Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The Good Morning USA greenroom is exactly what I’d imagine a holding cell for condemned prisoners looks like, except with better coffee and a fruit platter no one is touching.
Wyatt sits beside me on an overstuffed leather couch, his hand wrapped around mine while Horatio perches in his travel cage, mercifully quiet for the moment.
Petunia sprawls at our feet, her anxiety vest snug around her chest. She’s been surprisingly calm since we arrived at the studio ninety minutes ago, though I suspect the bacon someone from the crew slipped her has something to do with it.
“You’re going to be great,” Wyatt murmurs for the seventeenth time this morning. His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand.
“We’re going to be a disaster.”
“We’re going to be entertaining.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not to the viewers.” He grins, and even in my state of advanced panic, that dimple gets me. “Besides, Horatio’s been perfect all morning.”
As if on cue, my bird opens one beady eye and squawks, “Granola enema!”
A production assistant walking by with a headset nearly drops her clipboard.
“See?” I hiss at Wyatt. “Perfect.”
The door to the greenroom swings open, and a woman in her mid-forties strides in, all business in a navy pantsuit and impossibly high heels that make no sound on the carpet. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Mr. and Mrs. Nolan!” She extends a hand with practiced efficiency. “I’m Janet Montgomery. We spoke on the phone.”
Wyatt stands first, pulling me up with him. “Janet. Great to meet you in person.”
I manage a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Thank you for having us.”
Janet’s gaze shifts to Horatio’s cage, and something flickers across her face. Interest? Concern? Terror masquerading as professionalism?
“And this must be our star.” She crouches slightly, peering into the cage. “Hello, Horatio.”
“Fuck yes!” Horatio responds cheerfully.
Janet’s smile freezes. “I see.”
I want to crawl under the couch. “He’s been practicing his vocabulary.”
“Evidently.” Janet straightens, smoothing her jacket. “Well. Grant is very excited to meet you all. He’s a huge animal lover, as you probably know.”
“We watched his segment on rescue horses last week,” Wyatt says. “Really moving stuff.”
“Grant has such a gift for connecting with animals.” Janet’s tone is reverent, bordering on worshipful. “He has three rescue dogs of his own, two cats, and a macaw named Fitzgerald.”
“Does Fitzgerald have a potty mouth?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Janet blinks at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“The macaw. Does he… speak colorfully?”
“Fitzgerald recites Shakespeare,” Janet says, her tone suggesting this is both true and a personal point of pride.
Of course he does. Of course Grant Holloway’s macaw recites Shakespeare while mine screams about peckers and murder.
“How lovely,” I manage.
“Pecker!” Horatio contributes.
Janet’s left eye twitches almost imperceptibly. “Right. Well. Let me go over the segment structure with you before we head to the set.”
She produces an iPad from seemingly nowhere and swipes through what appears to be a detailed rundown.
“Grant will open with his usual Helping Paws intro, then introduce you as special guests. We’ll show the viral rally clip—just the thirty-second highlight, not the full four-minute version—and then move into conversation. ”
“Will Horatio be out of his cage during the segment?” Wyatt asks.
Janet’s pause is just a beat too long. “Grant feels it would be more authentic if Horatio could perch on one of you. The visual is stronger.”
“Authentic is one word for it,” I mutter.
Wyatt squeezes my hand. “We can do that. Horatio’s very comfortable with us.”
“Wonderful.” Janet makes a note on her iPad. “Now, Grant has prepared a few questions. Standard stuff—how you met, how Horatio came into your life, what the experience of going viral was like. He may ask about your age difference.”
My stomach drops. “Why would he ask about that?”
“It’s part of your story,” Janet says, as if this is obvious. “The viral video featured commentary about it. People are curious.”
“People need to mind their own business,” I snap before I can filter myself.
Janet’s smile doesn’t waver, but there’s steel underneath now.
“Mrs. Nolan, I understand this may feel invasive. But part of what makes your story compelling is that you’ve faced criticism and negativity, yet you’ve built this beautiful life together anyway.
That’s inspiring. That’s what viewers want to see. ”
She’s good. I’ll give her that. The way she frames it makes refusing to answer seem churlish.
“We’ll answer what we’re comfortable with,” Wyatt says diplomatically. “But our marriage isn’t really the focus here. We want to talk about animal rescue and Horatio’s fundraising potential.”
“Of course.” Janet taps her iPad again. “Grant will absolutely cover that. We have graphics prepared showing how much money Horatio’s Instagram has raised for shelters. Very impressive numbers, by the way.”
