Page 142 of Love Felt Like This

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“B stay?”

My heart catches in my throat. I stiffly nod. “She’ll be back in the morning.”

“B stay,” she repeats.

“She’s gotta sleep in her own bed.”

Beverly sleeping in my bed?

I wouldn’t even know where to start with that.

Ava curls closer to Tom—I can’t imagine a wooden bird is comfortable, but I’m not questioning it—and I start to sing. They’re quiet croons as I sweep bangs back from her face. By the time I transfer to hums, she’s lightly snoring through an open mouth. I almost want to keep singing so that I can stay in this room. Leaving her side means having to go back out there with Beverly.

Alone.

Alone with our lingering stares.

To a woman who I know is attracted to me but won’t say it. Who I am wildly attracted to in turn.

I recognize that same longing in Beverly’s deep inhales and the way her lips part at the sight of me. She’s always worn her expressions loudly. But just because she gets speechless doesn’t mean she likes me. She might be attracted to me, but she may not want me. Not how I want her. She stitches puppets, while I dedicate songs to her. She laughs, while I search for excuses to hold her hand. She stares; I ache.

I finally stand and make my way back to the main room. I find Beverly perched on the piano seat. My cramped notebooks are nearly falling off the music rack. Scraps of paper and Post-its stick out of their sides. My handwriting is barely legible scribbles. But Beverly hums as she reads an open notebook.

She’s cute when she’s alone. She murmurs thoughts to herself, sometimes in voices that feel a lot like Bernie’s or that of some other familiar character I can’t place. It’s like she lives in her imagination. I wish I could crawl in there with her.

I lean against the wall, folding my arms as I watch. And, as each page turns, my chest tightens.

I know what’s in that notebook. Yes, there are Birds on the Block songs about saying please and thank you, but then there are other songs too. Please adore me. Thank you for making me laugh. Scribblings about mountain breezes and syrup and grapefruit. The smell of her hair. Her lips. Her smile.

She leans closer, analyzing my words.

I swallow as my jaw tics with anxiety.

“See anything interesting?” I ask.

Beverly startles and rests her fingers against the back of the small pleather cushion.

“Oh. Yes. Your original songs,” she says. “They’re pretty.” Her cheeks flush. “You say a lot of pretty things about Ava.”

I pull in an unsteady breath and tongue my cheek.

What game are we playing here?

We’re tiptoeing around the inevitable.

I exhale. “Those aren’t…” I tighten my arms over my chest, take one last breath, and click my tongue. “Right. Uh, Beverly?”

“Hmm?”

“They’re about you. The songs. They’re about you.”

I don’t know why I said it twice.

Beverly freezes, though. That string in my chest feels plucked again. A discordant sound that travels up my throat and to my head, now swimming—no, drowning.