Page 7 of Love Felt Like This

“All right,” I say slowly. “I open the door.”

Bernie huffs out a breath. “You’re doing it all wrong.” He mimes opening a door instead of simply announcing it, like I did. His palm makes a ta-da motion. “There. Like that.”

“Door’s open, then.”

“No, no, no. Let’s start over.” He mimes shutting it closed, shaking his head in a fluster.

I exhale. The walls start to tilt as my fingers begin to twitch. I look down at the floor to find something that won’t move. A landing place—a place to stick. It’s worked for me over the years. A person in an audience. A piece of lint on a stage. But instead of finding something steady, a feeling like a drumstick striking a cymbal radiates through my chest. Because there is no floor beneath me—just green eyes staring back.

The woman.

I forgot she was puppeteering Bernie. Her wide eyes sparkle like emeralds under studio lighting.

No floor. But still steady. Grounding.

She blinks at me in confusion. I notice familiar etchings under her eyes, the same dark lines that stare back at me in the mirror. She’s tired. And suddenly it hits me, what the hell we’re doing.

This isn’t a rude reporter pushing into my personal life. This isn’t even a bird. This is a woman with a puppet on her arm, trying her best to play pretend for the joy of others. And I am being the biggest asshole.

I may not have my shit together, but this woman is depending on me. Just like Jimmy, my bandmates, and Ava.

Get it together, Griffin.

I clench my fists, straighten my posture, and meet eyes with Bernie Bird again.

“Okay, let’s start over,” I announce. My heart is pounding, and I want nothing more than to go home. But I’m here.

I mime jerking open the imaginary door myself. There’s a small moment of pause, but then Bernie jumps forward and shuts the door.

I open it again.

He shuts it.

I open it.

The audience hesitantly starts laughing again.

“You can’t just slam the door in my face,” I fake argue.

“And why not?” he asks.

“Because it’s rude.”

More gradual laughter.

“I’m not rude,” he says. “You’re rude.”

“I’ll try not to be. Now, let’s do this.”

“Do what?”

“Answer the door, Bernie.”

“What door?”

“The door.” I open it.

The bird is quiet. The audience waits with bated breath.