Page 3 of Love Felt Like This

“Yes. Jittery, but yes.”

“How many cups of coffee have you had today?”

I peer over at a discarded cup in the trash bin, thrown onto a pile of other coffee-stained cups littered in throughout the day—two or three of which are probably mine. I’ve lost count.

“That’s too personal of a question and you know it,” I answer.

I hear his grin through the phone. “Albert was the same way.”

“If Grandpa died because of too much coffee, then I’m convinced he died happy.”

Finch chuckles. “Well, that and the burgers and smoking.”

“So what I’m hearing is that coffee wasn’t the true problem.”

“Bev.”

“I need it.”

“Bev.”

“I’m joking.” Not a joke.

“You’ve got this,” he reassures me.

“I do,” I echo, just so he doesn’t worry. But I’m not so sure.

I refocus all my overcaffeinated attention on Bernie Bird in my arms.

I can logically say that I know what I’m doing. I’ve practiced Bernie Bird’s mannerisms and voice almost my entire life. My grandpa, Albert Starling, was his original puppeteer, and I’ve mastered the same squawk through mimicry and general childhood obsession. But Finch is supposed to be my helping hand—literally the other hand needed to perform Bernie Bird—and that clearly isn’t happening, so we roll with the punches, don’t we?

“I’ll just pin Bernie’s hand to his stomach,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a safety pin. I hook it through Bernie’s right hand—the one Finch was supposed to operate with his own—and secure it to Bernie’s body. “Nobody will notice.”

“See? There you go. Problem solved,” Finch says. “And seriously, no more coffee.”

“Hmm? What? Did you say More coffee?”

He gives a raspy laugh. “Knock ’em dead, Bevvy.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

Finch’s chuckles continue until I hang up. Taking a deep inhale, I put my phone on silent and tuck it into my coveralls pocket. As if on cue, the kind production assistant pokes her head around the corner “You and Bernie ready?”

My heart pounds into my throat. My body buzzes. I tell myself it’s not nerves but excitement. That’s what Nana would say.

I plaster on my best beaming grin.

“Let’s do this, Tara.”

Tara smiles. People always do when you remember their name, and everyone deserves to feel seen. Especially if they’ve been ignored all day by celebrity musicians like Griffin Harvey.

I follow Tara from the narrow hallway that swaddled me and my nerves, all the way to the stage. The overhead lights are dimmed. A countdown shows that we have one minute remaining in the commercial break. The crowded audience shifts in their seats, chattering among themselves while I walk out with the feathery blue puppet on my arm.

I avert my eyes to the ground and pull in another deep inhale. My white sneakers squeak across the stage floor as I’m guided behind a low partition set up in front of a blank wall. It feels ridiculous now that I scrubbed my shoes clean last night. Nobody at home will see my feet anyway.

Once behind the partition, I lower myself to sit on a small apple box with a cushion and disappear from the audience. My held breath leaves on an exhale. This—being out of sight—already feels more comfortable, even if I am alone.

Puppeteering generally involves quite a few of us sardined together, smelling like sweat and minty gum. Puppeteering is an intimate job; most people don’t realize that. You learn quickly once your ass is shoved near the hips of your coworker as you both operate a puppet teaching children about manners.