Chapter Seven
Birdie
15 years ago
“ O ne, two, three, four, five,” Mr. Slaytic counts, pointing to each student’s head in turn. “One, two, three, four, five. And one, two, three, four. Oh yeah, we have fourteen students. Eh, it’ll be fine. Okay kiddos, so your final assignment is a group project.”
I straighten my necklace chain, nervous, as the rest of the class groans in unison.
“Making deals, at its heart, is about cooperation,” he says with a stern look around. “And even though this is a glorified shop class, it’s my duty to ensure you’re learning the real-life skills you’ll need in the cutthroat world of small business. So your goal, as teams, is to create a handmade product you could sell at a local craft market. We’ve got four three-person groups and one duo. Who are the fives?”
I sit up straighter and raise my hand, only to hear Rex’s chair groan behind me. Please tell me that doesn’t—
“Oh good. Rex and Birdie.” Our teacher smiles at me, and I try to parrot him, even though I’m swallowing down an internal scream. My final project—the make-or-break for me getting an A and staying on target for valedictorian—is with him!
Not him .
I close my eyes and let out the tiniest snort. It's all I'll allow before I compose myself. Pep talk time. You can do this. You can master your emotions around the giant oaf who irritates you more than any other living being.
Our teacher displays our names in the groups on the big screen and tells us to rearrange seating so we’re with our partners. I clearly don’t move fast enough, because before I can even get oriented, my desk and chair are being dragged to the side of the class. The outskirts, not the front.
I sputter and smack at Rex’s arm.
He grins down at me. “Your name’s Aylin?”
Weird. He pronounced it almost right. It’s hard to get exactly correct for English speakers. Wait, how does he know my first name?
Oh, the class roster on the wall. Aylin Badem (Birdie) . That’s when I notice something even better as he pulls his desk alongside my left.
“Your name is Ramonarex?” I reorient to teasing him back, delighted to finally have the upper hand. “It's a perfect name for you.”
His expression closes off, growing hard, as he slides to sit right next to me, practically shoulder to shoulder. Oh wow, he’s really close, so close he’s basically caging me in and I can smell his deodorant or soap or something. “Yeah? Because it's a girl’s name? How original.” He looks toward the rest of the class mulishly.
“What?” I huff. “No, that's stupid and sexist. You'd be lucky to have a girl’s name.”
“Why’d you laugh, then?” His gaze slides back to me, still wary.
“Because you're a pest.” I poke his shoulder. “ Ramona the Pest . The kids book?”
“Never heard of it.” His tone is softer, curious.
“No wonder,” I sigh and rearrange my notepad and pencil. “It's probably above your reading level.”
He pokes my shoulder back. “Smart-ass.”
“No cursing!” Mr. Slaytic grouses over his safety glasses.
With a mumbled apology, Rex leans the side of his body on his desk, facing me, basically blocking out the rest of the class.
“It's in honor of my grandma.” His voice is quieter. “Ramonarex.”
“Oh. That's actually really cool. Aylin is my grandma’s name too.” I kind of feel bad making fun of it, but not enough to apologize. “I actually love it, but most people can’t say it quite right. Nicknames for the win, huh? Birdie is mine because my mom’s called me minik kusum since I was a baby. It means little bird in Turkish.”
“Cute. Though Aylin’s too pretty to lose.” He grins, correcting his pronunciation slightly after hearing me say it. I swallow, heart fluttering. Only my family really uses my first name, even then, not that often. “How about Birdie Lynn? It suits you.”
My cheeks flame. No one’s ever called me that before, but it does sound kind of nice. I don’t hate it. I roll up my paper and tap his arm. “Yours does too, Rex the pest.”
Wait, is this the first real conversation we’ve had with each other? I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked before. And I’m just rambling about my name and my family and my feelings out of nowhere.
“I am kind of a pest, huh?” he asks.
“To say the least.” I roll my eyes, happy to be back in sarcastic territory.
“But I'm your pest.” He slow blinks.
I glance to the side. Your pest. Gah, the flirting again. It's the one thing that throws me off, and he must know it. There's nothing to say to that, so I change subjects to the more important topic. Our actual subject.
“So what are we making for the final project?”
“Figured you could tell me. Be the brains of our little duo so we make a good grade or whatever.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “I'm so bad at this stuff, whereas you're a total savant.”
“Sounds sexy.”
My eyes bug out but I cover it with a snort. “You wish!”
His brows crinkle.
“Savant means you're like a genius with this handy stuff.”
