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Liam
Foramoment,Ithought Birdie was going to lose it after that reporter’s asinine words. Hell, I wanted to throw the woman out of the hotel bar for her assumption. But Birdie took care of herself; she more than took care of herself. She put the woman in her place. It made me feel oddly proud.
Which is better than the feelings I felt this morning.
After my night on Birdie’s couch, my shoulder is sore. I’m tired, I’m annoyed, and even more than those three things, I’m confused. I’ve only been with her for twenty-four hours and it’s as if my whole world has been shifted upside down. I’m doing my best to keep myself upright, but it’s hard.
When I took a shower this morning, I seriously considered just leaving. I don't like feeling vulnerable, and I sure as shit don’t like feeling unstable. I’ve worked hard in the last two years to get where I am, and I don’t want to slip back. And yet, I didn’t leave.
A horn on the street honks and I do my best not to jump at the sound. Fuck.Focus, Liam.
We’re walking around Atlantic City with the reporter, and I have some extra security tailing us in a black Suburban. I didn’t like the idea of walking around, but Gia practically begged me to make it happen. She didn’t want Birdie to feel like a caged bird or some shit. I don’t know how a woman like Birdie could ever feel like that with the world at her feet, even if she does have a stalker. But I did my best to make this happen for her, and here we are.
I can’t hear everything they’re talking about, but they’ve pretty much covered every topic under the sun. It’s been surprisingly nice to hear her talk about Parker and her mom. I didn’t know Lorri Wilder well, but she was always nice to me when she was around. Which wasn’t that often. Birdie and I bonded over the fact that our parents were mostly absent. But while Ms. Wilder often left homemade food for Birdie, my parents left me pizza money and Chinese leftovers.
I do love my parents, and I know they love me, but I really went through it as a kid. In more ways than one. To this day Birdie doesn’t quite understand how much I struggled. I was honest with her back then, but only to a point.
The reporter's next question breaks me from my memories of the past. “So, tell me about your hit song.”
“What do you want to know about it?” Birdie asks, her tone cheeky.
I know she’s still annoyed at the way this woman asked about her similarities to Mama Cass. After witnessing that exchange, and hearing Birdie’s response, I understand a little more about Birdie’s insecurities and why she may have thought our Instant Message conversation all those years ago was about her looks. Which is just not true. Honestly, it never even crossed my mind.
Sure, guys in high school may have referred to her as “the fat girl” but I never cared what a girl looked like. If she had a good personality and wasn’t a psycho, that’s what mattered. My mom may have worked a lot, but she did raise me to be a gentleman. I guess I never thought Birdie would take my words like that. I only wanted to get my point across at the time. In hindsight, I should have never said them. But I did, and I can’t take them back.
The reporter laughs, “Who’s it about? When did you write it? It’s a heavy song, I’m sure people would love to know who you wrote it about.”
I gaze at the back of Birdie’s blonde head, wondering what she’s going to say. Now that I know it’s about me, I’m curious if she’ll admit it to the world.
“I had a good friend in high school,” she starts. I notice her shoulders roll back, and she makes it a point to ignore my presence. I’m sure she doesn’t want this woman to get any ideas.
She continues, “I was obsessed with him. It was that silly teenager kind of love, where he’s all you can think about.”
The woman nods, “I can relate to that. I think most people can.”
“I think so, too. We spent a lot of time together, bonded over music, snuck out of our houses, and met for walks and late-night pancakes at Denny’s.”
“Sounds romantic.”
I swallow hard. Was it romantic? I guess I never thought of it that way. I’d been head over heels for Birdie back then, but not in a romantic way. She was a great friend, a best friend, someone who made me laugh and feel less alone. I enjoyed every moment we spent together, and I never wanted to lose her. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened.
I spent many nights after that wishing she would have never told me she liked me. No,loved me… fuck. It may have been obsessed puppy love, but she said it in her song and now to this reporter. I guess I never knew the extent of how she felt. How could I? After that night online we had a big fight the first day of Junior year, then we never spoke again.
I can see the side of Birdie’s mouth tilt up in a smile, like she’s reliving our time together right now. It does something to me, warms me from the inside. She hums. “I guess it could be seen as romantic, but he didn’t like me like that.” Immediately that warm feeling is doused, and I’m cold again.
“He told you that?”
“He did. Then shortly after that we stopped being friends. It was too painful to be around him, knowing I would never be more to him when that was all I wanted.”
“Sounds like you still have feelings.”
I give my complete attention to Birdie’s answer. Hanging on her every word. She just exposed herself more than she ever had when we were sixteen, and it made me upset she didn’t just say that to me back then. Maybe we could have found a way to still be friends.
Birdie laughs, she fucking laughs. “No, I don’t have those feelings anymore. I did, for a long time, but I’m a grown woman now. I’ve had other relationships and a lot of time to think about that season of my life. He was a good friend, an obsession, my first love, but he didn’t love me back. So, I took that love and put it toward my music. I let my desire, pain, and sadness fuel my art. It worked out for me in the end. So, I guess I should say thank you to him for giving me so many feelings to work with.”
I clench my fists. Is that all she’s reduced me down to? Fodder for her albums? Sure, we stopped being friends, but I did cherish the time I spent with her when we were kids. I thought she did too. Suddenly I feel like I’m going to be sick. Not that I have a right to be angry with her, we aren’t friends. We aren’t anything, but I can’t help the stupid emotions this woman keeps stirring up in me.
“If men are good for anything, they are good for providing us with stories and fuel to achieve our dreams,” the reporter smirks.
