All of it.
And I would have done it all differently.
I heard you were in Barton for a bit, so I thought I’d let you know—put it down on paper, let you decide. I guess I thought I’d put this out into the universe, see if it comes back to me.
If you have had the same regrets, the same what-ifs about where we went wrong when everything could have gone right, come find me. Consider it? Consider me again.
X
Birdie clutched the typed letter against her chest and spun through the list of hearts she had rejected, men who knew both her birth nameandher true roots (her childhood roots, not her natural hair-color roots because that was a bridge too far). There were men she wished never to think of again and a few she thought back on with something akin to wistfulness, but who among them knew her secrets? That the letter writer noted that she was back in Barton again meant that the note must be several years old, which also meant she could eliminate any of her recentromantic failures, which was for the best. She couldn’t remember the details she’d shared with her earlier boyfriends, but then, she realized with a start, perhaps that didn’t matter.
Her heart lurched with electricity, as if the letter came armed with defibrillators.
What she needed, Birdie realized, was indeed apivot. Exactly what Imani had suggested. But this time, Birdie could spearhead it herself, without the coddling and the strategizing with her in the room but with everyone pretending that she wasn’t. Birdie had gotten too comfortable with all that, and look where it had gotten her. A punch line on gossip sites; a survey on People.com asking if you would rather be stranded on a desert island with Birdie Robinson or a coconut; a one-way ticket to Los Angeles and a three-hour drive to Barton. Which was to say, her team’s pivots had gotten her nowhere other than careening straight into a brick wall.
But an honest-to-god anonymous love letter? That was an irresistible plot twist that even Imani couldn’t dream up, a zig to her previous zags that would surely get her right back into the public’s good graces. Indeed, up until three weeks ago, there was very little that America could agree upon, but they firmly agreed that Birdie Robinson was their anointed sweetheart. You couldn’t turn on a streamer or a cable channel or sit through the trailers at the AMC and not see her wide, dimpled smile lighting up the screen. Birdie Robinson was the antidote to their woes, even if just for two hours in a darkened movie theater or sprawled on their sectional in front of their sixty-five-inch TVs.
And so, it dawned on her like the glorious radiant sunshine of a picture-perfect day, what America needed was simply to be reminded of how marvelous she was at the art of a rom-com, andwhat better way to remind them than to cast herself in her very own?
Birdie turned on her sandaled heels, flung open her door, and raced down the stairs. The living room was half–packed up, with boxes upon boxes of books and books and books. Her dad and Susana had more books in their living room than the Barton Public Library, a point Susana, her stepmom, made clear whenever they drove by the library, saying, “I actually think we have more books in our living room than they do in the library!”
Birdie flew around the corner into the room, where Andie was parked on a taped-up box in front of the flat-screen, which was a new addition to the household. Similar to Susana’s book fetish was her anti-TV stance. