Page 25 of Love Felt Like This

“Fame. Talent. Money.”

I shrug, holding my hands up. “Then donate to charities or something.”

“I already do that.”

Of course he does.

I blink at the table and lick my lips. “Why? Why help my show?”

“Because I need this work too.”

I squint. “What do you mean?”

He opens his mouth and closes it. Cocks his head to the side.

In classic secret-sharing fashion, I lean in to listen, my hands folded in my lap under the table. Griffin blinks at my movement; then, to my surprise, he mirrors me, tilting his torso closer as well. His bulky shoulders look even bigger when he tucks his arms to his side. I wonder if he’s holding his hands together under the table too. We’re like two kids whispering under the playground slide.

Griffin’s voice is low, as if he’s keeping this secret from even the walls. “I can’t write anymore. At least, nothing that should be on a studio album. But I think I can write for your show. It’s what I…I need something—anything—as an outlet. Maybe if I get all these other songs out of my head, it would clear up space for something better. So, you’d be helping me too. My music. My writing. All of it.”

The admission floats between us like particles in the air, dancing and untouchable but real. It’s like putting on noise-canceling headphones with only a dull tone. Like it’s only us in this restaurant.

“If you could describe this place in one word, what would it be?”

Griffin fidgets, looks at the wallpaper, the table, then the floor.

“I don’t know. Gilded, I guess?”

I let out a breathy laugh. That’s the perfect word to describe this place. Pretty, but plain underneath. Definitely too pretty for two people unsure what to wear or how to sit.

“See? You can still write,” I say. “I knew there was a better word for it than ritzy. You don’t need me.”

He slowly shakes his head in disagreement.

“Let me help your show,” he says. He’s intense. Determined. “Listen, I’ve…” He clears his throat. “Like you, I had a dream. Music.”

I let out a stifled laugh. “Kind of a successful dream, isn’t it? You’ve won awards.”

“That’s just fluff. I want to write for as long as these fingers will let me strum a guitar or play a piano.”

“You play piano?”

He hesitates. “I…yes. But I’ve struggled with it—and that dream—lately. I don’t want to watch another person go through that. You deserve this. The world deserves Birds on the Block. And if I can help, I’d really like to. You’d be helping me too.”

I narrow my eyes. He’s serious. He’s totally dead serious.

Now, I’m not completely naive, okay? Let’s look at the obvious: If I had his help, it would make this pitch easier. Plain and simple. If he could make the music, I’d have time for everything else. It’d be difficult, but hard work and lack of sleep have never been a problem for me.

If he could make music…I could probably pitch in March.

“I like Birds on the Block, y’know,” Griffin says.

“Wait, you’ve watched it?”

“Bernie Bird was an afternoon staple as a kid, yeah. He sort of is now. Before he went off streaming.”

“Why are you watching it as an adult?” I smile. “Griffin, are you still learning your ABC’s?”

“Every single one. Still struggling with E, though.”