“Because she’s crazy and controlling, and the whole reason I took Marina up on her offer to come here was because I wanted to get away from my mother. No, not wanted, needed. Living with her was suffocating me.”

He seemed interested as he nodded his head and kept on staring. I didn’t understand why I was telling him any of this. Jack McCabe wasn’t confidant material. I didn’t even think he was friend material, and there was a small likelihood that he was dangerous. Still, I kept on talking.

“She’s the CEO for a very successful tech company. I guess the control she has in her job translates over to her dealings with me, because she dictates my entire life. Tells me what I can and can’t eat, what I can and can’t wear. When I get paid at the end of each week from my waitressing job, she takes eighty percent of the money and leaves me with just enough to get by. If I refuse to give it to her, she threatens to kick me out, and I have nowhere else to go, so I have to follow her crazy rules.”

“What about your dad?”

“He left when I was a kid. Perhaps he decided to flee just like I did. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

Jack didn’t comment. I might have been mistaken, but I thought I saw a flicker of empathy in his expression. It was either that or bemusement. There was a quiet between us that suddenly felt awkward, so I dusted my hands off on my jeans and stood.

“Well, I, uh, have to go finish off Marina’s accounts now. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m dead weight around here,” I said before I could censor myself, and winced.

Jack’s expression didn’t waver. It rarely did, which meant I never quite knew what he was thinking. It was incredibly frustrating. He remained sitting there the whole time I walked away.

Later that day, after I’d borrowed a folding table and two chairs from Winnie and Antonio, I went and set up a face-painting station close to the entrance to the circus. It was a good job I’d studied French at school, because I had decent enough conversational skills in the language to get by. Mostly I just had to ask the kids what they wanted to be. I charged five euros per child and managed to paint ten faces by the time the show began. If I could do the same before every performance, I’d make enough money to see me through the summer.

Jack strode by at one point as I was painting butterfly wings onto the cheeks of a little red-haired girl. He paused, tilted his head to see what I was painting, then continued on his way. It was disconcerting that I got chills every time I saw him. He had this aura, though, like you couldn’t tell if he was human or a supernatural being wearing human skin.

Inspiration hit me, and I hurriedly pulled my sketch pad out of my bag, scribbling down ideas. I’d have to keep this piece a secret, of course, because if Jack found out I wanted to paint him, I imagine he’d frown so hard he’d break his own face. This picture would be darker than my usual works. Normally, I drew hearts floating out of bodies as two lovers embraced, or raindrops falling into puddles reflecting a woman carrying a brightly coloured umbrella. This picture would show Jack onstage inside the Spiegeltent, dexterously weaving his flames through the air, his tanned skin glistening, as a fire demon that was possessing his body could be glimpsed through the flames.

I had goose bumps all along my arms just imagining it.

The show had been on for about an hour when I slipped inside the tent. The Ladies of the Sky were just finishing up their act, and again I felt a pang of jealousy at how beautifully they could control their bodies. I’d seen all three earlier today, stretching outside their camper. Lola had told me that they were all sisters, with only one or two years between each of them. Their names were Mary, Julie, and Molly and they came from America. I’d wanted to go over and introduce myself, befriend them, but I didn’t have the courage. Perhaps another day I’d muster it up.

Their act came to an end, and then Jack was emerging in all his fiery glory. Knocking back a mouthful of fuel, he proceeded to blow an explosive blast of fire from his mouth. I wondered what the chances were of him hurting himself, and if there was any long-term damage caused to his body. Surely putting combustible fluids into your mouth meant you inevitably ingested a small amount over time.

I had so many questions that I wanted to ask him, and if he were anyone else I would, but when it came to Jack McCabe, I found my brain forgetting all those questions in his strange and heady presence. I’d like to say I went away then, back to my camper for the night, but I didn’t. I couldn’t stop watching until his entire act was over. He did the same knife-throwing bit as before, with Marina selecting a volunteer from the audience. I watched keenly, studying his every move, as he interacted with the woman who’d been selected. I was one-hundred-percent sure I didn’t see him place his hands on her shoulders like he did to me, nor did he touch her stomach to calm her or hold her hand as he led her to the wooden panel.

Something fizzy and delightful popped in my belly. Perhaps there had been something different about our encounter, compared to the countless other nights he performed the exact same stunt. Perhaps Jack wasn’t as indifferent towards me as I imagined. I delighted in the sense of excitement these thoughts gave me as I went about packing up my face paints and returning the table and chairs to Winnie and Antonio. They told me to keep them, that I’d be doing them a favour, since they had way too much stuff clogging up their small motor home as it was. I thanked them profusely and stored the table and chairs beneath Violet’s van until tomorrow, hoping nobody would steal them.

I was sitting in the living area, finishing off the ideas for my Jack painting, when Lola came in looking both tired and energised. She had that way about her. I thought of painting a picture of her, too, with tired grey patches under her eyes and contrasting colourful bolts of electricity spouting from her bobbed haircut.

“Hey, you! Everybody’s gathering in the gazebo tonight for a late dinner. Pedro and Luan are cooking feijoada. It’s a Brazilian stew. Absolutely delicious. Come on!” she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. My sketchpad fell to the floor and she picked it up, taking her time to peruse what I’d been drawing before handing it back, an amused smirk on her face.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad.”

“Got what bad?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“You’re too good of an artist for me not to recognise who you’re drawing, Lille. Just take my advice — be careful. I’ve never seen him with a woman, well, other than casual hook-ups every once in a while. You don’t want to get hurt.”

Little did she know, I really did want to get hurt. It was irrational and probably stupid, but I wanted to feel the pain of having my emotions stomped all over. All of the best creative minds in the world had their hearts broken. It’s what made their art genuine, vital, human. It had the potential to elevate me from just a “good” artist into a great one.

After closing my sketchpad and setting it on the counter, I allowed her to pull me out and lead me to the gazebo, which I was learning was a sort of eating/drinking/general hang-out area for the circus performers and crew. Luan, Pedro, and the third man in their stunt group, Raphael, were standing by a portable gas cooker, dishing out bowls of stew to those patiently waiting in line. Once Lola and I had gotten ours, she led me over sit on the floor with Winnie and Antonio’s eleven- and thirteen-year-old girls, Carrie and Orla.

We chatted with them about their shared crushes on some boy-band star, while Lola braided their hair into identical French plaits. I felt like we were separate from the adults in that moment, but I didn’t mind. I enjoyed being able to observe the interactions from my place on the floor. Jack and King sat by a table in the far corner of the gazebo, a bottle of liquor between them. They appeared to be having a deep conversation, and it surprised me. Judging from the way Jack had spoken to King this morning, I wouldn’t have thought they were friends. But it was clear now that they were. Jack listened intently as King spoke, and vice versa. I could have killed to know what they were talking about.