Undecided(100)

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.”

“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.”