to the surreal.
Chris leaned toward me and said, “You’ll be trending before you make it to the bar.”
I laughed. And then, through the dozen floating green rectangles popping across my vision, I spotted a familiar silhouette. He was tall, broad shouldered, and uncommonly handsome in a black suit and tie—Liam. I lost whatever cool I had and ran toward him.
“I thought you were at school! What are you doing here?”
He leaned in and kissed my cheek, setting my whole face on fire.
“You look incredible,” he said, holding both my hands in his. I could barely breathe—but this time, I found the sensation rather pleasant. My eyes were locked on his blue ones, but I could sense Ripley and Jude hovering behind me.
Liam released me. “You’re Ripley, right?” he said. “Ellie won’t shut up about you.”
“I know the feeling,” Ripley said.
The two of them stared at each other for a moment, and I wondered if their silence was part of some primordial masculine bonding ritual.
They were interrupted by Jude, who pulled out an earbud and asked, “Do you think they’re going to check my ID?”
I smiled at him. “Not tonight.”
Liam took my arm, and Ripley and Jude flanked us as we walked through the front doors.
Nostalgia hit me like a cold Pacific wave. The musty smell, the dim lighting—it was like a scene from my childhood projected in Technicolor on all five of my senses. The foyer of the Magic Castle was precisely as I remembered it from a decade before: red velvet wallpaper embossed with a damask pattern; oversized fireplace complete with carved-wood mantel and golden peacock screen; and, finally, wall-to-wall shelves of dusty books with improbable titles.
Ripley whispered, “How do we get in?”
“Stop worrying. They’re not going to check our IDs.”
“No, I mean, literally, how do we get in? There’s no door.”
The evening’s host, who looked like a ma?tre d’–slash–secret service agent, stepped forward to greet us.
“Welcome to the Magic Castle,” he said. Then, turning to Ripley, “Kindly step up to the owl and say the magic words.”
Ripley goggled as if the guy had just cursed at him in Portuguese. I pointed to a tarnished brass owl perched on one of the bookshelves. “Say, ‘Open sesame.’”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not even a little.”
“Open sesame?” he said. The owl’s jeweled eyes glowed red, and the bookshelf slid to one side, revealing a hidden passage. After all this time, it still gave me goose bumps.
“Is this happening?” Ripley said, eyes wide. “Wait, am I dead right now?”
Liam gave a genuine belly laugh, and it lit me up inside. For some reason, it was crucial to me that these two guys liked each other.
Liam and I followed Ripley and Jude through the secret door. The décor of the bar hadn’t changed, either: the elaborately carved banister, the navy carpet with its gold floral pattern, the dark red walls. But most of all, the art. Vintage posters featuring Thurston, Blackstone, Houdini, Silvan, Doug Henning, and countless others dating back a century. Etched portraits of ladies in petticoats and men with handlebar mustaches. The place smelled like gin and cinnamon and cigar smoke. I never wanted to leave.
As we approached the bar, I spotted Jif Higgins leaning against the long mahogany slab. He wore a loud cobalt-blue suit and nursed a glass of something orange with a celery stalk poking out of it. When he saw me, he raised his glass.
“That was epic,” he said as the four of us approached. “Everyone thought you were going to drown. People were freaking out.”
I had an impulse to tell him how close I had come, but I suppressed it.
Rule number three: Always keep them guessing.
“Good to see you, Ripley,” Higgins said as the two exchanged an awkward handshake.
I made the rest of the introductions.
“Nice suit,” I said to Higgins.
He glanced down as if he didn’t remember what he was wearing. “It is, isn’t? I bought it forty minutes ago so I could meet this joint’s draconian dress code.” He struck a pose.
I laughed, but it came out a cackle. I wondered if anyone else heard the mania in it.
Liam ordered four Sprites with lime while Ripley and Higgins compared notes on my performance. I pretended not to eavesdrop. Jude gaped around at the room for a minute, then popped his earbud back in and retreated into his phone.
When our drinks finally came, I turned to Higgins. “Want a tour?”
“I really do,” he said, glancing at his Apple Watch, “but I have a plane to catch.”
“LAX?” Liam asked.
Higgins frowned.