I pull a coin from my pocket, leaning closer and letting her in on a secret. “You do now.”
I show her quick—palming the coin, flipping it, making it disappear up my sleeve. She’s a fast learner, small fingers nimble, and when she does it back to me, she giggles under her breath.
Two young girls wander over with their mom, eyeing my sign. “Can you do a trick?” one asks shyly.
“Sure,” I say, then glance at Eden. “Actually, my assistant here’s gonna show you something cool.”
Her eyes go wide, but I nod encouragingly, and she steps forward, coin in hand. Her voice is quiet yet steady as she performs the illusion, hiding the coin and revealing it behind the girl’s ear.
The kid gasps, clutching the coin as if it’s actual magic, and Eden laughs—a clear, happy sound that hits me in the chest. The mom drops a dollar into the can, smiling warmly.
“She’s good,” the woman says. “Your sister?”
It comes out automatic: “Nope. She’s my friend.” But it feels wrong. Friend doesn’t begin to cover what Eden is to me. I just don’t have a word for it yet.
The woman smiles, nods knowingly, and walks away.
Eden turns to me, eyes sparkling, and bumps my shoulder. “You’re like…an actual magic man,” she giggles.
I grin, trying to play it cool. “Only if you’re my assistant,” I say, tossing her the coin again. The look on Eden’s face—bright, proud, surprised by her own success—hits me in the chest. I’ve seen her happy before, but this is different. This is her discovering she can shine on her own, and somehow that makes me prouder than my own tricks ever could.
For the next twenty minutes she stays beside me, passing cards, spotting coins, laughing every time a kid’s jaw drops. People drift toward her. Maybe it’s the quiet confidence. Maybe it’s that she treats every trick as real magic. Or maybe it’s that she’s pretty—braces and all. Whatever it is, the crowd rallies around her, and I feel weirdly protective, wanting to be the one who makes her laugh.
The chatter softens as the sun sinks lower, staining the sky orange and pink. Parents turn toward the horizon, drinks in hand, and everyone quiets as the sun hits the edge of the water. Even the kids go still, their giggles replaced by the rhythmic creak of boats in their slips.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the light slip away. Her hair grazes my arm, and I go still. Our pinkies bump. My fingers twitch toward hers, then I jam both hands into my pockets and breathe.
When the sun finally disappears, the whole dock cheers. I glance down at her, and she looks up at me with that small, secret smile she has. The one that makes me think I just pulled off the best trick of all.
Behind us, I hear the rattle of bike tires—Leo’s here, calling for us to hurry before it gets dark. Eden steps back to grab her empty box, and the moment breaks, but I tuck it away carefully to remember later.
I have no idea what this feeling is—why it makes my skin tingle, why I want to keep her beside me forever, why the thought of her growing up and not needing me anymore makes my gut twist. All I know is that everything just shifted, and I’m not sure I can shift it back.
9
QUIRKY BANGS, PROFESSIONAL HANDS (EDEN)
Liz is sprawled across the couch in her coziest leggings, hair in a messy bun that looks intentional, a pint of mint chip balanced on her stomach.
“Ice cream?” I tease. “Rough shift?”
She smirks. “Relax. I knocked out sprints at sunrise. This is recovery.”
Our TV is streaming a Netflix romcom where the heroine is somehow quirky, wildly successful, has perfect bangs without ever going to a hairdresser, a designer wardrobe she clearly didn’t pay for, and the kind of body you only get from Pilates at 5 a.m. and starvation—except she lives on croissants and never exercises.
Yep. Another ‘slay all day’ heroine. Totally relatable.
“Why does every guy on this show have abs like he’s prepping for a Marvel audition?”
I snort, curling up on the other end of the couch with my own spoon. “Because apparently regular men with normal human torsos can’t fall in love on screen.”
She gasps dramatically. “Don’t you dare ruin my delusion.”
We watch in silence for a minute as Mr. Marvel Abs sweeps Ms. Quirky Bangs off her feet—he lifts her effortlessly. Liz sighs. “God, I want that.”
“Being carried?”
“Being worshipped.” She licks her spoon, making it a statement. “Anyway. Speaking of worship…” Her eyes slide over to me, and I know where this is going.
