I’m not letting you go. I never will.

FK

I set the letter down and pick up the Star card. He drew this card from a deck and thought about me. He hoped these letters would knit some kind of connection between us, but he had nothing to go on but a feeling. And that’s the only thing he’s had to hold on to all these months.

I look out the window toward the fairgrounds, watching the Ferris wheel spin against the sky.

And I just keep watching, even after the lights go out.