“You do know how to woo a gal.”
We grin and bow one last time, then quickly move our props to the side for the next performers. Crosbie clutches my hand as we weave our way through the crowd, giving thanks and high fives as required, before ducking into the kitchen to grab two bottles of water and heading down the hall to the back entrance for some fresh air. Though my portion of the act lasts only six minutes, it was a nerve-racking six minutes and I’m sweating copiously, despite the fact that my assistant outfit is only a pair of thin black tights and little black dress that takes little very seriously.
“You were great,” I say once we’ve caught our breath. “The trick where you throw the cards and grab the right one out of the air? They were stunned.”
Crosbie watches me as he downs half his drink in one swallow. “You know they were only watching you,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve before gesturing to my ensemble. “Who can blame them? I could barely concentrate.”
I smile. “I’m proud of you.”
He smiles back, embarrassed. “Thanks.”
His nerves haven’t eased much since the last time he performed, but as always, he’s out there trying, doing his best, working his ass off. And though my “assistant” role was relegated to the shadows until the finale, I really don’t care anymore. The spotlight is overrated. Being seen is overrated. If I have to pick quality or quantity, I’m going with quality every time. Because Crosbie Lucas is the best boyfriend I never would have guessed I wanted.
“What are you thinking?” he asks. He polishes off the water and launches the bottle into the nearby recycling bin for a perfect three-pointer.
“That you’re a good boyfriend.”
“Oh yeah? In what ways?”
“Mostly how you’re so modest.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty great.”
“And you’re smart.”
“I’m brilliant, but close enough.”
I scratch my chin. “And…you run really fast.”
“Mm hmm.”
“Um…I guess you’re sort of attractive.”
He makes a buzzer noise. “Wrong.”
“You have good taste in girlfriends?”
“Wrong again. You were doing so well, Nora. When’s your next meeting with the Dean? I’m going to tell him you’re not progressing as we’d hoped.”
I snicker. “Leave Dean Ripley out of this.”
A chilly February wind blows through the alley, making us both shiver. We step back inside and head up front to check out the rest of the show, stopping abruptly at the kitchen door. On the other side, lingering behind the coffee counter, are Nate and Marcela. They’ve been cordial since the Chrisgiving blow up, but to the best of my knowledge, nothing has actually happened between them. Now, however, they share a bowl of popcorn, their hands bumping when they reach in at the same time, glancing at each other for a long moment, then removing their hands and pretending to watch the show.
Ever so slowly I see Nate’s canvas sneaker-clad foot slide across the inches separating their feet, stopping just short of actually touching Marcela’s sparkly gold boot. After a second she shifts her heel, bumping her foot against his. They don’t look at each other again, and they don’t move.
“Ooh,” Crosbie whispers, equally captivated. “Who needs sleight of hand when you have sleight of foot? Maybe I haven’t given that guy enough credit. Maybe he does have game, after all.”
We back away from the door, unwilling to interrupt. “Let’s go out the back,” I suggest. “Where are you parked?”
“Down the block.”
Our coats and my purse are stashed in the storage room, and we snag them quickly and head out into the alley and around to the street. The plan is to go to Marvin’s when open mic wraps up, so Nate had given us the okay to store our props here over night. I worked the first part of the evening but my shift ended when Crosbie’s performance started, so it’s okay for me to bail early.
“Do you think they’ll ever get it together?” I ask. “The anticipation is killing me.”
“Of course they will,” Crosbie replies, reaching for my hand. “Has magic taught you nothing? What you don’t see is just as important as what you do.”
I think back to my belated epiphany. How sometimes it’s the things we do when we think no one is watching that really matter. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
“Ha ha.”
We reach his car and he gallantly unlocks the door and gestures for me to climb in. “Wait. Why are we getting in your car?” I ask. “Aren’t we going to Marvin’s?”
Crosbie checks his watch. “Show’s not over for another half hour. We’ve got time.”
“For what?”
“To go back to your place to bang our brains out.”
“Ooh. Be still my heart.”
He laughs. “Just get in.”
I do as instructed and he closes the door, then rounds the front and climbs into the driver’s seat. “Give me a hint,” I order. We’d agreed not to do anything special tonight, so this feels suspiciously like I’ve been fooled.