Page 98 of Love Felt Like This

“You’d have figured this out one way or another,” I say. “You are figuring it out.”

“That’s a lot of confidence in me.”

“I’ve got a little, sure.”

“Hmm. Misplaced,” she says, plunking an awkward key on the piano.

Beverly is so confident when she’s performing Bernie Bird, shamelessly adopting voices and gestures that would make most adults fidgety afterward. Nobody else I know has that unbridled sense of self, not questioning her actions but driven on instinct. And yet it’s like she forgets her talent the moment the fabric is off her arm. The fun voices in her head shift to critical ones.

Ava tugs at my pant leg, jerking my attention to her. “Play.”

I bend to scoop her up into my arms. “Yeah, get on up here.” I sit Ava in my lap, sliding her between me and the piano. Only a couple of keys are awkwardly pressed on the way down.

“Can you play?” Beverly asks Ava sweetly. Ava scrunches her nose, like Beverly asked whether she can fly a plane too. “Yeah, silly question,” she murmurs to herself.

I chuckle. Ava presses a key, then turns around to look at me for approval.

“You’re a great help,” I say, pressing the same one. Ava giggles, pressing it again. I tap a different one. She follows, jamming her finger down. “But be gentle with the piano.”

“I hate your reputation,” Beverly says.

Startled, I look at her. She’s locked on to me with heavy eyes.

“What?” I press another key for Ava, which she chases with her own small index finger.

“Everyone thinks you’re this big assh—” She flicks her eyes to Ava, then continues, “—butt.”

“I am a big butt,” I say.

“No. That’s not who you are. Not with her. Not with me.”

My chest clenches. I run a palm over Ava’s feathery bangs, kissing the top of her head. It’s familiar. Comforting.

Beverly follows the motion with her beautiful green eyes.

“How would Ava know how to be a good person if you’re not? She gets it from you.”

“Nah, that’s all from her mom.”

“What was she like?” Beverly asks, quickly adding, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Ava squirms, as if this conversation is suddenly too boring. It would almost be comical if it didn’t hurt. She’ll want to talk about Robin one day, but for now, I set her back on the carpet. She snatches her red toy car—far more interesting than adult talk.

“Sorry” rushes out of Beverly. “You don’t have to talk about her. I was just curious.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. She’s…Robin was lovely. She wasn’t bothered by anything in life. And she wasn’t intimidated by me. One time she told me, ‘You’re not special, Harv. You just work hard. But that’s better, I think.’ She talked to me like I was a person—not some famous guy. And she laughed loud, y’know?” A small smile twitches at the corner of my mouth.

“I like the way you talk about her,” Beverly says.

“There’s no other way to describe her. She lived every day like an opportunity to explore something new.”

“That sounds amazing.” Beverly’s voice has grown dreamy. “There’s a lot of things I’ve never done.”

“Like?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never owned a hit children’s show.”

“Yet,” I amend. “What else haven’t you done?”