Page 12 of Love Felt Like This

“He deserves a raise. He put up with me on the phone.”

“Oh no, what’d you do?”

“I think he was confused when Penny Pigeon started responding.”

I’ll miss this. I’ll miss Finch. I’ll miss my life in LA, with late-night writing sessions and creating new, goofy character voices. Sure, I never made a lot of friends here, because I worked too much. But I had Birds. I had Finch. I had the last piece of my grandpa, baked into every corner of this workshop. Albert Starling was a puppeteering legend, and now all his life’s work is fading away.

I finish logging in to the Flock Workshop email. “See? There’s…”

But I instantly freeze.

Because sitting in the inbox…is not spam.

My fingers hover over the keys, unmoving. I think I’m in shock. Medically.

Finch pats my shoulder with a grin. “Told you.”

Our inbox is jam-packed with emails from viewers wanting more of Bernie Bird, more of Birds on the Block, and more of Griffin Harvey. But, most importantly, two streaming platforms have expressed interest in that more.

“What the—”

“Open it!”

We click on Starlet’s email first. They’re a platform filled mostly with shows for adults and only occasional children’s programming. They’re known for being a little shaky when it comes to renewing shows, but their budget is likely massive.

Then we see an email from Connection.

“Connection!” squeezes from my throat at the same time Finch shoves my elbow.

Working with Connection would be a dream. They’re the leader in short educational documentaries, and they maintain a massive children’s catalog. We’d slide in perfectly, but they’re notably picky with their content. They passed on us ten years ago, and Finch wore funeral black for a week.

“Connection wants a meeting,” I say breathlessly. “They want…oh…”

“They want a meeting in March,” Finch completes for me. “So does Starlet.”

“Finch, I can’t be ready by March. It’s January. That’s not enough time…they want…jeez, Connection wants five new episodes written and a bunch of new research in childhood development, new music…”

Finch hums to himself. I know he wants to say more. The wrinkles and creases on his face are always deeper when he’s thinking.

“You can make this work,” he says. “I know you can.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “Sure, if I had a year to scout people. But less than two months? Not when it’s only me.”

“Let’s breathe and look at what resources we have. Scripts and the like, okay? Then we’ll decide.”

Yes. He’s right. Inhale. Exhale. Try not to burst into tears at an impossible task for a dream opportunity.

I snag our company tablet to pull up some of our files, but when I unlock it, the screenshot from my viral video stares back.

Griffin and Bernie Bird.

Griffin Harvey probably has no clue this video exists.

I bet he partied after the show last night. He’s probably drinking a Bloody Mary to counteract his massive hangover, with one arm slung around a model and the other clutching his guitar.

I bet I’m not even a one-word footnote on his Saturday night.

I bet he doesn’t care about this video one bit.