Page 22 of Love Felt Like This

“That’s right.”

“And how’s it going?”

My stomach drops. I adjust my posture.

“Good. Sort of. Mostly.”

“Have you always wanted to make children’s television?”

“Yes. Well, it’s kinda in my blood, I guess?”

He lifts an eyebrow. An unspoken Go on. But embarrassment sluices down my spine, so instead I do the only thing I know how to, which is to not talk about me.

“What about you?” I counter.

“What about me?”

“Music. Is it going…good?” Oh jeez. You should have said Is it going well? you uncultured swine. “Have you always wanted to do…music?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, leaning back as if struck by my question. Like he didn’t expect me to ask. “Though, that’s not quite as interesting as puppets, I’m sure.”

“I think it’s great.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly listened to your music a ton”—at all—“but I always think it’s great when people just go for it, y’know?” I add a little punch, as if punctuating my thought.

He blinks at me. God, he’s so serious, and I never know what to do at serious business meetings without creative ideas and laughter. I create silly voices for silly characters and write silly scripts that hopefully top both.

Be yourself.

“Why did you want to meet with me?” I ask. “Honestly, it doesn’t seem like a thing you like to do.”

He tongues his cheek, silent for a moment, before answering, “You’ve seen my interviews, huh?”

“Well, no, but I did talk with you forty-eight hours ago. Sort of. Me and Bernie.”

“And what was your impression of me?”

I tilt my head side to side. “That you didn’t want to be there.”

He huffs out air through his nose. “I didn’t.”

I feel bad for stating the rudely obvious, so I stumble out, “But you seem fine now, though. Well, fine enough.” I laugh. “Then again, you are wearing casual clothes to a fancy restaurant. Such rock star behavior.”

“Rock star,” he muses. “I don’t know if I’d say that.”

“What would you call yourself?”

His eyes drift to the wall, as if it had answers, then back to me. “Musician.”

“Musician? Really?”

Then he almost smiles—maybe a small shift—as if he’s fighting it. My own smile grows. Turning reluctant smiles into laughs is what I excel at.

“Can’t decide if that’s more pretentious or not,” I say.

He bites his bottom lip—so close. “No? Says the woman coming to this place in that.” He knocks his chin to me.