Chapter 1
Chapter One
I’m standing in my kitchen in Vancouver, Washington, wearing my husband’s oversized Metallica t-shirt and fuzzy socks with holes in both heels, when my phone buzzes against the granite countertop. The subject line reads:
“Murder!” my African Grey parrot screams from his cage in the living room, as if he can sense something momentous happening.
“Not now, Horatio,” I mutter, squinting at the email through sleep-crusted eyes.
The message is from someone named Janet Montgomery, Senior Talent Coordinator at GMUSA. She uses phrases like “extraordinary viral sensation” and “unprecedented engagement metrics” and “potential seven-figure merchandising opportunities.”
I read it three times before the words fully penetrate my pre-coffee brain.
They want Horatio on national television. Live. In New York City.
“Fuck yes!” Horatio contributes helpfully from the other room.
I’m still standing there, staring at my phone like it might bite me, when Wyatt pads downstairs in his boxers, his dirty blonde hair sticking up in six different directions. Even rumpled and half-asleep, my husband looks like he’s wandered off a Calvin Klein billboard. It’s deeply unfair.
“What’s wrong?” He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.
At thirty-one, he’s still fourteen years younger than me—a fact that Twitter never lets me forget—but the age gap has stopped feeling like a scandal somewhere between our wedding and our first anniversary.
“Read this.” I hand him the phone.
His blue eyes scan the screen. I watch his expression shift from sleepy confusion to wide-awake alarm to something that looks dangerously like excitement.
“Holy shit.”
“Holy shit!” Horatio echoes in perfect imitation of Wyatt’s voice.
“We’re not doing this,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“Val—”
“Did you miss the part where they want him on live television? Live, Wyatt. As in, no seven-second delay. As in, when Horatio inevitably screams something about peckers or jack-offs, the entire country will hear it in real time.”
Wyatt does that thing with his jaw that means he’s thinking hard. “The entire country already heard it when he crashed my dad’s rally. That’s kind of how we ended up here.”
He has a point. Fifteen months ago, Horatio escaped his cage during a political event for Governor Perry Nolan—Wyatt’s father—and proceeded to scream profanities into a hot microphone while Wyatt chased him across the stage.
The video went viral. Then mega-viral. Then achieved the kind of internet immortality usually reserved for cats playing piano and politicians getting hit with milkshakes.
That incident is also, technically, how Wyatt and I ended up together. Long story. Involves a sperm bank, a speed dating event, and me recommending a chiropractor for his anatomy. I try not to think about it too hard.
“Think about what we could do with this,” Wyatt says, turning me to face him. His hands settle on my hips, his thumbs tracing small circles that are extremely distracting. “The rescue needs funding. Petunia’s medical bills alone—”
At the mention of her name, our blue pit bull lifts her head from her bed in the corner, pink tongue lolling. She came to us from a dog fighting ring with scars on her face and a heart full of love, and her ongoing treatment for anxiety costs more than my car payment.
“If we negotiate this right,” Wyatt continues, “we could raise serious money. For the rescue. For shelters nationwide. Horatio could actually help animals instead of just terrorizing them.”
“Help!” Horatio shrieks. “Help! Murder!”
I look at my husband—this impossibly kind man who spends his days rescuing traumatized animals and his nights making me feel like the most beautiful woman in any room, despite the gray hairs I’m pretending don’t exist. He runs a nonprofit that rehabilitates fighting dogs, and his passion for the work is one of the things I love most about him.
“If—and this is a massive if—we even consider this,” I say slowly, “I have conditions.”
Wyatt’s face splits into that devastating grin, the one with the dimple on the right side that still makes my stomach flip like I’m sixteen instead of forty-five. “Name them.”
“All profits go to charity. Every penny. We’re not profiting off that menace.”
“Done.”
“I have final approval on everything. The segment, the questions, the merchandise if there is any—all of it.”
“Absolutely.”
“And if at any point I say we’re pulling out, we pull out. No arguments.”
“You’re the boss.” He kisses my forehead, then my nose, then the corner of my mouth. “Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?”
“You’re buttering me up.”
“Is it working?”
I sigh, already regretting every life choice that has led to this moment. “Coffee first. Then we’ll call this Janet person.”
“Coffee!” Horatio screeches. “Coffee! Fuck!”
I really should see the disaster coming.