“It’s just basic, easy shit.” He pauses, glancing at the teacher, who clearly didn’t hear that curse word. The way he’s leaned his whole body sideways, he's like a big wall of boy between me and the rest of the class. Big horns. Big hands. Big blunt facial features. I’ve never really looked at him for more than a few passing moments, but his bright, fiery eyes are kind of pretty.
“Well?” he asks.
Well, what? I panic, worried that I was staring at him in a weird way.
“What am I building for you?” He smirks.
I bite my lip but hesitate. There’s this one thing. An idea I just got today looking through my new magazine.
“You've got something in that big brain of yours. Spit it out.”
Can eyes sparkle? I know demons’ eyes light up and can even flicker, but I’d swear his are letting off infinitesimally small sparks.
“Birdie Lyyyyyynn.” His whisper is singsong, teasing me because I’m staring like an absolute freak.
Oh, no. I’m finally succumbing to the flirting. He’s a demon. Maybe he’s using some kind of magic to hypnotize me. No! I shake my head. I’m in control here. With a huff, I grab the magazine in my bag, flipping to the first article. I can't look at him right now. I’m embarrassing myself. Get it together, girl.
“Something like this.” I point to a new style of beehive. “But not for bees. For the Gosta fireflies. A habitat.”
“People would buy that?” He's looking at the magazine, thank goodness, and not me anymore.
“Duh! Think of it like a hummingbird feeder or even how pollinator plants attract butterflies. Can you imagine how many people would love to watch colorful fireflies flitting around their garden each night?”
I’ve been secretly trying to attract them myself in our backyard treehouse with bits of yarrow and balsamroot I pick up on the walk home, since I’ve heard they like the pollen. I think it’s working but a dedicated habitat where they could fly by during their nightly migration would probably help.
“Hmmm,” Rex hums, looking at the magazine photos. “I’m surprised no one else ever thought of that.” He scratches at the turtleneck he’s wearing under our uniform sweater. When he pulls it down, I see irritated skin and dark ink.
“Is that a tattoo?” I whisper, shocked.
“Yeah. It sucks. I had no idea they'd be this fucking itchy.”
“Rex!” the teacher barks. “That’s a mark against you today. Mind your mouth.”
“Mind your mouth,” he mimics in a near whisper. “It wasn’t my smartest move to let my goth friend practice her tattoo skills on my fucking neck. I’m such a dumbass.”
Her? I swallow. Goth girls are so pretty. Maybe she’s his girlfriend he makes out with on weekends or they crash cool parties and drink wine coolers. Rex could definitely fool someone into thinking he’s old enough to buy alcohol. He’s bigger than most adults I know. Sixteen with tattoos. I bet he got in so much trouble for that with his parents.
“Anyway,” he grimaces. “So this firefly house. Seems easy enough. I’m good with a jig saw, and I’m sure you could make up a design with all your nerdy animal know-how.”
Nerdy animal know-how! My fingers tighten around the magazine. Why does he flirt with me then call me a nerd? Is this all just a game? I can’t ignore him completely, but I refuse to react. He won’t get a rise out of me today. We have a job to do, and I’m getting that A.
I start writing down the structure of the final project and all the points we have to address in my notebook. I’ll show him nerdy!
“So the customer market is admittedly small. It’s only really a viable product in Winter Bliss or areas with a high population of bioluminescent fireflies. But the project goal is to sell at our local market. This fits the bill.”
I glance over to see him nodding. His eyes track over my face like he’s taking my measure. Does he hate the idea?
“Smart. Real smart, Birdie Lynn.”
I bite my lips together to keep the pleased smile in, because I really want to stop reacting to him. And dangit, not only do I like that nickname, I also can't help that his compliment sets off butterflies in my stomach.
I kind of hate how much I like Rex Perchaz.
Present Day
M y wedding day is perfect.
A clock ticks quietly in the corner. Each beat seems to reverberate overloud in the silence where Mom and I wait in the front parlor, closed off from the reception in the great room. It’s a small crowd—just family and a few friends—so everyone must be settled and waiting. I glance back up at the tall grandfather clock.
Ten minutes to go.
Taking a breath, I exhale into my bouquet—a simple mix of hydrangeas, baby’s breath, and roses—all white. The dress is pure white too and fits like a glove—a gauzy chiffon skirt leading up to a strapless bodice thanks to my itty bitty titties. The only wild card today was getting my two horses settled in the side garden. And even they have acted like little angels—well, big, smoke-breathing angels, but still—they are more than happy to munch jalape?os and carrots in a new-to-them patch of grass.
