8. Zoey
Zoey
The siren started the moment Liam crossed the threshold of my new apartment with me in his arms. I should have anticipated it.
The sound was high, sharp, and continuous.
Liam flinched so hard, I felt it reverberating through his arms. His grip tightened without squeezing. He froze, body locked in place, every muscle on alert, posture shifting from careful to prepared.
“That’s Markie,” I said.
He looked past me, scanning the house. “What’s a Markie?”
“My parrot.”
The siren continued uninterrupted, volume unwavering.
Liam blinked once. “Your parrot sounds… unhappy.”
“That’s his baseline,” I said. “It gets worse if he thinks I’ve been replaced.”
Liam nodded, slowly absorbing my words.
I was grateful I had handled Markie’s food and water before touching a single box. That small mercy kept his screeching at angry levels instead of apocalyptic.
“Put me down,” I said. “He doesn’t like new people. Or noise. Or change. Or you being taller than the furniture.”
“I can be shorter,” Liam said, bending his knees.
The noise amplified.
“He does not believe you.”
Liam lowered me carefully, waiting until I had my balance before stepping back. I limped toward the noise, already bracing myself for the performance.
Markie’s large enclosure gave him a clear view of the entry, the living room, and anyone foolish enough to think they could sneak in unnoticed.
The perches rotated to prevent boredom; his toys were arranged just the way he liked them, as were his food bowls.
It was the only room that looked even remotely finished.
Markie stood rigidly on his perch, feathers tight, body angled forward. His attention was locked on Liam, and he was radiating hostility.
“I’m here,” I told Markie. “You’re fine.”
The sound cut off mid-scream, then he clicked once as he stared at me.
I reached the cage and adjusted the latch he liked to pretend offended him. He leaned toward me and settled back a fraction.
Behind me, Liam was still frozen in place.
Markie turned his head slowly. “HOW MAY I FUCKING HELP YOU, SHITBIRD?”
Liam let out a startled laugh. He clamped his mouth shut a second too late, like he’d just realized this was not a comedy club and he was, in fact, being screamed at by an animal with opinions.
His hand landed lightly against the middle of my back before I even registered he’d moved. Just one quick, warm contact. The laugh must have knocked his guard down and his body had gone looking for somewhere to put the extra energy.
I went still for half a second.
Ordinarily that would have annoyed me, or at least made me aware of him in a way that put my shoulders up around my ears. Instead, I liked it. The touch was brief, thoughtless, almost boyish. Or puppyish. What made it worse was that it felt natural.
I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry about Markie.”
“That was excellent,” Liam said, still smiling despite himself. “Direct. Efficient to scare off intruders.”
Markie answered immediately. “FUCK OFF.” Then: “PLEASE HOLD, MOTHERFUCKER.” He rattled the bars hard, wings flaring, eyes locked on Liam. “RESTART YOUR SHIT.”
Another rattle. Another pause.
“HAVE YOU TRIED TURNING YOUR ASS OFF?”
Liam’s mouth twitched as he took a step toward the cage.
Markie exploded. “NO NO NO. FUCK YOU, SHITBIRD.”
Wings hit metal. His beak cracked against the bars. The sound filled the room.
I didn’t raise my voice. “Don’t.”
Liam stopped mid-step.
Markie screamed once more anyway, then slammed his beak against the metal again. Suddenly, he went completely still and tilted his head.
Liam stepped back.
Markie clicked, then started grooming himself.
I turned and looked at Liam.
He wasn’t annoyed. He was watching Markie with focused interest, like he was committing the bird’s rules to memory.
“Most people try to push past that,” I said.
“He told me no,” Liam said. “I respect that. Even if he had a roundabout way of saying it.”
Oh boy. Liam cared about bird-consent. I was totally and completely fucked.
Markie fluffed himself and turned away, no longer hostile but still quiet. As I looked from my parrot to Liam, the tightness in my chest loosened.
“Well,” I said. “Congratulations. You survived first contact.”
Liam nodded once. Serious. “I’ll try not to screw up the sequel.”
“He didn’t have a great first ten years,” I said. “He spent his life in a small cage. He got no enrichment from his too many owners. He learned that being loud got results.”
Markie peered at us over his shoulder, clearly satisfied with the accuracy.
Liam’s attention stayed on him, not the cage. “Does he ever come out?”
