We never had birthday parties. There was no one to bake a cake, to write invitations. My birthdays were a card from the gas station if my mother remembered. Caitlin’s were the same, except I’d usually managed to scrape together enough for a cupcake from the grocery store. I’d stick a candle in it and tell her to make a wish.
Kimmy will have memories that we didn’t have.
That’s a good thing.
Caitlin bites her lip. “So, um…I’ve hired a guy to come entertain the kids. He should be arriving soon. I showed Kimmy some videos of him last night, and she’s really excited about the idea of a magic show.”
Why is Caitlin looking nervous? Does she think I’ll judge her for spending money on this kind of stuff?
I cover most of Caitlin’s living costs, and it creates a complicated undercurrent to every conversation about spending. She’s never once asked me for money. I send it, she accepts it, and we both act like it’s as normal as the weather. But I’ve caught the way she hesitates before telling me she’s bought something, the slight defiance in her chin like she’s daring me to comment.
“I think that’s a great idea. Kimmy deserves the best,” I say. “And kids love magic shows.”
And just like that, my brain serves up an image I didn’t ask for. A gorgeous man in a top hat and cape who can make every child believe in magic.
My eyes blur and I manage to overinflate and pop the balloon.
It’s an amateur mistake.
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll just get that,” Caitlin says.
I bend to gather up the pieces of the broken balloon.
From the hallway, I hear Caitlin’s voice, and then another voice, lower, responding, and something in my body recognizes the voice before my brain catches up.
That voice.
My hands go still on the balloon pieces. I straighten.
No.
It can’t be.
“Who believes inmagic?”
The voice cuts through the party noise and every muscle in my body locks.
For a second, I think my brain has finally cracked. That the smell of frosting and the slightly burned cheese from the party food has caused my mind to short-circuit, and I’m now experiencing an auditory hallucination.
Because that voice—that bright, theatrical, larger-than-life voice—is a voice I know better than my own.
I whirl around.
Archie is standing in the doorway to my sister’s living room.
He’s in the full Captain Giggles costume that’s so familiar to me. But his walking boot is gone and he’s in actual shoes. He’s got a bag of props over one shoulder, a portable speaker under his arm, and a grin on his face that could light up a city.
Archie’s here.
He’s here.
In Detroit.
In my sister’s living room.
I’m shaking. Actually shaking so much that I’m not sure if my legs can hold me. And my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