Everything’s gone off without a hitch today. No mishaps at all.
The last thing we’re waiting on is the groom.
No notifications.
I click my phone off, chewing the inside of my cheek, and set my bouquet aside. Randy hasn’t sent a selfie or anything and neither have I, too superstitious about seeing each other before the altar. It’s tradition but why? Seems like a recipe for anxiety. I did let him know that I made it into town with the horses then sent a second message once I’d gotten into the dress saying I’d see him soon.
Still no response. I bet his phone is just dead. That happens a lot when he gets overwhelmed. Totally normal.
Nothing to worry about.
“The most beautiful bride.” Mom finishes securing one last bobby pin to my intricate lace veil. I let out a breath as I trace the scalloped detail along the edge, catching sight of the henna on the back of my hand. It’s a Turkish tradition with a less-than-feminist history—representing the bride as a sacrifice. But we decided to embrace a modern take on it, because the beautiful part of a bride’s henna night is the women in the family spending quality time together.
She picks up my left hand. Her fingertips trace over the dark red swirls and loops she drew while telling me the story of her wedding day, one I’d never heard. How excited she’d been to move to America with her new husband even though she didn’t know him well. They married for a shared goal more than love—to make something of themselves in a new country filled with opportunities.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
“No.” I squeeze her hand and try to smile. I feel numb, if anything. Like I can’t fully breathe all the way in. Like making eye contact with anyone is hard, especially her. I keep getting lost in my thoughts.
It’s just wedding day jitters, I’m sure.
The fingertips of my other hand hover over my hair, held back with dozens of pins and the veil. I slide it into my pocket to stop fidgeting. The fabric is smooth and soft. The underwire contraption of my bodice makes my boobs look like a lot more than they are.
I feel beautiful.
And, I guess Mom is right, just a little nervous.
She recaptures both my hands in hers.
“I was supposed to make you cry when I was drawing the henna,” she says.
“What? Why?” That seems odd, to want a bride to cry.
“The henna night gives a woman space and time to grieve the life she’s leaving behind.” Mom reaches up to hold my cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over the swell. “But you’ve never been a crier, have you? So secret with your feelings, even as a girl. Plus, you’re not really leaving anything behind like I was. We have a nice life here, and I’m so lucky you live close. My day was so different. My mother and mother-in-law had me crying a river of tears. It wasn’t until the henna was drawn that I really understood I’d be leaving them for good. My whole family. Others I loved.”
She doesn’t speak of Türkiye as often as she did when I was a child, especially since her mother passed away and she stopped making trips as often. It strikes me that I don’t really know her as anything other than what she is to me —a mom. Not a young woman who left people behind. Someone with past heartache and losses before I was even born.
“Are you glad you got married and moved here?” I ask, thinking of her painful divorce with my dad.
“Of course I am.” She laughs. “Even though our marriage ended, your father gave me so much. We grew apart, but not before we built each other up, in a way—our new life in a new country. Maybe it wasn’t everything we’d imagined on our wedding day, but you and your brothers? We cherish you. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
I nod, catching the flare of relief that she doesn’t regret me , not realizing that maybe I’d been wondering that for a while.
Their divorce wasn’t easy on any of us. I was a teenager trying to focus on getting into college, and my two brothers took the news hard. The pressure to be perfect, to not be any kind of burden, seemed to suffocate me after their split. My family only came to Winter Bliss for vacations back then, but after a few trips, Mom fell in love with the town. And then with how much Dad traveled back to New York for work, they grew apart. She wanted a life of her own. To avoid a custody battle, Dad's only requirement to agree to let us live in Winter Bliss full-time was that we attend Infernus Academy, a private business school he felt was equal or better to the schools in New York City.
Still reeling from their divorce, I threw myself into academics, the one thing that seemed to bring any light into my dad’s eyes. I even graduated a year early, going on to live with him in the big city through my master’s degree then spending several years on Wall Street.
But one trip home a couple of years ago, a single tour of my stepmom’s family land, and everything changed. I’d always loved animals, but it wasn’t something my school—or my dad—encouraged academically. It was a curiosity. A pet interest. But Orla’s property was unique—a struggling Christmas tree farm home to several local endangered species. The barn was in disrepair, and she couldn’t afford the rising taxes, so she planned to put it up for sale, even though the land hadn’t left her family in over two hundred years.
