Page 91 of Love Felt Like This

Getting along is putting it lightly. He’s telling me I’m beautiful, playing with puppets, and buying me expensive clothes.

I like him.

There. I said it.

Griffin is funny, in the most subtle ways. Little one-liners. Sarcastic remarks with no bite and all play. He likes to continue my bits when I’m being ridiculous, and not once has he cringed at me, despite the occasional raised eyebrow. Sure, he doesn’t talk to many people. He likes Ava, me, and my family. Sometimes Pudge. Everyone else in town gets a grunt, at best.

He’s kind. Not nice—kind.

But Griffin Harvey is also famous, and I can’t forget that. He’s a musician. The musician, really. A heartthrob to every heartsick adult and crushing teenager in the United States.

Maybe to me.

I notice things now. His long, wild hair, which turns coppery in the light. The little specks of pepper in his brown beard and how there’s a freckle on his ear and a slash on his earlobes, like maybe they were pierced once upon a time. I notice things fans have probably known for years.

But I’m me. Just me. A puppeteer reviving an old kids’ show. I don’t have perfect teeth or a symmetrical face. My blond hair looks more like dirty sink water instead of sunshine. I still can’t get rid of my undereye bags, and I’ve got that thing with my chin that I was told I should be self-conscious about through a video online, and now I can’t unsee it.

I like myself—even my questionable traits—but I know who I am. And I know who Griffin Harvey is. And the fact is, we don’t match. Not that it would matter. We’re coworkers. Colleagues. He just happens to smell good and hang around a lot. (And occasionally caresses my neck against bookshelves, but who’s thinking about that, anyway?)

“You’re quiet,” Finch says. “Is now a bad time?”

“No.” I blink away my thoughts. “Sorry, just…thinking about Griffin. And the show!” I rush in to add. “Griffin and the show.”

Finch hesitates to respond.

Why is he pausing so much?

“Do you think he’ll wanna be on Birds?” Finch asks.

“Yeah, I think so…maybe.” Birds on the Block is known for its weekly celebrity guest star. But writing music for the show is one thing; acting is another.

“Have anyone else in mind?” Finch asks.

“There are a few actors here and there. People always loved being on Birds,” I muse, pulling through another stitch to the back of the puppet’s head. “You should come on the show.”

“I’m no rock star.”

“You’re my rock star.”

I smile to myself, but the silence afterward lingers for longer than I’d like.

“Finch?”

“Yeah? Hi. Sorry, hearing aid. What’d you say?”

“Now you’re being quiet,” I observe. “Why’d you call?”

He sighs.

“I don’t like that sigh,” I interject. He sighs again. “Stop it.”

“Well,” he says, dragging out the word. “I’ve been in talks with people. And…ugh…I don’t have the best news.”

I clutch my project in one hand, pressing it against my chest as if it’s a safety blanket. “All right…”

“Starlet…isn’t interested anymore.”

My heart drops. Starlet, one of only two streaming services I have meetings with. One of two lifelines for Birds coming back.