“Yes,” I said.
He glanced at me then, one eyebrow raised in question.
“He doesn’t fly well,” I continued. “He never learned how. They clipped him early. By the time I got him, his balance was off and his confidence was worse.”
Markie shifted his weight and clicked as if he was offended.
“So he just hangs out?”
“Pretty much. He supervises. He sits on my shoulder and judges my life choices.” I paused. “He also falls asleep pressed against my neck and screams if I move.”
“That sounds… terrifying,” Liam said.
“He acts more like a cat,” I said. “If cats were furious and swore a lot.”
Liam nodded. “You take him out every day?”
“Yes,” I said. “On his terms.”
Another click from Markie.
“He remembers,” Liam said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “He remembers everything.”
I adjusted Markie’s water bowl a fraction, needing to keep my hands busy. I didn’t want to explain what it meant to care for something that learned survival the hard way.
Markie leaned into the side of the enclosure and settled, one foot tucked up, content enough for now.
The living room was full of boxes. The couch existed in theory, beneath a pile of who knows what. Liam guided me there, his hand hovering near my elbow, never touching. I hated how accurate his read on my balance was. He carefully removed my things from the couch and placed them in a neat pile.
“Sit,” he said.
“I don’t need?—”
“Sit.”
I sat.
He disappeared into the kitchen without waiting for permission. I crossed my arms, irritation lining up neatly with old instincts. Being taken care of always came with a cost. There was always the expectation of future compliance or obligation.
He moved through the kitchen without hesitation, clearing a space on the counter with a sweep of his hand.
Took a glass from the cabinet, paused, then chose a different one.
He filled the glass and set it on the counter, then he picked it up again and brought it over, placing it on the coffee table within easy reach.
He folded a kitchen towel, then set it next to the glass and propped my foot on it.
I stayed like that, mostly out of spite, because I suspected he thought I’d be a shitty patient and didn’t want to prove him right.
The couch was still half wrapped in plastic, the cushions stiff. I took a careful sip of the water he’d brought me and watched him move back into the kitchen.
He didn’t ask what I wanted to eat. That should have annoyed me more than it did.
He opened a cabinet, closed it, opened another, paused, considered.
Then he adjusted something on the counter that had not been crooked.
He moved with a confidence that suggested he was used to kitchens that were not his and still took responsibility for the outcome.
My gaze roved over his body. He was large.
His shoulders filled the narrow space. He had to angle himself to reach the upper corner cabinet so as not to bump into things.
The house seemed to accommodate him reluctantly.
He pulled out a pan, then swapped it for a bigger one. He turned on the burner and waited until it responded before continuing.
I shifted on the couch.
This was bad. This was worse than bad. This was someone feeding me, and I was letting him.
I told myself I could stop it at any point. I didn’t.
I couldn’t believe I was being taken care of by a practical stranger I had met at a B Liam answering before I could rearrange the truth into something less pathetic. She doesn’t have anyone else. A clean sentence. A useful sentence. A sentence I still wanted to fight on principle.
I was old enough to know a person should have a list of people who cared about them.
Someone local. Someone whose number didn’t come from a temporary card handed over after an incident at a lake.
Instead, when something went wrong badly enough to require fluorescent lighting and medical supervision, all I had was Liam. Not my mother. Not a friend.
It was strange for me to be the one in an emergency. Usually, I was one who handled them. I was the one who stayed clear-headed. I was the one who absorbed impact and chaos and figured out the next steps. Emergencies were mine to manage, not mine to have.
So, it was a deeply unpleasant experience for me to be in this position, sitting on my couch with my foot elevated, looking—and feeling—concussed and helpless, while a man I barely knew prepared a meal for me.
Apparently, the universe had decided I was finally going to experience the deeply cursed vulnerability of being the problem instead of solving it.
He cracked eggs carefully, then stirred them. He rummaged through a box I’d cut open but hadn’t unpacked yet. He took out a jar, read the label, then shrugged and used it anyway. He moved like someone who followed instructions even when he didn’t agree with them.
The savory scent hit me next, and I was annoyed that it comforted me.
Liam plated the eggs with more care than necessary, then carried the plate over to me. He handed it to me, then took one full step back, hands loose at his sides.
“I don’t like this,” I said.
He frowned. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”