Page 69 of Love Felt Like This

It’s fine.

I just need to work more.

That’s all.

I watch Griffin’s eyes coast over the display case, taking in each individual bird, squinting at the newspaper article for the show. There’s a picture of my grandfather and Finch with Bernie Bird sitting between them. The headline reads The Magical Hands That Made Us.

Griffin snorts. My gaze narrows.

I bet he thinks all this is silly. I don’t, though.

I tuck my cold hands in my pockets to warm them.

Chapter Twelve

Leather, Winter, and Mint

Beverly

I jolt awake in bed, scattering papers beneath me.

I could have sworn I heard crying.

But then I realize that it might have been me. In a dream, obviously. I think.

I swipe my palm down my cheek and groan.

Seeing that memorial to my grandfather and Birds on the Block must have triggered something in my brain. Not that I’m a therapist or psychic or whoever, but I had a dream I couldn’t figure out the voice for Bernie Bird. I was six again, and Grandpa was there, sitting across from me, giving me that gentle smile that said I was being too hard on myself. He always had that way about him.

Once the sunrise crests the tree line, I call Finch.

“Funny dream, isn’t it?” I say. “You think I’m going insane or…?”

He is quiet before asking, “When was the last time you slept? Really slept, a good full night’s rest?”

I sip my coffee. “Well, I dreamed, so…”

Finch doesn’t respond, so I take another loud, slurping sip of my coffee to break the ice. It doesn’t grant me even a hint of laughter. Tough crowd.

“Anyway,” I continue, “uh, listen, do you think you could give me the number for Paula? I wanna ask if she still has some development research lying around.”

Finch deadpans. “I bet it says ‘Sleep is important for children.’ ”

“Psht. That’s…I mean, yes, probably, but that’s beside the point.”

Throughout the call, Finch tries to bring the conversation back to my lack of sleep multiple times, but I keep saying, “That number? You got that number for Paula?”

Eventually, he caves.

Now, at dinner, waiting on a response from our former childhood-development coordinator, I can barely hold up my fork. I blink through visions of cornbread and chili, interspersed with lines of a script and Bernie Bird.

“Bevvy?” Nana nudges my arm.

I shake my head and refocus.

Around the dinner table, everyone hounds Greg, who insisted on experimenting with dessert tonight. Everyone except Griffin, who stares at me across the table. He tightens his jaw, bobbing his Adam’s apple with a swallow.

Nana pokes me again, forcing me to tear my eyes from him and his very symmetrical face.