Page 6 of Love Felt Like This

My manager, Jimmy, doesn’t budge. We’ve always functioned like that one law of motion. For every one of my scowls, he has the equal and opposite reaction: a beaming grin. And right now, every single crooked tooth shines back at me as he gives two giddy thumbs-up.

A soft feather brushes my arm. I whip my head back to Bernie. His hand jerks away, and he ruffles a shoulder in a makeshift shiver. The audience laughs again.

Bernie leans close. “It’s okay to be scared on television.”

“I’m not scared,” I counter. The words bite because he shakes again. More audience laughter.

I’m not scared. I’m irritated that I got myself into this mess by not paying attention. This show is supposed to be my final television appearance for a few months—easy does it, then we’re home—but now…I’m talking to a damn bird.

“Sometimes when I’m scared,” Bernie Bird muses—good lord, can we not—“I close my eyes and think really hard about somewhere else I’d like to be. Where would you like to be?”

I’d like to be at home with my daughter, singing her bedtime music. Hell, I’d like to be sitting with my guitar on my knees, writing my next album. That second one’s a distant fantasy, though. I haven’t written new material in almost a year.

Instead, I’m here. With a puppet telling me to close my eyes.

I look into Bernie’s round Ping-Pong balls and grunt, “Can you even close your eyes?”

His feathered hand reaches up and frantically pats his eyeballs. The beak contorts, squishing his face in disappointment. The audience notices his lack of eyelids at the same time he does. Laughter explodes through the studio. It only spikes my heart rate higher.

“It’s funny,” Bernie says, “Nobody has ever noticed that before.”

“Noticed what?”

“Y’know,” he says, gesturing to the eyeballs again, fanning his fingers. “That my eyes can’t close.”

“You don’t know you’re a puppet?” I deadpan.

He makes another grimace at the audience.

“You don’t know you’re difficult to interview?” he shoots back with a squawk. The audience erupts into laughs. My chest tightens.

“Fair enough,” I answer truthfully.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m back on the promotional circuit.

Griffin “Does He Even Want to Be Here?” Harvey.

Griffin “Did He Really Just Say That?” Harvey.

So-called “heartthrob” Griffin Harvey. The musician who inspires thoughtful questions such as “Single and looking for love anytime soon, Griffin?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business, is it?” I answered.

That particular interview went viral. Because of course it did. I might normally feel bad about snapping, but…well, that reporter had shitty timing.

Bernie clears his throat. “All right, Fin…Can I call you that? Fin?” At my silence, he adds, “Okay, how about Griffy?” He peers at me. “Can I use Griffy?”

I grunt out, “Sure.”

“Right, so Griffy, how about we fix your interview skills, hmm? We’re gonna try a couple things, okay? I’m gonna make you”—he pokes my chest with his finger—“laugh.”

I lift an eyebrow. The audience chuckles at my lack of response.

“Okay, okay,” he continues. “Ahem. Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

Bernie immediately looks taken aback, placing one feathered hand to his chest. “You’re not gonna answer the door for me?”