Chapter Twenty-Four A Two-Person Bird
Chapter Twenty-Four
A Two-Person Bird
Griffin
“This will put you behind,” I grunt.
Beverly holds out a bowl of soup and rolls her eyes.
“I’ll be fine,” she says.
I shake my head to argue, but that motion gives me a slight headache, so I instantly stop, clutching my temples in my palms.
Beverly sighs, extending the bowl toward me again.
“I’ve got this,” I answer to an unspoken question.
“Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t care,” she says. Despite my frustration, my lips twitch at the corners. I’ve never heard Beverly so insistent. I kinda like it.
“You can’t do everything by yourself,” she says. “You showed up for me when I was sick—”
“Drunk.”
“When I was sick,” she finishes. I snort. “So I show up for you.”
“You’re on a deadline. You don’t have time to do all this.”
“And what good is puppeteering Bernie if my right hand is down?” she says with a small smile. “We’re a two-person bird, remember?”
I sink into the sheets and groan, but Beverly only laughs.
She’s always laughing. Always showing up to situations with positivity and determination. I’ve never seen her this stubborn, though.
She nudges the soup bowl toward me once more.
I finally take it into my palms, bypassing the spoon and sipping the broth.
“I need to check on Ava,” I say.
“You will,” she says. “In an hour after you nap.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asks with a smile.
“Treat me like I’m incapable.”
“I know you’re not,” she says. “But sometimes it’s okay to not be okay. And you don’t seem to get that, so I’m here to remind you. Lucky you, huh?”
She twists around and grabs something from the side table behind her, then reappears with a water bottle. It’s a reusable one, lined with stickers from what appear to be various theater productions and even a national park or two.
“Do you like parks?” I ask.
“Stop talking. You’re sick.”
“Answer the question.”
“Yes,” she answers. “I like parks.”
“What do you like about them?”
She rolls her eyes with a smile. “Griffin—”
“I want to hear you talk,” I say. “It makes me feel better.”
She bites her lower lip and sighs.
“I like that you can see the stars. In my twenties, I went to the Grand Canyon with my grandpa. The sky doesn’t have light pollution there, so you can see everything at night.
Everything,” she emphasizes. “All the constellations and stars. I always assumed pictures of the Milky Way were enhanced for science textbooks or whatever. But you can actually see it with the naked eye. It’s gorgeous. ”
I smile. Beverly has a way of making simple things feel magical.
“You want to see the stars again?” I ask.
She nods. “I’d love to.”
“Then we’ll do that.”
“When?”
“Whenever you want.”
“When you’re overseas touring?” she jokes, but I stiffen.
“Whenever you want,” I repeat.
“But you hate heights.”
“I don’t care.”
The back of her hand touches my forehead. “And how sick are you again?”
I turn my head away.
“Big baby,” she murmurs with a grin.
I groan. My body is clammy, cold, but also hot. I’m sweating, and I wish I’d stop. I’m probably the least attractive person right now, yet even in a sick daze, I can’t stop flirting with Beverly. I can’t stop daydreaming about a life with her in it.
“Tell me more,” I say.
“More of what?” she asks with a soft laugh.
“Anything,” I answer. “How did you get so good at playing nurse?”
Her cheeks flush, and she chokes out a laugh. “I’m good at playing pretend, I guess.”
My heart sinks. “You should be working,” I say. “I’m putting you behind.”
She pokes a finger at me. “Bring that up one more time, and I’m gonna sedate you.”
“How?”
“I have ways.”
“Scary.”
“I can be scary.”
My heavy head settles into the cushioned pillow. Does Ava feel this miserable? Who is changing her diapers? Who is feeding her?
“I need to check on Ava,” I murmur again, sitting up.
Beverly’s palm whips out and pushes against my chest. Her hand, splayed over my damp shirt, sends sizzling heat to my stomach. Suddenly, I’m not cold at all.
“I’ve got her,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
“You can’t take care of both of us.”
“Watch me.”
She lifts an eyebrow. It’s defiant. I’ve seen the same look in the mirror.
“You are a bit scary. I’m rubbing off on you.”
“I could stand to be more serious.”
“No,” I say. My fingers have a life of their own as they reach out to stroke a strand of her delicate blond hair hanging down, running it between my fingers before tucking it behind her ear. “No, I like you just as you are.”
She stiffens in the rickety chair beside the foldout couch. Her hands tense in her lap as the chair creaks beneath her.
“Should I not have done that?” I ask out loud.
“It’s all right,” she answers after a moment, blinking to the floor.
When sleep finally takes me under, I swear I see her smiling.