Chapter Sixteen A Middle-of-Nowhere Five
Chapter Sixteen
A Middle-of-Nowhere Five
Beverly
“Thanks for not losing my number.”
“It was a close one this time,” Finch says. “But I figured, eh, what’s one last call?”
“Famous last words before I show up outside your window.”
We both laugh. I’ve missed our bits.
It’s midday, and I’m sitting with my knees up to my chin in the living room.
A rerun of Birds on the Block is paused on the TV mounted over the fireplace, and the coffee table overflows with sewing needles, thread, scissors, and felt.
When Finch called, my phone was partially covered by my in-progress puppet.
It took me a few seconds of rustling to excavate the vibrations.
“How’s retirement?” I ask, putting him on speaker and leaning the phone against my mug of coffee.
“Turns out, I’m still bad at Jeopardy!”
I laugh. “Oh no.”
“I really thought I’d built some skills over the years.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’m older and wiser. Isn’t that good enough?”
I smile as I poke a needle through fabric. “I guess that counts for something.”
He hums to himself, and it’s almost hesitant. “So…how are things with you? How’s pitch prep? Can I help with anything?”
I exhale, pushing through the fabric again—though this time, it’s more of a violent stab. “Just trying to get it all done. I’ve got a handle on a lot of it, but…I’m still feeling rushed.”
“Is Griffin Harvey helping? Alice says you’re living together.”
My cheeks heat. “I’m not living with him. He’s in Nana and Grandpa’s old place out back.”
“Ehh.”
“Don’t ehh me,” I counter with a laugh. “It’s not the same thing. We’re fine. We’re getting along.”
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.
My mouth feels dry. “What? Why? What’s going on?”
“You know they’re flaky. They drop shows and meetings like flies.”
I suddenly feel faint. “But…Connection is still interested? Right?”
“Yes.”
“But now that’s our only option?”
“Yes.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. The felt in my hand is shaking. I drop it on the table.
“Hey. Bev? You can do this,” Finch assures me. “You have time. But let’s not freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“I know you are. Relax.”
I let out a mix between a laugh and a scoff. “Relax? I need to work harder.”
“No, you don’t. You already work yourself to the bone.”
“Finch.”
“I was worried about telling you this,” he says. “You’re sleeping again. You seem happy. I don’t want you spiraling.”
“But this is our only opportunity now.”
“Beverly.” It’s his be reasonable tone.
Too late. My mind is swimming. Starlet and Connection were the two big streaming services that could bring Birds on the Block back. And now my only hope is Connection. Connection, who is the perfect fit, who makes incredible programs, but is notoriously picky with their content.
“Beverly,” he repeats. “Take a beat.”
“I have zero beats left,” I say.
“Don’t drive yourself insane,” he continues. “Take a break today to think. Go have fun with Griffin or something.”
“Have fun with…” I laugh as the words fade, and something else rings like a gong in my brain.
The Grammys.
I haven’t made my decision yet, but now I definitely can’t go. Which maybe is a relief because…I’ve been truly considering it. Selfishly. A fancy dress. Griffin in a suit. Holding hands in public…
It wouldn’t work out. Attending an award ceremony is a fantasy. Things like that don’t happen to people like me. And now I definitely can’t go. It would remove a full weekend from my schedule. So that’s that.
“What are you thinking?” Finch asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“You were quiet for too long.”
“Seriously, it’s nothing.”
“Bevvy.” I swear he uses that nickname like a weapon.
I sigh. “I thought I might have a thing in February, but I don’t.”
“What’s in February?” he asks.
“The Grammys.”
“Beverly!” Finch yells, scratchy and loud and excited.
I jump at the sudden sound, then laugh. “What?”
“You need to go.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t?”
“I won’t have time.”
“Yes, you will,” he says. “Take the break.”
“I don’t belong there.”
“What are you even talking about?” I open my mouth to answer, then close it. “Beverly. Be honest with me.”
“I don’t have time,” I repeat, instead of using the word belong because now it sounds childish. “I need to work.”
Finch grumbles something unintelligible under his breath before saying, “You’re the reason I still wake up to nightmares of coffee makers at three in the morning.”
“Aw, come on, that’s not true.”
“My friend bought me a Keurig, and I broke it.”
“By accident?”
“On purpose.”
“Liar,” I say with a laugh, then instantly frown. “Wait, tell me you’re lying.”
“Go to the Grammys.” I sigh as he continues, “You can lose one weekend. Enjoy this opportunity.” I bring my lukewarm coffee to my lips. “Enjoy your fake boyfriend.” I almost choke on it.
“You’re a monster,” I say.
