6. Zoey
Zoey
Moving day should have been stressful with all the cardboard, tape, and hired strangers touching my things, but it wasn’t. I felt strangely… fine.
I absolutely did not think about Liam.
Because when I did, something in my chest dipped in an irritating direction. Just a brief, dull note of something that felt too uncomfortable to name.
So, I didn’t do that.
The movers had finished earlier than promised, which I distrusted on principle. I stood alone in the new place, surrounded by stacks of boxes labeled in thick black marker. KITCHEN. BOOKS. CLOSET. MISC. A threat.
The apartment was amazing. One open main room with the living area at the center, the kitchen off to one side, and a sliding glass door at the back that looked out over the small balcony.
Off the living room, through a wide, open threshold that had probably once been intended as a dining nook or tiny library, sat the space I had immediately assigned to Markie.
His enclosure was set up by the window there, giving him a clear view into the living room and, seemingly, a strong sense that monitoring my life was part of his job description.
A short hallway led to the bedroom and bathroom.
Boxes were everywhere, but the bones of the place were good. And it was mine.
Before I opened a single box, I did a quick pass through the apartment.
I always did it in a new place, checking locks, windows, exit routes, the smoke detectors.
Hurrying downstairs and outside, I slipped the spare key into its emergency hiding spot outside by the drainage spout, tucked under the loose stone I had already decided looked the most trustworthy.
It wasn’t glamorous, but neither was being locked out in leggings with melting ice cream.
Once I had done everything necessary to convince my nervous system we were not about to die or be inconvenienced in a preventable way, I returned to the boxes.
I tugged one box toward the sliding door and frowned. OUTDOOR. That was not supposed to be inside. That box held dirt-adjacent objects. Having it in the house violated several personal rules.
Squatting, I dragged it across the floor, the cardboard rasping in protest.
“Hi!”
I screamed.
Not a dignified scream. Not a cool scream. A sharp, full-body noise that left my mouth before my pride could intervene.
I spun and nearly took out a lamp.
A small girl stood behind me. Helmet strapped under her chin. Backpack on her chest. Big grin. Unbothered by the near-death experience.
“Sorry,” she said. “I forget adults don’t expect visitors.”
“You cannot just appear in someone else’s home,” I said. “That’s illegal.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll work on that.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Bobbi.”
I looked at the hand. Then at her. Then at the window behind her.
Markie, my pet parrot, screeched behind me.
I yelped and nearly dropped the box.
“Oh!” Bobbi squealed. “Bird.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “He is not a bird. He’s a heart attack waiting to happen.”
The cage by the window rattled. Markie flared his wings and screamed again, feathers lifted, focus locked on the stranger in my living room.
Bobbi turned slowly. “That is a very large parrot.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s Markie.”
He chose that moment to escalate, letting out a long scream.
Bobbi’s face lit up. “He’s incredible.”
“He hates you,” I said.
Markie snapped his beak hard.
“That’s a warning,” I added. “You’re standing too close to his house.”
Bobbi leaned forward anyway, careful but curious. “What kind is he?”
“African Grey,” I said. “He’s emotionally aggressive.”
Markie rattled the bars and yelled, “FUCK OFF!”
Bobbi frowned. “That is inappropriate.”
Markie paused. Then tried again. “OFF!”
“Progress,” Bobbi said.
I closed my eyes. “I love him, but I regret everything.”
Markie switched registers. “HOW MAY I HELP YOU TODAY?”
Bobbi smiled. “Customer service.”
“He does that when he’s mad,” I said.
Markie clicked. “RESTART YOUR SHIT!”
Bobbi absorbed this. “That one is also inappropriate.”
Markie clicked again, sharper.
“What does that click mean?” Bobbi asked.
“It means he’s deciding whether you’re a threat,” I said. “He’s thorough.”
Markie screamed directly at her.
Bobbi nodded once. “Fair.”
I dragged the box toward the balcony door. “I’m moving this outside before he escalates. Too much clutter.”
Bobbi followed, keeping a respectful distance from the cage. “Moving day is loud.”
“He hates strangers,” I said.
“I think he hates change,” she said. “New person. New boxes. New smells. His system says something is wrong.”
I cocked an eyebrow at that.
“He watches you,” she added. “Every time you move, he moves. Every time you stop, he gets louder.”
“He needs a job,” I said. “Or a hobby.”
“It’s a job to him,” she said. “Parrots bond hard. If their person is off, they get loud about it.”
I looked at the cage.
Markie stared back, unblinking. Judging me.
I exhaled. “How do you know that?”
Bobbi shrugged. “I read a lot. Also, I notice patterns.”
“In birds?”
“And people,” she said. “He watches you more than the boxes.”
Markie clicked once, sharp.
Bobbi nodded. “See.”
I didn’t enjoy having a child and a parrot analyze me in my own living room.
“He’s not pretending everything is fine,” Bobbi added. “He doesn’t know how.”
That landed where I didn’t want it to.
