Page 4 of Love Felt Like This

No ass shoving tonight. Just me.

Tara pats against the wall. “We’ll count you down, all right?”

I nod vigorously, probably looking like a bobblehead.

I mutter to myself, “You’ve got this. You’re a professional.” A practice. A mantra.

The thing is, I can puppeteer in my sleep. In fact, I might have that one year I worked double duty filming Birds on the Block while also moonlighting at a production of A Christmas Carol when they were short one puppeteer. Despite the sleep puppeteering, it was fun. Grandpa always said that things either get done or they don’t. It’ll just take hard work, and I’ve never shied away from work.

But I’ve never performed on live television. If I miss a line or fall short with comedic timing, the world will see. It could go viral online. I need sponsors, not another scandal. People finally don’t recognize me on the street anymore. This is a chance for a new start.

I look up at the catwalk lined with studio lights. Maybe one will drop on my head Looney Tunes–style and corporations will partner with me out of pity. No, I’ve never been that lucky.

A small rectangular monitor at my feet displays what the audience will see on television. It currently exhibits a blank space where Bernie Bird will be performed. I place one hand against the headset strapped across my forehead, slide it side to side, and shift my bangs away from my eyes to give myself a clearer view.

Suddenly, the stage lights turn on. Hot. Bright.

The live band plays the show’s theme in a symphony of brass.

I shoot both arms into the air, one tucked inside Bernie’s beak and the other through a feathery hand. I lean my ear to my shoulder so that none of my head shows on-camera. The monitor below—what the viewers at home will see—shows only Bernie Bird, alert and ready.

Someone counts down, “Back in three. Two.”

One.

The set is dead quiet. My ears buzz.

“And now,” one of the cast members announces, “we have a very special appearance tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, returning to us after two years off-air, Birds on the Block’s very own Bernie Bird!”

The audience erupts with cheers and clapping.

My heart is thrumming in my chest. My arm is shaking inside Bernie’s feathery sleeve. I pull in a breath. Release it.

I can do this.

I’ve performed Bernie Bird a million times before.

I wait for the host to rush back behind the partition to perform the skit, just like we rehearsed.

Bernie Bird is ready.

I’m ready.

Instead, a pair of roughened black lace-up boots stumble into place next to me. The person attached almost knocks into Bernie suspended above my head.

I look up and let out an involuntary gasp that echoes into the mic. My knee-jerk, over-the-top expressions betray me again.

Griffin Harvey stands beside me, squinting into the stage lights with a scowl beneath his beard as he tucks his phone into his pocket.

What in the world is he doing here?

This isn’t what we practiced at all.

The studio goes silent.

I hold my breath. We all do.

For one second.