“Those award shows are always fun,” Finch insists. “You need that. Albert and I used to sneak in flasks to the Emmys. One year, I gave an acceptance speech that everyone assured me was great, but hell if I remember it.”
I laugh as he chortles to himself. I wish I’d gotten involved in professional puppetry sooner. I wish Grandpa had been a little healthier and we’d performed together more. I wish I could’ve been there on those crazy nights, just to say I saw it all.
Then Finch says, “It was the only time Albert allowed himself a break. Do it for him.”
There’s a creak in the floorboards behind me as Nana emerges from her room. She peers over the couch and to my phone on the table.
“Is that Finch I hear?” she asks.
“Is that Alice I hear?” Finch counters from the speakerphone.
“You’re not dead yet?”
“You wish, woman.”
I tilt the speakerphone closer to her, as they descend into teasing. Finch tells her about the Grammys, despite me squirming as he does, and they reminisce about memories with Grandpa. The longer I sit, the more I start to drift, as my mind races.
We have only Connection remaining.
That’s my one shot.
I don’t have time to consider the freaking Grammys.
But yet…
Yet yet yet…
Could I go to the Grammys?
What if I screw up? Say something wrong in an interview or fall down on the red carpet?
What if Beau says something to someone? That I’m a star chaser.
A user. A gold digger. Would the internet deep dive into it and assume he’s right?
What evidence do I have that I’m not those things, other than knowing myself? Would Griffin believe any rumors?
Would it hurt my chances with Connection?
No. They don’t care. They just want a good children’s show. I’d have to kill a person for drama to matter. I hope.
I tongue my cheek. My knee bounces.
“Beverly?”
I come to, and Nana’s nodding toward the phone.
“Sorry. Yes, Finch?”
“Bevvy, I gotta go,” he says. I hear a door shutting. “I have to get the mail, and you know it takes me all day to trek to the end of my driveway.”
“You gotta watch those hips,” I joke. “Slip and fall and you won’t get up.”
“Exactly. Busy afternoon. Booked solid. But we’ll talk later.”
“Okay.”
“And relax.”
“No promises.”
We say our goodbyes—Nana telling another dark joke about hopefully seeing him in the afterlife one day—then I tap my phone to end the call.
With a heavy exhale, I lean back against the couch, stretching out my feet on the floor.
Nana pats my shoulder. “Such a lovely man.”
I smile and tease, “I like him well enough.”
We sit in companionable silence before she adds, “So…no Starlet, huh?”
I side-eye her. “You were eavesdropping?”
“Oh, impossible,” she says, waving a hand toward me. “I’m hard of hearing, remember?” She points to her hearing aid, and I roll my eyes with a smirk.
“You should take a break,” she says. “Go to the Grammys and forget about this for a bit.”
“I’m not going.”
Her eyes widen. “What? Why?”
“I don’t have time.”
“You have time,” she says with a scoff, as if that settles the matter, which it absolutely does not. “Be with a hot man for an evening.”
Whatever anxiety was already beating in my chest now pulses harder. “Nana!”
“And push your hotness in Beau’s face while you’re at it.”
Heat rises up my cheeks, and I choke out, “I am not hot. I’m a mess.”
“What is it Greg says? Oh! You’re a ten out of ten!”
“My uncle says that about me?”
“No, no, no. But he’s with the times.”
I shake my head, trying to erase thoughts about my uncle in his fifties being more in touch with culture than I am. “Well, I’m not a ten. I’m a middle-of-nowhere five,” I say. “At best.”
Nana scoffs. “You’re gorgeous. You’re funny. You’re successful. You’re about to become a showrunner.”
“Oh God.”
“Don’t spiral,” she says quickly when my face contorts. “What I’m saying is that you’re in a league of your own.”
“Maybe I should stay there, then.”
“Beverly.” It’s the same tone she’d use when I would talk back as a kid.
I look through the sliding glass door, past the thick draped curtains and the rocking chairs to Nana’s old apartment, where Griffin is probably sitting with Ava.
Maybe they’re writing music or taking a nap or playing with cars.
The thought pairs with a weird pang in my chest, a longing to go out there.
Steak appears at the top of the carpeted stairs, coming up from the den. I hold out my hand to coax him over. He gives me the stink eye before carrying on to the laundry room.
See? Small-town five. Steak knows the score.
I bring my knees back up to my chest and rest my chin on them, staring at the array of fabric and half-sewn puppetry.
“Don’t overthink it,” Nana says.
“I overthink everything.”
“Then find another hobby.”
I smile, and she pats my arm. “I think you’d regret not going. You’ll make time to hit your deadlines. You always do. Go live a little.”
I sigh.
I’ve lived a little with a musician before.
And I know what happens when that song ends.