I lifted the box again. “Great. My bird is my emotional support animal and my supervisor.”
From the cage, Markie screamed, “PLEASE HOLD, MOTHERFUCKER.”
Bobbi nodded toward him. “See. He agrees.”
“I didn’t ask for commentary,” I said as I went outside.
When I came back inside, Markie had settled, his feathers down and in place.
Bobbi stood still. Then raised two fingers in a small salute.
Markie clicked once.
Bobbi froze. “Oh my god.”
“That’s approval,” I said. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Bobbi grinned. Then she said, “You sound tired.”
“I took a trip with friends, and now I’m moving. Of course I’m tired.”
“Was it fun?”
I paused and thought it over. “Yes. It was.”
Markie fluffed his wings once and turned his back on both of us. It was either closure or annoyance. With him, it was hard to tell.
Bobbi leaned against the counter. “I like him.”
“He tolerates you,” I said. “Which is very rare for him.”
From the cage, Markie said, “ASS.”
Bobbi nodded. “Affectionate.”
I reached for another box and didn’t look at her.
“You just… appear places?” I asked. “No one tracking your movements. No curfew. No adult mildly concerned about your existence?”
Bobbi shrugged. “Sometimes.”
Okay, then. Moving day continued while the parrot supervised. The girl stayed.
I stood there longer than necessary and pretended I was evaluating the box labels.
I still didn’t think about Liam.
Bobbi talked while I untaped a box. She filled the room without effort, spouting off facts about parrots, observations about how tape dispensers were poorly designed, questions about whether my bookshelf was organized by genre or color or spite.
Markie screamed every time she paused.
“PLEASE HOLD,” he yelled.
Bobbi corrected him. “That phrase is for waiting, not yelling.”
“FUCKING WAIT,” Markie replied.
She considered this. “Rude, but closer to what it should be.”
I snorted before I could stop myself.
Footsteps suddenly rushed down the walkway. “Bobbi!”
A woman appeared at the door, hair half loose, bag slipping off one shoulder, chest rising and falling too quickly. She took in the scene in one sweep. Boxes. Bird. Me. Bobbi.
Her shoulders dropped an inch when she spotted her daughter.
“There you are,” she said to Bobbi, then she turned to me. “I’m so sorry.”
Bobbi winced. “I told you I was fine.”
“I know,” her mom said. “You were not.”
She turned to me, already apologizing. “She elopes. We’re working on it. I turned my back for one second.”
She held out her hand for me to shake, “Mei Xu.”
“It’s fine,” I said, taking her hand. “I’m Zoey.”
Mei’s face said it was not fine. She had a careful smile and tired lines around her eyes. She looked like a woman who lived on alert and slept with one ear cocked and one eye open.
“She should have asked before exploring,” she said. “She’s also not supposed to bother people.”
Bobbi opened her mouth.
“She’s welcome anytime,” I said. “Truly.”
They both froze. For a second I did too, surprised at my comfortability with an open invitation.
But Bobbi wasn’t asking for anything I couldn’t choose to give. A kid wanting something from me was different from another adult wanting something from me. I was sure there was a shitload to unpack there about my own childhood trauma.
“She didn’t bother me,” I added. “She startled me. But other than that, no bothering.”
Mei let out a short laugh that sounded like relief. “Thank you. I promise we’ll be better.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Just knock next time.”
Bobbi nodded. “I can do that.”
From the cage, Markie gave another click.
“That’s him agreeing,” I said.
Bobbi saluted him. Mei mouthed her thanks again. They headed down the path together, Bobbi talking, Mei listening with rapt attention.
I closed the door and rested my forehead against it for one second.
Well. That was weird.
Shrugging it off, I went back to unpacking.
Moving had not been about space. It had been about exit velocity. This place gave me distance from my mother, who loved me deeply and wildly and without brakes.
She also took rent money from me with tears in her throat and panic in her tone, then booked an extravagant cruise by splitting the payment across enough credit cards to qualify as performance art.
I had found out by accident. An open confirmation email. A printed itinerary. Something stupid and glossy and impossible to mistake. I’d found it all days after I’d rearranged my own budget to keep her housed.
Even now I could still remember the feeling of looking at it and understanding, all at once, that I had not been helping stabilize a crisis. I had been financing the illusion that there would always be someone there to absorb the consequences for her.
That was the part that broke something. Not just the money, but the assumption that I would panic responsibly while she escaped beautifully.
She had cried when I confronted her. Said I was making her feel disgusting. Said I never wanted her to have one nice thing. Said it was always just us, like that explained why I was supposed to keep handing over pieces of my life every time hers caught fire.
That was when I understood distance was not dramatic. It was necessary.
I set a box on the counter and opened it. Books. Too many. A personal failing that I liked to pretend was a virtue.
I reached for the stepladder.
My ankle twinged.
I ignored it and climbed anyway. One rung. Two. Three.
I lifted the stack and stretched.
My ankle twisted.
The ladder tipped.
The room tilted.
Then everything went dark.