Page 11 of Love Felt Like This

“Stay in LA,” he says. “Let’s give it another whirl.”

“My savings are cleaned out.”

“Stay in my guest room.”

“I’m leaving to go home tomorrow. I’ve sold everything already. My suitcases are packed. Nana would be devastated if I didn’t show up.” I turn back to my felt project, grabbing the needle and thread to start stitching. “It’s good I’m getting out of town. Maybe it’ll help me figure out what’s next.”

“What’s next is Birds. It’s always been Birds. Alice would want you to stay.”

“Well, Nana doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I counter. “And y’know, I’m almost excited to move back. It’ll be just like the old days when I was a kid.”

I used to lie on my nana’s crocheted oval rug in front of her big brown mammoth-sized box television, doing homework on the floor. There was always a coffee maker gurgling in the kitchenette, sunshine beaming through the blinds, and blue jays outside chirping their early-afternoon song. Well, maybe there won’t be the singing birds right now. It’s winter. Birds know better than me not to stick around.

“It’ll be fun,” I say. I’m lying through my teeth, but Finch doesn’t need to know that. I need him to enjoy retirement and not worry about me or Birds on the Block. He deserves peace after all these years. Plus, it can’t be too terrible moving home, can it? Mountain breeze. Shops that open at eight and close at three. The slow life will be…good, right?

Then I remember…it’s January.

Elk Grove closes from November to April. It’s a big tourist town, but it’s also high up a mountain. People don’t swing by when the winding roads have the potential to be treacherous, so it’s not worth it to keep retail stores open.

Okay, so it’ll be a very slow life when I get back.

My restless leg twitches at the thought.

Yep, I’m gonna pass out.

I whirl around. “We should go out to eat before I leave. Where do you want to go?”

Finch’s mouth turns down. “Eat?”

“Yeah. Maybe that ramen place you love?”

“Bev.”

“What?”

He flicks his eyes to my busy worktable. It’s filled with unfinished puppets, scattered unopened mail, and an old crocheted sweater. The space looks like I live here because most of the time I do. I need to put all this in a suitcase, but packing up my side of the workshop feels more definitive than packing up my apartment.

Finch sighs. “You take up so much space here. Why not everywhere else? Why not pitch again? Why not try?”

My heart sinks.

“I do. I am,” I insist. “We pitched…we tried. It’s over.”

“This video might have changed things.”

“I doubt it.”

“I don’t. Check the Workshop email. I dare you.”

His disappointment has shifted to determination.

There’s no stopping him now.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll look at the emails, okay? There won’t be anything new. Probably just the usual scammers wanting to sell us marketing advice.”

Finch grins, scooting a stool closer as I prop open my laptop. “I had a call with one of those the other day. Wanted me to wire him one thousand dollars.”

“Only one thousand? He should increase his scam cost.”