I used the majority of the money I’d made in my early career to buy it from her instead, determined to carve out a protected space for animals in an area slowly being encroached upon by private developers. The bonus is that she and my mom were able to use that money to open The Deviled Egg.
“Most of all, I’m glad that you don’t need marriage.” Mom smiles at me. “You have the freedom to choose it for love.”
Tears prick my eyes, and I have to blink to keep them back.
“ Kusum , are you okay?” She bends to try and catch my eye, but I sniff and pull away.
“You know marriage isn’t always about love,” I whisper.
Mom says nothing. When I look over, her brows twist together, surprise evident in the wrinkles that sprout between them.“You already have it all—an education, a home, and work you are passionate about. The only thing you need is love.”
She doesn’t get it. What I need is stability. Someone who won’t leave me at the drop of a hat for a life of passion and excitement.
Someone like her.
The air squeezes from my chest.
My mom is everything to me, but this is something I’ve never quite connected the dots on. She’s the one who left Dad after all.
I look to my hand in hers. They’re so similar, down to the shape of our nails. But in so many ways, as people, we aren’t. I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have opened up.
My emotions have never been convenient or easy to deal with. They’ve never really made sense to her. She’s warm and open and passionate and loving. And she’s right. I never cried much, either as a child or a teenager during their divorce. There was enough crying between her and my brothers. If I did as well, the family would have fallen apart. Instead, I learned from my dad. Be strong for those around you. Emotions are a luxury for those who don't carry the burden of holding a family together. Push them down until they’re forgotten. Soldier on.
Is it really so wrong of me to marry Randy because he’s the best choice?
Our goals align. We both care about sustainable ecotourism in Winter Bliss and we each have strengths to support the other to make that happen, to grow together.
I focus on the design she and Orla drew on my hand. The blood-red ink is a mix of fire and flowers. For the first time, it strikes me how similar the flames are to the tattoos Rex has climbing up his neck, the specific way they curve and point. Maybe they were subconsciously influenced by their long-term guest. He’s been like a tornado in their inn these last few months and drives me up the wall half the time, but they’ve never laughed more since having him around.
It’s a sweet thought.
“There’s a smile. Much better.” Mom pats my cheek. “Sometimes love takes time.”
I take a deep breath and sigh.
Sure. Maybe.
I click my phone on and only see notifications of photo tags on social media. My brothers are total hams, trying to coerce Dad into a selfie with begrudging success. They all look so handsome.
Still nothing from Randy.
I text him a single red heart emoji just in case he still has it on him or he just got it recharged, hoping for dancing dots or a heart back or an impromptu whispered phone call, even though that’s not really his style.
It’s a waiting game now.
Orla ran out to check on him and make sure everything was ready. She’ll be back any minute to let us know when it’s time to head down to the start of the aisle where Dad will be waiting for me.
The clock ticks along. How is it so damn loud? The sound makes something inside me jolt with every click. My leg bounces.
“There’s still time.” Mom pats my hand, still in both of hers. “It’s good for the bride to be a little behind schedule. Guests running late have a chance to settle.”
Everyone’s waiting on me. No pressure.
Mom’s grip squeezes mine. I shake my head and refocus on her. She looks concerned, like she’s inspecting me.
“Are you certain you wish to marry?” she asks.
I rear back. “Mom.”
Everyone’s here. Even with it being an intimate ceremony, we still sunk a bunch of money into the day.
“It’s not too late,” she says, hurriedly. “You are an independent woman with everything going for you. You should only do this if it’s something you really want. If you know it’s right. You don’t have to set—”
She stops, looks behind me, and freezes.
The door creaks open and closes quietly. I turn. Orla stands there in an elegant column dress of gold satin, hands behind her back. Her tall spiraling horns arch proudly up from her silver hair, braided with white and gold ribbons.
But her face is a mask of tension. She says nothing.
The clock ticks. How is it getting louder ?
“What’s wrong?” I ask, looking to Mom, who’s watching her wife, something silent passing between them. “What?” I spin back to Orla. “You went to find Randy. Is he okay?”
At the mention of his name, my stepmother’s eyes blaze black and red, spidery glowing veins lighting up her temples. She’s angry. For a demon, Orla is extremely even-keeled. Stoic, even. I’ve almost never seen her upset.
“Where’s Randy?” I ask quieter, noting the squeakiness to my tone and the tremble in my jaw.
He’s my practical, small-town fiancé.
He wants what I want.
We’re a match.
Yet he hasn’t answered a single text or call since I spoke to him last night.
My stepmom walks up to me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “He’s not coming.”
