Chapter 3 #2
“Monthly stress. Monthly invasion of privacy. Monthly opportunities for Horatio to say something that gets us canceled.”
“But the donations—”
“We can raise money without putting ourselves through that again.” Wyatt takes my phone and sets it deliberately on the table.
“Val, I love that you want to help. I love that you’re willing to be uncomfortable for a good cause.
But there’s a line. And monthly television appearances with our chaos bird crosses that line. ”
He’s right. Of course he’s right. But the part of me that spent twenty years being told I wasn’t enough, wasn’t interesting enough, wasn’t worth paying attention to—that part is whispering that this is my chance to matter.
“What if we could help more animals?” I ask quietly.
“We’re already helping animals. Second Chances has tripled its capacity this year. Horatio’s Instagram raises thousands every month. We’re making a difference without sacrificing our sanity.”
“But—”
“Babe.” He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to the internet. Not to Grant Holloway. Not to the people who think we’re too different or too weird or too whatever. You’re already enough.”
My eyes sting with tears. I refuse to let them fall. “What if I want to do it anyway?”
“Then I’ll support you. I’ll show up to every taping, I’ll chase Horatio around every set, and I’ll hold your hand through every panic attack.
” He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone.
“But I’m asking you to really think about what you want.
Not what you think you should want. What do you actually want? ”
I close my eyes, letting the question settle. What do I want?
I want to help animals. I want to make a difference. But I also want peace. I want privacy. I want to wake up on a Sunday morning without worrying about what the internet is saying about me.
I want a life that’s mine.
“I want to go home,” I say finally. “I want to sleep in our bed with Petunia at our feet and Horatio in his stupid corner. I want to have coffee with Janis and hear about Pat’s chickens. I want normal.”
“Then let’s go home.”
“But what about—”
“We’ll tell Janet thank you, but no. We’ll keep doing what we’re doing—posting on Instagram, working with rescues, living our lives. The impact doesn’t have to come from television. It can come from just being us.”
“Just being us has resulted in two viral disasters.”
“Exactly. We’re very good at it.” He grins. “Why mess with success?”
I laugh despite everything. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me anyway.”
“I really do.” I lean forward and kiss him, tasting salt from my almost-tears and the lingering sweetness of the dessert he stole from my plate. “Thank you for talking sense into me.”
“That’s what husbands are for. That and killing spiders.”
“And reaching things on high shelves.”
“And opening pickle jars.”
“Very important work.”
“I’m a full-service operation.”
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from Theo with a link to what appears to be a TikTok video. Against my better judgment, I click it.
It’s a compilation of Horatio’s greatest hits from this morning, set to dramatic music. Someone has edited in slow-motion replays of Grant’s facial expressions and added subtitles with increasingly creative censoring of Horatio’s profanity.
“Fuck yes!” becomes “DUCK yes!”
“Young dick” becomes “Young DUCK!”
The comments are a mix of people dying of laughter and people declaring Horatio their new favorite celebrity.
“We’ve been duck-ified,” I tell Wyatt, showing him the video.
He watches it, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “This is incredible. Who has this much time on their hands?”
“The internet is a mysterious place.”
“The internet is a terrifying place.” He hands back my phone. “But at least they’re having fun with it.”
“I guess.” I scroll through more comments, then wish I hadn’t. For every ten positive comments, there’s one reminding me that I’m too old for Wyatt, too boring, too ordinary, too everything.
Wyatt must see something on my face because he takes the phone out of my hands again. “Stop reading comments.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And you’re doing that thing where you convince yourself they’re right.”
“What if they are right?”
“Then they’re right, and we don’t care.” He tosses my phone onto the couch cushion beside us, out of reach. “Valerie. Look at me.”
I do.
“Do you love me?”
“Of course.”
“Do I love you?”
“Yes.”
“Are we happy?”
“Most of the time.”
“Then what anyone else thinks is completely irrelevant.” He pulls me into his lap, and I let him, tucking my face against his neck. “Besides, half those comments are from people who are jealous. The other half are from people who wish they had what we have.”
“What do we have?”
“Chaos. Laughter. A bird who cusses like a sailor. A dog who needs emotional support clothing. And each other.” He kisses the top of my head. “That’s a pretty good life.”
“When you put it that way…”
“I always put it that way. You’re the one who insists on complicating things.”
“I don’t complicate things.”
“You absolutely complicate things. It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”
I pull back to look at him. “How is that endearing?”
