Page 10 of Love Felt Like This

I smooth my palm over laid-out felt. “The all-powerful companies have spoken,” I explain with a sardonic laugh. “We’ve pitched multiple times over the past two years. They all passed. No grants. Merch isn’t selling either. And PBN’s funding is cut, too, so…”

My words fade. He can fill in the blanks. We’ve had this conversation too many times.

Flock Workshop is the nonprofit that funds and creates the educational children’s puppet show Birds on the Block. We were funded in three ways: merchandise, federal grants, and partnerships. But the culture is different now. Merchandise doesn’t sell like it used to. Our reliable source of government support, Public Broadcasting Network, doesn’t get as much funding anymore. Our only savior would be a big partnership.

When our last corporate sponsor dropped us two years ago, we went out and pitched to everyone and their mother who had a drive to do good and some spare money to put in good places. I personally sought out different educational programs, landing on their doorsteps with a smile and a puppet armed to make jokes. But we came up dry. Slimming down our staff turned into mass layoffs; then it was just a few writers and puppeteers until our lone streaming platform didn’t renew our contract. That was the last nail in the coffin. Flock Workshop couldn’t stay afloat. My colleagues moved on to other projects. Finch is retiring. I’m out of a job and moving back home.

Finch formed the connection with the producer of The Late Night Laughs Show to get us airtime. It was a hope that maybe, just maybe, a sponsor would notice and reach out to us. But we talked to a network executive after the show, and they said they didn’t have the bandwidth to bring on such a big intellectual property. Now that we’re packing up the workshop, this viral video feels more like a last hurrah.

“You should reach out to him,” Finch says.

“Who? The producer?”

“Griffin.”

My stomach twists at the thought. “Oh, please.”

“Maybe he’ll want to get involved,” Finch insists, taking a step closer. “He could have some contacts. This looks good for him, too, you know.”

“He probably doesn’t even know this is happening. This’ll all blow over in a few days.”

“One last push, Bev.”

“He’s a famous rock star, Finch,” I say, sharper than I want. My cheeks heat, and I immediately wince. “Sorry, I just don’t really think he cares, to be honest.”

Finch clears his throat, sets down the tablet on a workbench, and shuffles to the coffee maker. He doesn’t push the topic, but we both know what I’m not saying out loud.

This is still about Beau.

Finch knows only vague details about my ex-boyfriend. Beau and I were high school sweethearts, but when he got his big break as a musician, his life moved on from small towns and small-town girls. He made that clear when I caught him at a club with his backup singer perched on his lap and sucking the air from his lungs like they were both the human version of that scream-stealing machine in Monsters, Inc.

I’m not an angry person, okay? I don’t yell. But I may have let out a really embarrassing sobbing wail that’ll make me cringe even on my deathbed. Long story short, our messy blowout was caught on video. Beau called me a gold digger, and the internet believed him. I deleted all social media, but I was still called every horrible name under the sun by anyone who recognized me on the street in LA.

Griffin Harvey is a famous musician, too, just like Beau. Arrogant, morally bankrupt, and the type of attractive that he’s fully aware of.

And yes, I noticed. I have eyes. I’m ashamed of it.

From the floor, I noticed more of Griffin Harvey’s lower half than anything else. Mostly I noted that his jeans smelled like fresh denim and his boots were real leather. It was a pleasant combination that reminded me of home. I tried not to look any higher than his knees because I know how tailored jeans fit on men who smell that good. I’ve worked in television a handful of years, and I’ve been eye level with too many people’s crotches.

Okay, so maybe I stole a look.

I don’t get starstruck anymore. Working in TV normalizes a lot of celebrities when you see them sweating under bright lights and splitting donuts in half like everyone else on set. But I’m still a woman, and Griffin is still a goliath of a man.

He’s also still a human, though. Flawed, just like the rest of us. A simple sack of meat, if you will. Much like Bernie’s sack of feathers. And if that makes me sound like a serial killer, so be it.

I watch Finch pour himself coffee. My gut wants to say I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what I’d be apologizing for. He’s done a great job at rehoming us displaced Flock Workshop employees. He only wants good things for me. But now, he looks so defeated.

So to stop those basset hound eyes, I ask, “Okay, what else are the comments saying? Anything about Bernie?”

Finch shuffles across the concrete floor, returning to me quicker than before, with a smile deepening the wrinkled lines beside his mouth. I smile back. You can tell he and my grandfather spent most of their careers together. They have the same mischievous smile, like two kids who never grew up.

Finch picks up the tablet and blinks a couple of times. “Let’s see, let’s see…ah! ‘Birds on the Block is why I know my ABC’s. It’s time America gets a refresher, if you ask me.’ ‘Some of you didn’t learn how to share from Bernie Bird, and it shows.’ ” He chuckles to himself. “ ‘Bernie Bird is the hero we need but don’t deserve right now.’ ”

I force my smile. “They do sound excited, huh?”

He punches the air between us. “C’mon, Bevvy. Let’s pitch some more.”

I cock my head to the side with a lamenting sigh. “You’re too energetic for being seventy. Don’t you want to watch Jeopardy!? Wheel of Fortune? Get an old dog that looks too much like you and take it on slow walks?”