That makes me feel slightly better. The whole reason we’re doing this circus is to help animals. If it means subjecting ourselves to invasive questions about our relationship, so be it.
“One last thing,” Janet says, her voice taking on a careful quality that immediately puts me on edge. “Grant mentioned he might bring Fitzgerald out for a quick interaction with Horatio. Just to see how they communicate. It would make for great television.”
“Absolutely not,” I say immediately.
Janet’s eyebrows lift. “I assure you, Fitzgerald is very well-trained—”
“I don’t care if he has a PhD in ornithological diplomacy. Horatio doesn’t play well with other birds. Or anyone, really. It would end in tears.”
“Murder!” Horatio agrees enthusiastically.
Wyatt clears his throat. “What my wife means is that Horatio can be territorial. We wouldn’t want to stress out Fitzgerald or create an unsafe situation.”
Janet purses her lips but nods. “I’ll let Grant know it’s off the table. Though he may be disappointed.”
“He’ll survive,” I say.
A knock on the door interrupts us. Another production assistant pokes her head in. “Janet? Grant’s ready for them in five.”
“Perfect timing.” Janet tucks her iPad under her arm. “Let’s get you mic’d up.”
The walk to the set feels like the Green Mile.
We pass makeup artists, camera operators, and what appears to be someone whose entire job is arranging the fruit on display tables.
The studio is massive and freezing cold, the kind of industrial air conditioning that makes you wonder if they’re secretly storing meat in here.
The set itself is disgustingly cheerful. Bright primary colors, comfortable-looking armchairs arranged in a semi-circle, massive windows behind the anchor desk showing a view of Times Square. Everything screams “morning optimism” in a way that makes my coffee-deprived brain want to revolt.
Grant Holloway is exactly what you’d expect from his on-screen presence: tall, fit, silver hair perfectly coiffed, teeth so white they probably glow in the dark.
He’s chatting with someone near the anchor desk when we approach, but the moment he sees us, his whole demeanor shifts into what I recognize as “host mode.”
“Wyatt! Valerie!” He strides over with outstretched arms like we’re old friends. “And this must be the famous Horatio!”
Horatio, who has been suspiciously quiet during the walk, chooses this moment to unleash his full personality.
“Fuck, ass, shit!” he screams directly into Grant’s smiling face.
To his credit, Grant barely flinches. His smile doesn’t even waver. “Well! He certainly lives up to his reputation.”
“I’m so sorry,” I begin, but Grant waves me off.
“Please, don’t apologize. This is exactly why America loves him.” Grant leans closer to the cage, and I resist the urge to warn him. “African Greys are incredible mimics. I had one as a child—Lady Macbeth. She could do my mother’s voice so well it used to terrify dinner guests.”
“Lady Macbeth?” Wyatt asks.
“My mother was an English professor with a dark sense of humor.” Grant straightens, still smiling. “Fitzgerald—my current macaw—is much more refined. Though between you and me, he can be a bit pretentious.”
Despite my anxiety, I find myself warming to him slightly. At least he’s not clutching his pearls over Horatio’s vocabulary.
A sound technician approaches with wireless mics, and the next few minutes are spent getting us set up. They clip a mic to my blouse, thread the pack through my waistband, and give me a quick sound check that I mumble through like a hostage reading a ransom note.
Wyatt gets the same treatment, though he handles it with significantly more grace and considerably fewer anxious sweat patches.
“We’ll have you sit here,” Janet directs us to two armchairs positioned to Grant’s right. Petunia settles at Wyatt’s feet, and someone brings out a small perch for Horatio that will sit between us.
“When do we let him out?” I ask, eyeing the cage.
“Grant will give you the cue,” Janet says. “Probably after we show the viral clip. It’ll be a nice reveal.”
A nice reveal. Like we’re unveiling a prize on a game show instead of releasing a profanity-prone parrot onto live television.
“Two minutes!” someone calls from behind a camera.
My heart is trying to escape through my throat. Wyatt reaches over and takes my hand, and the familiar warmth of his palm against mine is the only thing keeping me from bolting.
“You’ve got this,” he whispers.
“We’re going to be a meme again.”
“Probably.” His dimple makes an appearance. “But we’ll be a meme together.”
“That’s so romantic.”
“I’m a regular Shakespeare.”
“One minute!” the voice calls.
Grant settles into his chair across from us, his posture perfect, his smile camera-ready. He does a quick sound check—“Testing, one two, can you hear me, New York?”—and gets a thumbs up from someone in the control booth.