The next two weeks pass in a blur of phone calls, contracts, and increasingly alarming conversations with television producers who seem convinced that Horatio can be “managed” with enough preparation.
These people have clearly never met my bird.
We agree to film a segment on Good Morning USA’s animal charity special, hosted by Grant Holloway—a silver-haired anchor famous for his “Helping Paws” segments and his allegedly tireless work with rescue organizations.
The show will highlight Horatio’s viral fame, discuss the importance of bird welfare, and promote fundraising for animal rescues nationwide.
It sounds almost wholesome when they describe it. I should know better.
The morning of our flight to New York, I wake at four a.m. to find Wyatt already dressed and loading Petunia’s travel supplies into a duffle bag.
His mother—Darcy, who has become one of my closest friends despite being married to the governor—insisted on booking us first-class tickets and a suite at the Peninsula Hotel.
“If you’re going to humiliate the family on national television,” she said over brunch the week before, “at least do it in style.”
Horatio’s travel cage sits in the middle of our living room, specially outfitted with extra perches and his favorite toys. The bird himself is perched on top of his regular cage, watching me with the calculating expression that usually precedes chaos.
“You’re going to behave,” I tell him firmly. “No screaming on the plane. No inappropriate words in the airport. And absolutely, under no circumstances, are you to curse on live television.”
Horatio tilts his head. “Horatio want a cracker.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Jack-off!”
“And there it is.”
Wyatt appears in the doorway, Petunia’s leash in hand and a grin on his face. “Ready to become famous?”
“We’re already famous. Or infamous. I can never remember which.”
“More famous, then.” He crosses the room and kisses me, soft and sweet. “This is going to be fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I believe it.” His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “No matter what happens, we’re in this together. You, me, the profane parrot, and the pit bull. Team Chaos.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “Team Chaos. That should be on our Christmas cards.”
“I’ll talk to the printer.”
The flight is a disaster before we even reach cruising altitude.
Horatio, despite his airline-approved carrier and the calming playlist I’ve prepared (heavy on Metallica, his favorite), decides that first class is an appropriate venue for a dramatic performance. We’ve barely cleared the runway when he starts.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he screeches, somehow capturing the exact cadence of a flight attendant announcement. “Fuck your tray tables!”
The woman across the aisle chokes on her mimosa.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, fumbling to cover his cage with the special blackout cloth we’ve brought. “He’s nervous about flying.”
“Murder!” Horatio contributes from beneath the cloth. “Murder! Ass! Shit!”
The woman’s eyes go wide. “Is that—is that the bird from the governor’s rally?”
I close my eyes. “Yes.”
“Oh my God, I love that video!” She’s already pulling out her phone. “Can I get a picture?”
For the next four hours, a steady stream of passengers finds excuses to walk past our seats. Some ask for photos. Some just stare. One man requests that Horatio say “pecker” for his Instagram story, and Wyatt has to physically restrain me from committing assault.
By the time we land at JFK, Horatio has learned three new phrases from eavesdropping on neighboring conversations (“divorce lawyer,” “hedge fund,” and mysteriously, “granola enema”), and I have a stress headache the size of Manhattan.
“That could have gone worse,” Wyatt says as we deplane.
“He said ‘granola enema’ to a flight attendant.”
“She laughed.”
“Hysterically. Because she was terrified.”
Wyatt adjusts Horatio’s carrier on his shoulder and takes my hand with his free one. “Deep breaths. We’ve survived worse.”
“We really haven’t.”
The airport is worse.
Petunia, normally the calmest creature in our household, apparently has thoughts about New York.
Specifically, loud thoughts. She starts barking the moment we enter the terminal and doesn’t stop until we reach baggage claim, where she’s recognized by a group of teenagers who’ve followed the whole saga on Horatio’s Instagram account.
“Oh my God, it’s Petunia!” one of them squeals. “From the videos!”
Within seconds, we’re surrounded. Phones are out. Petunia is getting belly rubs from strangers. And Horatio, sensing an audience, begins his performance.
“New York!” he screams through the mesh of his carrier. “Fuck New York! Horatio wants a cracker! Mwahahaha!”
The teenagers lose their minds.
“He’s even funnier in person,” one of them says, filming everything.
“This is going on TikTok immediately.”
“Please don’t—” I start, but it’s too late. They’re already posting.