“One down,” she says.
I nod, even though I’m mostly distracted by how the late afternoon sun slants through the lace curtains, making her eyes lighter. Or maybe I’m just a lovesick idiot. So much for casually seeing her. So much for not catching feelings.
We creep toward the next cage, and she adds quietly, “Pigeons can recognize themselves in mirrors, you know. Smarter than most people give them credit.”
I bite back a laugh. “So you’re saying if I buy a pigeon, it’ll judge me?”
“It already is,” she whispers, eyes twinkling.
“But that’s not a pigeon,” I whisper back.
“No, that’s a conure.” She holds the small parrot in her hands before adding him to the bag I’m holding. She continues until all four birds are secured in bags. She carries two outside, and I follow with the other two. The porch door closes behind us, and this time, instead of tiptoeing, she runs and opens the back door of the van, jumping in as soon as the bags are settled on the floor.
“Come on. Go, go go!” I do as I’m told, driving as fast I can without breaking the law. Somehow, rescuing birds in a small town in Florida feels like the most natural thing in the world. Everything else I’ve been worried about this past year fades into the background, because all that matters right now is making this girl happy.
She smilesear to ear on our way back to her place. Her head rests on the back of the seat, and with her eyes closed and herfeet on the dashboard, she mumbles the lyrics to whatever song is playing. Something about a getaway car or something.
I don’t speak so as not to disturb her from this peaceful, fulfilling moment. She looked so happy and so incredibly proud when we made it to the rescue center and they knew exactly what to do with the birds. She also called every pet store and sanctuary nearby to leave complaints about the lady. Most places didn’t answer, considering it’s nine PM on New Year’s Eve, but she still left voice messages. I’m in awe of this woman, completely in awe.
We pull up to her house, and this time, she actually lets me open both doors for her—the van and the house. It’s not much, but it makes me feel helpful, like my job here is being done.
Something I’ve learned about Hailey in these past few years is that the girl doesn’t know how to ask for or accept help. The fact that she not only asked but also is letting me is a big deal. At least for me it is.
She plops herself on her cocoa couch, laying her head back and perching her shoeless feet on the arm rest. I take a seat by her feet, placing them on my lap.
“We’re already late to the gala,” I say.
She lets an exasperated breath out.
“Fuck the gala.”
She surprises us both, but I don’t even have time to ask anything, because she promptly continues, “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to get all dolled up to do the same thing I’ve done for the past decade. I already bought a ticket, or I guess you did, and my sister knows I support her. I just want to maybe enjoy a quiet New Year's Eve here.”
Hailey lifts her head to look at me. “But I’m old and tired, and you’re young and hot. You should go.”
I clear my throat, shaking my head. “Do you think I flew all the way from Alaska so I could go to a gala just for the sake of going?”
“I mean, isn’t that what you’ve done since we met? I figured the gala had some important meaning to you or something.”
How is it that we’ve never talked about this? Oh yeah, I’ve never told her. Why would I when everyone around me just assumes whatever they want to assume and I just let them? It’s a lot easier than the contrary.
She was so brave today, and that’s admirable. People think I'm brave too because of what I do for a living, but really, it’s not bravery. It’s the feeling of being needed and wanted somewhere. It’s the feeling that when they’re about to lose hope, I’m the one bringing it back to them. But I can show some bravery now and just tell her.
“I crashed the gala the first time we met.”
“What?” she asks, sitting up and giving me her full attention.
“I grew up near Atlanta and went to school with three guys: Travis, who you met briefly, Holt, and Axel. Axel moved to Amelia Island with his parents right after high school. Holt, Travis, and I were visiting him before starting bootcamp and decided it would be a good idea.”
“Well, was it?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not donating money to charity?”
I raise my hands in defeat. “We were three broke kids, okay?”
She huffs. “Well, continue.”
“One thing led to another, and then the spill happened, and I met you. I couldn’t get you out of my head, so Travis said he was in when I suggested we go back the following year. And now, well, now, it’s the only time I get to see you.”
She looks confused; maybe I just need to tell her with words.
