“Anyone I meet for the first time doubts it. I constantly have to prove it, and like I told you before, people are always asking me to show them tricks. Like Jason,” she says, almost as an afterthought.
I stop for a second. I’d nearly forgot she’d gone on a date, and that I’m supposed to help her analyze it or something. This is the first it’s come up. “Did you show him a card trick?”
“Yes. And he wanted to know how it was done, but of course I couldn’t tell him.”
“Because of the code? Code 563 in the Magician’s Handbook of Secrecy, I believe,” I tease, remembering what she said at the bookstore.
She laughs and shifts the slightest bit in her chair, her knees now touching mine. “Yes. That code. I mean, there’s not an official code, but it’s an unspoken rule.” She adopts a serious voice, like that of a teacher. “The secret of a trick or illusion should never be revealed, unless to a student of magic who also takes this same oath.” Her voice becomes normal again, though still earnest. “You just can’t do it. It’s completely frowned upon in the magic community. It goes against the whole point of what we do, which is to make people suspend disbelief.”
I add up all the times she’s ever told me how she’d pulled off a trick. The number is officially zero. I let this roll around a bit longer—keeping secrets is who she is. But she keeps them because she has to, not because she’s a sneaky person.
“That’s part of it, too,” I say absently as I work on a very surly cat’s mouth.
“Part of what?”
“The trade-off. When you said your job was a trade-off. It limits your ability to meet people, but on top of that, you also have to constantly keep up a mask.”
“Some days it’s all an illusion,” she says in a quiet voice, with a soft sigh. She snaps out of it in a nanosecond. “What are you afraid of?”
I look up. “Not needles.”
“What then? Spiders? Open spaces? That the Blackwing pencil company will go out of business?”
I point my finger at her, and wink. “That one.”
“For real, Nick,” she presses, using that voice of hers that is vulnerable, free of snark, and just works its way into me. That voice says she wants to know me more.
I stop drawing, and focus on her, laying bare my deepest fear. “That it will all fall to pieces—the job, the show, the success. I’ve been really lucky. Most cartoonists barely make a living, and I’ve landed an awesome gig. The stars all aligned. But success can be so fleeting. It could all go away tomorrow in the blink of an eye.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I have to believe that. It keeps me on my toes. Keeps me focused on doing the best show I can. That’s why I just roll with Gino’s bullshit. Because I want all this to continue,” I say, tapping the drawing on her arm. “I want to keep doing this for as long as I possibly can.”
“You love it,” she says, and it’s such a simple statement, and an obvious one, and yet it resonates inside me.
“I love it more than showers. And I really fucking love showers,” I say, completely serious. In this moment, I don’t mean shower as a euphemism. I mean it for the complete and utter awesomeness of turning the water on high after a good, hard workout, or shortly after you wake up, or following a long, sweaty afternoon in bed with the woman of your dreams.
She cracks up. “That’s amazing. I really love showers, too.”
Lest I loll around in the shower zone too long, I school my thoughts, return to the design, and force myself to be her tutor. “How was it? Your date.”
“It was fine. He was nice, and we talked.”
“What did you talk about? As your coach, it’s important for me to know these details,” I say.
“Bowling. College. Work.”
“Sounds like what we just talked about. Minus the bowling.”
“No,” she says, her tone firm. “We talk about stuff that’s deeper, don’t you think?”
I meet her eyes, try to read her expression. But this is a woman who’s had to perfect the art of not revealing. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, feeling, or wanting, and it’s starting to drive me crazy because her words seem weightier than usual. “Do we?”
She doesn’t look away. Her blue eyes stay fixed on me, and she answers simply. “Yes. Didn’t we just do that?”
And she’s right. We did. I nod. “Do you like him?”
“He asked me to go out next week. For dinner.”
My muscles tighten, and I grip her arm harder. “What did you say?”
“I said yes. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? You told me to try with him, coach. So I can learn how to date and not be a complete buffoon.”
I laugh at her choice of words. “I’d hardly call you a buffoon.”
She squares her shoulders, taking a beat. “What were your dates like with the romance novelist? Can you tell me so I know I’m not totally flailing around?”
I shake my head. “We’re not talking about me right now, Princess Not-a-Buffoon. We’re talking about you. Are you starting to like him? You didn’t answer the question, and it would help me prep you for your dinner if I knew the answer,” I ask again.
She quirks her lips, considering. “I don’t get that crazy fluttery feeling in my chest when I look at him or talk to him. I suppose I probably should if I like him?” She makes it a question, her gaze locking on mine.