Page 87 of Love Felt Like This

“I know, I know.” I sigh because I’ve given Jimmy one too many I knows lately with nothing to show for them.

“Go, you moron!” Jimmy yells at likely another car. “Sorry. Not you, Griff. So, is all this kids’-song stuff at least, I don’t know, helping?”

“Yes, I’m making progress. I am.”

I’ve written down little snippets of a song with the pieces that tap from my fingers. Chords that pluck at me when I watch Beverly laugh with my daughter.

“Good,” Jimmy says through a sigh. “Good.”

“It is. I feel…good right now.” I think about Beverly and her Bernie T-shirt. My thumb twitches where I hold the phone. A tiny beat desperately needing a song. “Jimmy, I gotta go.”

“All right. But Griffin?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you send me one song? Send me one finished song. That’s all I ask. Something maybe we can tease while we’re on tour, yeah?”

I force myself to nod. “One song,” I repeat back to him.

“And let me know about bringing Beverly as your date to the Grammys. They need to reserve a seat for her. And she probably needs a dress or something.” A car horn blares. Jimmy yells, “Eat a dick!” followed by a calmer “Talk later, Griffin?”

“Yeah. And stay safe.”

But I only hear a “Don’t make me come over—” from Jimmy before I hang up. I tuck the phone back into my pocket and exhale.

Beverly at an award show. A new song to record. Ever closer to the international tour in March. It’s all moving so fast.

I shake off the cold inside and make my way upstairs. I crest the top stair, and what I find is so absurd I have to bite back a laugh.

Beverly’s right arm is covered in a sack of blue feathers, disappearing up into Bernie Bird’s head. Her left arm is tucked into his large feathery one, pointing and waving as she makes him talk. Ava is across from her on the floor with her legs tucked underneath her butt.

“You don’t know about squares?” Bernie squawks. The voice is obviously just Beverly’s, but Ava doesn’t know or care; her eyes are locked on the bird.

“How about…circles?” Bernie asks.

Ava’s mouth opens with a giggly squeal. “Cake!”

“Cake? Like ice cream cake?”

“No!”

“Oh, a cookie cake!” Bernie nods emphatically. “Yes, yes.”

“No!” Ava insists through a laugh. She points at the Tupperware. “Puh-cake!”

“Plastic cake?”

Ava is in stitches by now. “No!”

I walk slowly across the hardwood so the magic isn’t ruined, but I don’t think I could ruin it anyway. Ava is enraptured.

“And who’s this messy-haired guy?” Bernie turns his attention to me.

“Me?” I ask, poking my chest.

Ava twists to see me mid-step. She’s teeming with bottled-up energy—just prepared for another laugh.

“Ohh, I know you,” Bernie shoots back.