Page 86 of Love Felt Like This

“Maybe let’s keep it that way, then.”

Jimmy laughs. “They want to know—” Another car honks. “Go! It’s your turn!” I rub my temples. Even this brief intrusion of LA is stressing me out. “Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, they want to know about your relationship.”

I feel my molars grinding. “I’m sure they do.”

“You seem mad. Are you mad? What’s the point of this whole charade if you’re not gonna show her off?”

“Show her off? She’s not a…” I kick the gravel and tongue my cheek. “Trophy wife.”

“Right, she’s a trophy girlfriend,” Jimmy jokes.

“Jimmy.”

“I’m kidding. Obviously, yes, of course she’s not a trophy wife. She’s a puppeteer.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He whines. “Griffin. Help me out here. You’re tossing me mixed signals. Do you want to show her off or not?”

There’s an uneven silence. It’s one that Jimmy would normally break himself, but I can tell his gears are turning.

“Griffin, this looks real good for you. I mean, jeez,” he says. “At least tell me you’re taking her to the music awards.”

The sound of popping gravel comes from the end of the driveway. Beverly’s massive station wagon bounces down the road, kicking up dirt. Behind the windshield, she gives a grinning wave that has my lips tilting up at the corner of my mouth.

Jimmy groans and repeats, “At least tell me that, Griffin.”

I’m not sure how to respond. It’s one thing to fake date in a small town for a thrift-store owner, but it’s another thing entirely to fake date on the red carpet. In the public eye. On television.

Beverly wouldn’t want to go to an award show. She likes being behind the partition, playing someone else. It would be a lot to ask of her. Robin didn’t want it, either—for her or Ava.

I run a palm over my beard. “I haven’t asked.”

Beverly parks and jumps down from the front seat. She’s in yet another ’70s fashion statement: high-waisted pants and a ringer tee with the faded face of Bernie Bird smacked on the front. She runs around to creak open the passenger door. Too many things fall down in her arms. A tote bag, her coat, a Tupperware container, and then the familiar haphazard lump of cobalt blue feathers: Bernie Bird.

Ava runs across the driveway as fast as her tiny legs will take her and barrels into Beverly’s leg. Beverly gives out an exaggerated “Oof!” making Ava laugh. Bernie Bird’s feathers float in Bev’s face. She blows out a breath to get them out of the way.

“Hey, A. Want some snacks?”

“B!” Ava says, pointing up to Bernie.

Beverly shakes the Tupperware. “I’ve got pancakes and eggs.”

Ava’s eyes brighten more. “Cakes! Hi, cakes!”

Beverly meets my lingering gaze, knocking her chin toward the house and mouthing, I have food.

I nod and hold up a finger as if to say Be there in one second.

Beverly leads Ava into the house. The door shuts behind them with a snap.

“Let’s think about something else then,” Jimmy says and clears his throat. “The album. You’ve written a song or two, I hope?”

“Just mostly brainstorming. But I’ve written a song about the letter E.”

I can picture his index finger and thumb massaging the bridge of his nose. “But that’s not exactly the thing we need. Bud, they’re kinda breathing down my neck here.”

My chest tightens. I hate putting him in this position.