Page 89 of Love Felt Like This

“I’m telling you; it’s closer than you think.” Beverly shifts herself until our shoulders bump. Her hair sways with each movement. I’m immersed in the familiar citrusy scent, grapefruit with hints of lemon.

“There we go,” Beverly says. “Now, move your hand up higher.”

I do, and Bernie’s right hand rises. Beverly dutifully moves hers as well. We look ridiculous—both Beverly’s arms tucked into the puppet and one of mine inside as well.

“This is called right handing.” As she speaks, the words rustle Bernie’s feathers. She’s close enough for me to pick up the coffee scent on her breath—like the kind from a fresh candle. I bet it’s her fifth cup of the day already. I smile to myself.

“So there’s always a second puppeteer?” I ask.

“Not always, but if it’s this type of puppet, a sack puppet—live-hand puppet—then, yeah. Most of the time.”

“I didn’t know there were multiple people in here.” Beverly adjusts her position as she directs Bernie’s head to look at Ava. Her elbow brushes against my chest. “What if the other hand goes rogue?”

She twists to look at me. “What do you mean?”

Our noses are so close. I keep my voice even keeled, trying not to focus on the tiny freckles dotting her cheeks as I ask, “What if the other puppeteer—the right hander—does their own thing?”

She shrugs. “They don’t. It’s not about you in this industry. That’s kind of the beauty of it.”

“In my industry, it’s always about me.”

“Oh, Griffin, I know,” she teases.

My heart jolts again as I chuckle. “You making fun of me?”

“I would never,” Bernie Bird squawks.

Smirking, I shake my feathery hand in Beverly’s face. She gasps and waves her own feathery fingers back, tickling them over my nose with a laugh. Her laughs are always light and airy. That easy type of laugh. Everything seems like it comes easy to her. Everything is fun.

Playing at puppetry with Beverly feels like I’m getting away with something. Sneaking away from the record label and prying eyes. It’s like I’m at a sleepover as a kid when we’d stay up all night with no rules or parental oversight.

My fingers twitch inside the felt hand, tapping out that taunting new beat. Something different. Something about freckles and gentle laughs.

Beverly finishes up a performance for Ava with my hand flailing beside hers the best I can. When we both finally remove Bernie, Ava is left squeezing the air with her fists, asking for more.

“He’ll be back,” I tell her, but Ava waddles over to the limp Bernie set in the corner. “Nope,” I say, swinging her into my arms as she whines. “Sticky kid fingers off the bird, Ava.”

Beverly sets Bernie in the recliner, then heads to the kitchen and unpacks the foggy Tupperware. Steam rises from a small pile of pancakes and eggs. Ava is already sniffing the air.

I set her down at the table. “Let’s start with eggs this time, munchkin. Protein first, then sugar.”

I stroll to the cabinets and pull down plates for all three of us. It’s so domestic. So normal. I want more of this. After Ava is successfully chewing on eggs, much to her displeasure, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the counter.

“Can I ask you something, B?”

“Always,” she replies. The ease of how quickly she answers makes me smile wider. Maybe she’s still riding the high of a good performance. Or maybe it’s because she’s with me.

“Would you want to go to the Grammys?” I ask.

She freezes in place, her palms gripping the plastic Tupperware. “With you?”

“Yeah. But I guess you could go with Bernie, and I’ll just tag along, if that’s better.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Her cheeks get pink as she fumbles with the pancakes on her plate. “Oh, I couldn’t.”