“It’s not as nice as yours,” I say hastily. “And I mean, it’s kind of stupid. I know you don’t need—”
“Shut up,” he orders, pulling off the paper and letting it drop to the floor so he’s holding the box. Large, sparkly letters printed across the top spell out “Magic Kit” and beneath that in block font reads, “Lovely Assistant! Astounding Illusions! (Assistant not included.)”
“It’s, um… It’s all tricks that require an assistant,” I say, suddenly more awkward than ever. “I thought until you got more comfortable on stage, if you wanted, I could…assist…you. Or…whatever.” I trail off as he just stares at the box, turning it over to scan the contents listed on the back. It’s from a weird little store in Gatsby and the guy at the counter swore it would be well-received. He’d also tried to sell me what amounted to little more than a bathing suit and a pair of fishnets as my “assistant outfit,” but I’d declined.
“Thank you,” he says finally, lifting his head. I’m taken aback by the force of the emotion in his eyes, the sincerity, the intensity. He’d given me a gold necklace and I’d given him a magic kit and he’s reacting as though that’s anywhere near the same thing.
Still, all I say is, “You’re welcome.”
He sets the box on the mattress behind me and fingers the book charm again, looking at me. “You still want to be my assistant?”
“If you still want me.”
“These will be the only secrets you can keep.”
“I promise.”
“You’ve got to take them to your grave.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“All right, Nora. You’re hired.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Fantastic.”
“And…” He looks at me seriously and tugs on the necklace. “I love you. In case you can’t read.”
“Will you build my desk now?”
“Nora. I swear to—”
I press onto my tiptoes so I can kiss him. “I love you, Crosbie. Only you. I’ve never said that to anyone before, I promise.” Then I tell him something he hasn’t heard a lot, something he deserves to hear every day. “You’re the first.”
I feel him smile against my lips, his hand sliding around the back of my neck, fingers snagging as they slip into my hair. “Same here.”
Outside, the fireworks start before I can reply. It sounds like a million tiny explosions, the display short but intense, and through the frosted glass of the window we can make out blurry washes of reds and greens and yellow rocketing into the sky, unfurling quickly before sinking away. Lovely, intense, ephemeral.
“Perfect timing,” I say.
“Just like I planned.”
“Is this part of the illusion?”
He smiles and kisses me. “No. This is real.”
epilogue
I glare at Crosbie and plant my hands on my hips. “You went out last night,” I snap.
“So?” He glares right back. “I can’t see my friends anymore? We get married and all of a sudden this is supposed to be my whole world?”
I gasp. “As though this is so bad? I work hard to make this look nice for you!” I gesture around the stage, decorated to resemble a makeshift living room. It consists of an old armchair, an unplugged lamp, and a long wooden box on a raised table.
“I work hard to pay for all this! Not to mention that!” He points at the enormous fake diamond ring on the fourth finger of my left hand. “I deserve a little me-time!”
“Trust me,” I bite out. “You will be getting more than a little me-time. Fine—go out with your friends. I’m going to bed.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
Crosbie storms off stage as I make my way around to crawl into the prop box, lying flat on my back, head sticking out one end, high-heeled feet visible on the opposite end. I close the top so I’m securely tucked inside, then wiggle my toes and give an exaggerated yawn before quickly falling fake-asleep.
We’ve rehearsed this a hundred times, so I don’t need to open my eyes to see Crosbie sneaking back on stage with a saw. Beans is packed, the shop standing room only as people piled in for the Valentine’s Day Open Mic performances. As usual, there’s lots of poetry and singing, but only one magic act. Crosbie did most of the show alone, but this—the finale—requires an assistant, so here I am.
Getting sawed in half.
The audience gasps and snickers as he locks the box then determinedly saws through the wood, and on cue my eyes fly open. “What are you—” I shriek mid-sentence, then launch into a very convincing death scene.
“That oughta do it,” Crosbie announces when the box has been sawed clean through. He tosses the saw to the ground and separates the halves, showing that I have indeed been neatly cleaved in two. Though it’s an illusion we’ve all seen before, the audience applauds uproariously, and it’s all I can do to keep a straight face as I continue to play dead.
I hear Crosbie breathing as he rounds the table, checks for a pulse, nods his satisfaction when he doesn’t find one, and moves the box back together. With great flair he unlatches the lid and I climb out, unscathed, and we hold hands and bow, the audience on their feet.
He leans over to kiss my cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”