At my core, I was a gambler, and it was time to roll the dice.
One way or another, by the end of the week, Stella was going to find out who she was really dealing with. And then I could set my plan in motion.
6
Stella
“Honey, I’m home,” I said,shutting my front door.
From deep inside the apartment came a loud, squawky, “Fuuuck you.”
I shook my head and started unlacing my boots. “Why are you cranky, Amos? I spent an hour with you at lunch, andyouwere the one who threwmeout at the end.”
“Treat?” the parrot cawed back at me. “’Stash, ’stash, ’stash, Snack Bitch.”
I grimaced. African grey parrots were like toddlers. You had to be careful what you said in front of them because you never knew what they’d fixate on. I’d jokingly referred to myself as his “Snack Bitch”one timethree years ago, and now it was the only thing he called me. And yes, I knew it was intentional because usually he laughed afterward. Also? His species was known for being as smart as a three- to five-year-old child, and most of Amos’s other phrases changed on a weekly basis. Yet this one had stuck. Because he knew it was an insult and no one could convince me otherwise.
My apartment was right above the tattoo parlor, and parrot hearing was on par with human hearing, so I’d had the contractors soundproof the floors during the build, wanting to keep it as quiet as I could for Amos.
I kicked off my shoes by the door and went to find him, passing through the small entryway into the open-concept living room. Amos’s cage took up almost the entire far side, surrounded by plants meant to mimic his natural habitat. In summer, the cage sat close to the floor-to-ceiling picture window, which looked out onto the back deck—again, filled with so many tropical plants that it resembled a small jungle. I’d also put bird feeders and plenty of pollinator-friendly flowers outside so Amos had something to watch all day.
We called it Bird TV.
Right now, there wasn’t much to look at. It was past midnight, and beyond the window, the sky sat low over the city, heavy with clouds and the threat of rain.
I snagged the bag of pistachios (aka, ’stash, aka, Amos’sfavoritefood) off a side table and approached his cage. The only light on in the apartment was a small lamp in the kitchen set to a timer matched to the sunset. The bulb was soft and warm, and dim enough that it wouldn’t keep Amos from falling asleep. I’d tried to do the whole cage-cover thing with him, but he wouldn’t have it, constantly complaining and gnawing at it through the bars until I finally gave up and let him have his way—a regular occurrence in this household.
Thankfully, the lamp provided just enough light for me to see where I was going, and I threaded through the plants to the cage. Amos was already climbing the bars toward the door to meet me, doing his signature mix of whistling and chirping to show he was happy.
“Only one. You had one at lunch earlier.”
“Three, three, ’stash. Shit please,” he said.
Amos swore so much because I swore so much, but he didn’t quite have the knack of when exactly he was supposed to curse, so he ended up throwing the words in randomly whenever he wanted to emphasize something.
“One,” I told him, opening his cage.
He strutted out onto the knobbly wooden perch and then flapped onto my shoulder, cuddling right up to the side of my face like the manipulative little asshole he was. His feathers were soft against my cheek, and while his talons pricked at my skin, I could tell he was trying to be as careful as possible. Something most people didn’t know was that African greys have an oddly clean scent, like fresh linen that’s been dried with fabric softener. I took a deep breath of it and leaned my face in to cuddle him back.
He let out a happy whistle (clearly sensing his win), and popped his head forward enough to look me in the eye. “Peekaboo!”
“You’re too cute and you know it,” I grumbled.
“’Stash? ’Stash?”
“Yes, fine,” I said, holding up a nut for him.
He took it with one claw, and had it open and down his gullet in less than a second. “’Stash?”
I held up a second, and he demolished it as fast as the first.
“Okay, but that’s it,” I told him. “You’ll get the shits if you have too many.”
“Shits, shits. ’Stash?”
“No, sir. Now come on, I have to go shower and you need to go to bed.”
“I love you,” he said in an adorable little sing-song voice.
