Page 24 of Love Felt Like This

I straighten my spine and shrug. “Well…I guess…it means a lot to me,” I answer. “Birds means a lot to many people. The world is a weird place, and this show made everything feel good when I was a kid. I want that for everyone else.”

He stares, and I continue into the silence.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” I confess. “I’m not sure if I can capture the same feelings I had back then, but…this was my grandpa’s pride and joy. Flock Workshop was innovative at the time. It still is. The company did good, y’know? I mean, when does that happen nowadays? In fact, did you know kids that watch Birds before pre-K are more prepared for school? Factually. Look it up.”

Griffin opens his mouth, closes it, then nods, as if confirming a thought.

“So, why not just let the episode backlog exist?” he asks.

I shake my head. “A kid now is not the same as a kid in the ’70s. The culture changes. Kids need to understand phones. The internet. Social media. It’s important to keep up with those innovations, or else kids are just gonna watch old episodes about the invention of, I don’t know, planes or whatever, and…that means nothing to them.”

He laughs again. Gentle. Soft. Deep.

“Five years ago,” I continue, “I mourned with my family and Finch and the rest of the puppeteering world over one of the industry greats. My grandpa embodied the best parts of this world. He’s the reason I make puppets. He taught me to be whatever I wanted and that no dream was off the table. That sometimes the hardest things can also seem easy if you love them enough. Well, my dream is to do good like he did. Albert Starling believed in giving back. He believed it was easy. So, you asked why I want to revive this show.” I lift my shoulders and let them fall again. “I believe it’s my purpose.”

My sentence rings in our silent booth for one second, two, three…

Then the table is suddenly awkward.

I shift in the booth as Griffin Harvey stares at me, pinning me in place with pupils pointed like lasers.

And then he rattles the ice in his bourbon glass and says, “I want to make music for your show.”

He sets down the glass with a plunk.

The world stops. Buzzing rings in my ears, like little bumblebees flitting around inside my head.

“You what?” I ask.

“I want to make music for you.”

He says it again, and the little bumblebees hit a brick wall, falling to the mushy floor of my mind. My stomach disappeared somewhere beneath me—my heartbeat with it.

What is this?

What is going on?

I’m being pranked. Ha ha, very funny, Finch. Classic.

Or, worse, it’s real and this is some tit-for-tat nonsense. You scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours. It’s…well, it’s something not good. I know it.

“No,” I blurt out. I shake my head feverishly. “No, I don’t need your help. I’m sorry.”

Griffin’s lips part as he stares.

“You’re sorry,” he echoes.

I straighten my posture and nod. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

I choke out a disbelieving laugh, taking all the tension with it. “I’m not ridiculous; you’re ridiculous.”

Whatever he’s proposing comes with strings—I know it—and I’ve never been one for strings. Especially when they’re attached to the guitar of a musician I barely know.

He leans back. “What’s the point of all this if I can’t help someone?”

“This? This what?”