Page 110 of Love Felt Like This

Poe exhales before crooning, “Please, darling, you could never.”

He extends his hands out for her, gesturing Beverly over to him like a queen might to her subject. Following along, she raises her chin and saunters over. The playfulness of it is enough to make the anger in my chest from Beau dissipate second by second.

Poe takes both her hands in his and narrows his eyes. “So you’re the famous Bernie Bird.”

“In the feathers,” she says with a grin.

Poe squints. “Oh, I like you.”

She laughs. “You’re not so bad either.”

“We’ve seen the show, you know.”

“My kids loved it,” Dom grunts out.

Her face lights up. “Oh yeah?”

Royce jumps in, “At a record meeting the other day, the producer’s kid was watching it.”

Poe strokes a finger over the back of her hand. “I think you’re about to do something big, darling. You might even make our man over there look like a real, breathing human.”

She barks out a laugh. “Well, I try.”

Poe leans in, much too close for my liking. “You could honestly try less.”

Poe tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. I know it’s just Poe being Poe, but I groan.

“All right, enough of you,” I grumble.

“Someone is jealous,” Poe teases.

The glare I shoot his way must be more menacing than I expect because the table, like a damn group of teenage boys, goes “Ooh” collectively.

I roll my eyes as Beverly makes her way back to me and sits primly in her chair.

“Jealous?” she whispers.

“You wish,” I answer.

I pinch her knee, and she giggles.

Giggles.

I like that sound.

We sit through the show for the next hour, laughing at the cheesy host’s monologue and clapping for all the winners. But when Beau’s name is called for Best Rock Performance, I want nothing more than to protest.

As we sit for his speech, Beverly’s spine is straight as a board. She has to maintain her composure for a while because his speech lasts for-fucking-ever. The music starts, then stops, then starts again, and he barrels on. But what’s more infuriating is the small observation Dom murmurs to us after: “He didn’t thank a single person.”

Beverly hums in acknowledgment, but her fists clench in her lap. I wonder if he ever thanked her for his last win.

I grab one of her hands, looping our fingers together. I squeeze. She squeezes back.

A couple of minutes later, someone taps on my shoulder and instructs me to make my way backstage. It’s time for me to perform.

I lean over and whisper to Beverly, “I have to go get ready.”

I glance at the rest of the table, and all three men give affirming nods. The unspoken gesture of We’ve got her.