Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I was expecting ice time and interviews. Not grocery stores and… you.”
♦
Fall is settling in without fanfare. Crosby’s yard looks like a fairy tale after the lights come on—deck heaters glowing softly, the stained wood still warm underfoot, the last of the sunset slipping behind the trees. A long sectional sits cushioned in neutral tones, low tables already dotted with drinks, and at the center of it all is Crosby at the massive stainless steel grill, lid open, flames hissing as he works.
Arch and Evan flank the grill like self-appointed experts, beers in hand, offering a steady stream of unsolicited advice as Crosby flips burgers with calm precision. Arch gestures broadly, convinced the secret is timing, while Evan insists it’s all about the heat, both of them talking over each other as if Crosby hasn’t been doing this his entire adult life. A few steps away, Birdie and I claim one end of the U-shaped couch, legs tucked beneath us, glasses of white wine catching the glow from the heaters.
She leans toward me, amusement flickering across her face as we watch the three of them argue over char marks like it’s an art form.
“Ten to one says they burn the burgers,” Birdie murmurs, lips brushing the rim of her glass, “and they all point fingers at each other.”
“Nah.” I shake my head, eyes still on Crosby. He’s unfazed by the running commentary. “Your brother will come through.”
Birdie doesn’t answer right away and when I turn my head, she’s watching me with quiet intent, head tilted, like she’s already found the answer and wants to see if I’ll say it out loud.
“What?” I ask.
“You really like my brother,” she says.
Not teasing. Stating a fact and waiting to see what I do with it.
The question behind it presses in gently but insistently, like she’s shining a light into the corners of a room I don’t usually let anyone see.
I could deflect.
Make a joke.
Downplay it to make it safer and smaller, but I don’t.
“I do,” I say simply.
Birdie takes a slow sip of her wine, eyes never leaving my face. “Why?”
I glance back at the grill, at Crosby laughing now as Evan throws his hands up in mock surrender. The way he is with people isn’t an effort for him at all.
It’s instinct.
I draw in a breath, surprised by how quickly the answer comes. “Because he doesn’t try to take up all the air,” I say, turning my attention back to Birdie. “Do you know what I mean? He doesn’t need to be louder or bigger than the room. He shows up exactly as he is, and that’s very impressive given that he’s kind of a big deal.”
Birdie’s expression softens a fraction. “That gets you in the feels, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. He makes me feel steady,” I continue, the words tumbling out now that I’ve started. “Not like I’m being anchored or managed—but like I can stand next to him and still be myself.” I pause. This part is harder to admit. “And I trust him,” I add, “which I don’t do easily. He earns it.”
Birdie watches me for a long moment, then smiles, knowing. “He’s definitely smitten with you.”
Her words send a strange flutter through my chest. I glance down at my wine, swirling it once.
“That’s actually…” I trail off, then shake my head slightly. “That’s kind of what’s been messing with me.”
Birdie shifts on the cushion, turning her body more fully toward me. “What do you mean?”
“When I first took this job,” I say, choosing each word with care, “my loyalty was focused on only one thing—the documentary. In my life, my work has always come first.” I let out a quiet breath. “It’s how I’ve always operated, and it’s the thing I don’t compromise.”
“And now?” she prompts.
I glance toward the grill again, where Crosby is laughing at whatever Arch said. The sight of him produces so many emotions—comforting me and unraveling me all at once.
“And now I don’t know if that’s true anymore,” I admit. “Not entirely.”
Birdie’s brows lift a touch, but she doesn’t look surprised.
“I keep telling myself I can hold both,” I continue. “That I can be professional and still feel… this.” I gesture vaguely between my chest and Crosby. “But what if I can’t? What if something happens where the film and Crosby are suddenly at odds?”
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. “I used to be so sure I’d always choose the story. Now…” I swallow. “Now I’m wondering if that choice would even be possible.”
Birdie studies me, her expression thoughtful rather than alarmed. “I think that says a lot about how you feel about my brother.”
I nod. “I’ve caught myself thinking that if it ever came down to it—if my being attached to the project started to hurt him or change what this is—I could walk away. They could bring in someone else and finish it without me.”