“Because it means you care. About everything. About animals, about people, about getting things right. You overthink because you give a damn.” His hands settle on my waist. “I love that about you.”
“Even when it drives you crazy?”
“Especially then.”
From across the room, Horatio chooses this moment to contribute to the conversation.
“I love you!” he screeches in Wyatt’s voice, followed immediately by, “Fuck yes!”
We both dissolve into laughter.
“That bird is a menace,” I say.
“Our menace,” Wyatt corrects.
“Our very expensive, very loud, very inappropriate menace.”
“Wouldn’t have him any other way.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon in comfortable silence.
Wyatt works on his laptop, responding to emails from the rescue.
I curl up with a book I’ve been trying to finish for three months.
Petunia naps in a patch of sunlight, and Horatio alternates between preening and making random noises that suggest he’s rehearsing for his next viral moment.
It’s peaceful. Normal. Everything I wanted.
My phone buzzes around three. Dustin.
Dustin: Theo and I want to FaceTime at 4. That work for you?
Valerie: Sure. Fair warning, your brother is probably going to mock me.
Dustin: He absolutely is. I’ll try to control him.
Valerie: You’ve never controlled him in your life.
Dustin: Fair point.
At precisely four o’clock, my laptop starts ringing with a video call. Both my sons appear on screen, Dustin in what looks like his kitchen and Theo in his dorm room with his roommate visible in the background.
“There she is!” Theo announces. “America’s newest reality TV star!”
“I’m not a reality TV star.”
“You’re trending on three different platforms. That’s pretty much the definition.”
“Hey, Mom,” Dustin says, his expression softer than his brother’s. “You did great this morning. Really great.”
“Thank you, sweetie.”
“Seriously though,” Theo interjects, “the ‘young dick’ moment? Chef’s kiss. I’ve watched it seventeen times.”
“Please stop watching it.”
“Never. I’m getting it printed on a t-shirt.”
“Theo—”
“‘Valerie Want a Young Dick’ across the front, ‘Ask Me About My Bird’ on the back.”
Wyatt, who’s been listening from the couch, starts laughing so hard he has to put down his laptop.
“Don’t encourage him,” I warn.
“Too late,” Wyatt manages. “I want one too.”
“I hate both of you.”
“No you don’t,” Theo sings. “You love us. And you love that we think you’re hilarious.”
Dustin clears his throat. “Okay, but seriously. How are you doing? That was a lot of exposure. Are you handling it okay?”
This is why Dustin is such a sweetheart. Well, one of the reasons.
“I’m okay. Overwhelmed. But okay.”
“The donations are real, right? People are actually helping because of the segment?”
“According to Wyatt’s rescue, they’ve gotten over a hundred new foster applications since this morning. And Horatio’s Instagram has raised twelve thousand dollars just today.”
“That’s incredible, Mom.”
“It is.” I glance over at Wyatt, who gives me an encouraging smile. “They want us to come back. Monthly segments.”
Both of my sons’ eyes widen.
“Are you going to do it?” Theo asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too much. Because I don’t want to live my life on camera. Because Horatio is a ticking time bomb of profanity, and eventually he’s going to say something we can’t recover from.”
“But you could help so many animals,” Dustin points out.
“We’re already helping animals. We don’t need national television to keep doing that.”
There’s a pause. Then Theo grins. “Good for you, Mom. Seriously. It takes guts to say no to that kind of opportunity.”
“Or stupidity.”
“Nah. It’s smart. You’re setting boundaries. Protecting your mental health. Being intentional about your life.” He shrugs. “That’s very evolved of you.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise. You just never noticed because you were too busy telling me to clean my room.”
Dustin laughs. “He has a point.”
“I’m very smart,” Theo adds. “Also, can we talk about how Horatio said ‘I love you, Valerie’ in Wyatt’s voice? Because I may have cried. Just a little.”
“You cried?” I ask.
“It was very moving! That bird loves you guys. In his weird, profane way.”
“He does,” Wyatt confirms, joining me on camera. “Hi, boys.”
“Hey, Wyatt,” they chorus.
“Thanks for taking care of our mom today,” Dustin says. “We were worried she might spontaneously combust on live TV.”
“She came close,” Wyatt admits. “But she rallied.”
“I’m right here,” I remind them.
“We know,” Theo says. “We’re talking about you, not to you. There’s a difference.”
“I’m hanging up now.”