Page 9 of Love Felt Like This

“Psht” is all I can jokingly respond. But yes, it is incredible.

Puppeteers search their entire careers for this type of chemistry: irritated versus bubbly. Serious paired with silly. Midnight and sunshine. It’s the perfect duo, guaranteed to get those knee-slapping-type laughs. The ones comedians would cut off their right arm for. Seriously, ask me. I’d do it, if I could still puppeteer afterward.

Below the paused video, a ticker showcases more than one million views. I want to laugh in disbelief. I also want to vomit. For now, I’m somewhere in between with a nervous grin.

“This was a freak accident,” I say, handing the tablet back.

Finch blinks. “Freak accident?”

“Yeah, like if…I don’t know, if a piano fell from the ceiling right now.”

“That only happens in cartoons.”

“You’re telling me a piano has never fallen on top of someone before?”

“Sure, maybe once or twice.”

“See? That’s my point. Possible, but freaky.”

“Oh, Bev…” There’s that cute-old-man disappointment again. He knows how to work me.

I stroll over to the coffee maker in the opposite corner of the workshop, far from my guilt and away from the rolls of fabric, felt scraps scattered on wooden workbenches, and the off-duty puppets hung on rods.

I’ll miss this place. I only had enough funds to purchase the Birds on the Block intellectual property and to gain ownership of our nonprofit, Flock Workshop. But I couldn’t rescue all the assets—not the bins and bins full of felt, feathers, fleece, and foam, and not this renovated warehouse that acts as our workshop. My little slice of home.

“One hundred more views in the last thirty seconds,” Finch calls over to me.

My hand shakes when I grab the carafe’s handle, and it isn’t because I’ve had too much caffeine. (I’m only on my third cup, which is honestly child’s play.) No, it’s because one million people now know my name, nestled in the comment section of that video.

Bernie Bird, puppeteered by Beverly Lark

That thought sends the shivering glass carafe knocking against my mug.

One million people.

I acknowledge Finch’s awe with a musing “That’s a lot of people.”

One million.

I dump two packets of sugar into my coffee (okay, maybe three) and fill the rest with creamer before reaching over and rolling the dial on the workshop’s speakers. The music plays louder, creating white noise over my thoughts. But Sir Elton John serenades me for only two seconds before Finch starts talking again.

“Listen to these comments!” he yells over the music. “ ‘Who knew Griffin Harvey has a sense of humor,’ ” Finch reads. “ ‘I’ll whip out a puppet, too, if he smiles at me like that.’ ”

I reluctantly lower the volume on my precious Elton John. “Mm-hmm. He has good comedic timing.” I pace back over with my coffee, setting it on the windowsill and away from my project.

Finch lowers the table. “That’s all you can say?”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “What else do you want me to say?”

“This could be big, Bev.”

“How?”

“This is exposure. This could save Birds.”

“I mean, sure,” I sort of agree, but I feel my eyebrows stitch together.

Finch squints at me. “You don’t think so.”