Page 181 of Love Felt Like This

“Hmm? Yeah. Yep.”

Finch carries three portfolios meant for precisely three executives, filled with three identical copies of notes, scripts, and character write-ups. If we can nail this pitch, they’ll sign us on for at least one season on their network. And if we bomb, they’ll take me by the collar and toss me out. I’ll even do it for them.

Yes, you’re right, Mr. Executive. Those were some real trash ideas. No, please, allow me. I’ll open the window and see myself out, thanks.

“Hey,” Finch calls over, breaking me from my spiral. Or at least pausing it. “They want this show. They asked for this pitch from you.”

“Mm-hmm” is all I can squeak out.

He’s right, though. This isn’t a cold pitch. I’m just showing them what I can create, and that’s not difficult, is it? I’ve done this for years. Puppeteering runs in my blood.

But I’m no Albert Starling. We pitched to Connection years ago, and they passed on the show.

“Bet Grandpa never got this nervous,” I murmur.

Finch laughs. “He was a wreck all the time.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Bevvy.” Finch waits until I meet his eyes. “He was. Always. You’re more like him than you think.”

I swallow. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”

“Just try not to think about falling out a window this time,” he says. “I know defenestration is your go-to, Beverly Alice Lark.”

I smile, but when Finch turns back to the conference room, I swear I see his hand twitch over the portfolios.

I sip my cup of lukewarm coffee, holding Bernie closer to my chest with my other hand.

I’m ready, aren’t I? I’ve practiced, written, repracticed, rewritten, and lived every nightmare about every possible outcome. I even propped up my phone last night and practiced in the camera. Just to make sure.

Putting on Bernie Bird is like slipping on a second skin. I can do this. I’ve done this for years.

The conference room doors crack open, and the receptionist steps out.

“We’re ready for you.”

I pull in a deep breath, then exhale with a nervous “Thanks, Patricia” as I walk past her and under the tall double doorframe. Finch pats my shoulder and follows me inside. He doesn’t remove his hand, either, as if he’s ensuring I don’t duck and run. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

The room is bigger than I remember from our last pitch. I don’t recall having so much space surrounding the long boardroom table. Why is it necessary to have a table this big, anyway? Especially since, after Patricia closes the door behind her, there are now only five of us in here: me, Finch, and the three executives at the opposite end of the table.

I set down my coffee and stride across the room with Finch. The Connection logo over the executives’ heads—sleek and perfect, with bright primary colors—taunts me, but I ignore its intimidation tactics. Not this time.

After walking a good half marathon down the boardroom, I finally reach their side of the table. I slide Bernie onto one of my arms and reach into his beak. I then slide my opposite hand inside him as well and tuck my fingers snugly into his. I’m shaking, but the soft feathers tickling near my chin remind me who I am. I’m not Beverly Lark. I’m Bernie Bird.

I straighten my spine and extend Bernie’s feathered hand to one of the women in a well-fitted suit. The executive’s eyebrows pop to the top of her forehead, and she chokes out a laugh.

“What a pleasure to see you,” Bernie squawks. All three of the suits chuckle in unison, shaking Bernie’s hand one after the other. I continue some small talk using Bernie, commenting on their outfits and how “my feathers were tailored, too, y’know!” I get an especially large laugh when Bernie says, “Traffic was awful. Don’t even get me started.”

“How is traffic for birds?” the woman asked with a grin.

“Birds refuse to use the carpool lane. You can’t even imagine! The phrase ‘two birds, one stone’ has ruined our society. We live in constant fear. It’s ridiculous.”

By the time Finch and I take our seats at the end of the table, all three executives are beaming and they’re already flipping through their proposal portfolios. Finch and I exchange hopeful smiles.

I unhook Bernie’s right hand from his stomach so that Finch can wriggle his arm into Bernie’s sack-like right hand. Today, Finch is my assistant puppeteer. It’s funny—with Finch sitting so close, it feels like old times. Our performances were always so easy before the workshop closed. Better times. Joyful times.

Finch is a professional, a perfect right hand.