No.
Are you certain you wish to marry?
NO.
That’s the real answer to Mom’s question, the same question that I’ve asked so many times over the last months of planning and stress. I’ve asked myself and discarded the question, again and again.
No .
I wasn’t sure about getting married. I didn’t even particularly want to. It was Randy who thought it’d be a good idea.
“Where is he?” I ask Orla, wide-eyed. I want to throttle him! Or, no. I need to talk him into doing this, even just for show. My whole family is out there. His too. I can’t face our families alone. What would I say?
My father is out there. He never wanted me to move back to Winter Bliss and work on a ranch. Adding this failure to that still-healing disappointment, how will I ever look him in the eye again?
No.
I need to find Randy so we can get this ceremony done and quietly annul the marriage after a respectable few months and the first holiday season of renters is in the books. This isn’t good for him either!
“Where is he?” My voice is almost a screech.
“Greece.”
I laugh hysterically. “Greece?”
The honeymoon he wanted. The trip he’d been sending me social media videos clips and articles and mock itineraries and deals on excursions that I just had to see. What do I care about Greece when I have 300 acres, animals that depend on me, a construction project in complete disarray, and no help from his corner?
Not going along with his honeymoon idea is the only time I ever put my foot down with him. And it wasn’t even a no ; it was a not now .
The shocked laughter leaves me feeling oddly light. Like I dodged a bullet.
I didn’t even want to get married. That’s clear now. What was I thinking?
He left me here, alone, with everyone I know and love dressed up and thousands of dollars of food and bills to pay.
The money.
Oh no, there’s so much money on the line. We were getting married and building those cabins with the last of my savings to try and put Wild Hearts Retreat on the map.
My hands start shaking. My breath stutters, chest growing hot.
This can’t be happening. I put everything into this plan. Randy books the reservations. I host them.
On my ranch. Home to all my animals and wildlife that are only just now really thriving. My ranch—the one thing I know without a shadow of a doubt that I do love.
I gasp and double over, tears blinding me, falling down my fingers and palms, making the henna designs look glossy and brighter—a brilliant red, like fresh blood. I heave for air, trying to hold onto a single rational thought while all I feel is cold, desperate panic.
The cabins are just . . . a money pit at this point. Can I even afford to finish them if there’s no travel agent to bring in renters?
I’m not one to cry, but right now, I’m a sobbing mess.
“Birdie, breathe,” my stepmom’s voice sounds far away.
“ Minik kusum . Oh no, don’t cry.”
All the anxiety spiraling inside of me clashes with the shame of knowing my mom is watching me have a complete breakdown. I don’t act like this.
My father is down the hallway. Everyone I care about will see me like this. They’ll know what a mess I really am.
What a failure.
There are so many wedding gifts we’ve already received I’ll have to send back. My mind tries to start a damage control list. How does one, logistically, control getting jilted at the altar? There’s no way.
It’s a disaster of the highest order.
The tears won’t quit, and my fingers come away a little black. The mascara trailing down my face must be hideous.
No one can see me like this.
I don’t cry, and this is why. It hurts. It’s ugly. It’s so incredibly embarrassing. It makes everything worse. But sobbing through the full body-and-mind meltdown is the only pressure release valve that keeps me breathing.
I glance up and, through the tears, see my mom’s panicked face.
I haven’t seen that face since they first got divorced and my brothers had a fit, tearing up their room and thrashing as she tried to hug them. Being twins, there were two of them, so I got down on the floor and hugged them too. She was so scared back then, just like she is now.
This will break her heart. This will embarrass my dad.
I can’t change the fact my groom didn’t show up. But I also can’t let them see me like this. I can’t face the pity in their faces.
The clock clangs, several loud, discordant sounds that are supposed to be a top-of-the-hour tune. It’s harsh and ugly, echoing through the room and straight through to my bones.
“Your mom and I just need to talk for one second, Birdie.” Orla pulls my mom up. They go just outside the door and whisper to each other. Mom can’t even close it, keeping her hand clutched to the jamb.
They have to deal with me.
No, no, no. I can’t do this, can’t stay here anymore, can’t be the burden and disaster they all stare at.
I jolt to stand, look around, and make the only rational choice. Leaving through the door won’t work. My moms are there, trying to figure out how to handle their basket case daughter.
No. I hate it.
I race to the window facing the garden and fling it open, gather my skirts, and heave my body through the opening.
No one can see me like this.
It’s not time to get married.
It’s time to get my ass out of here.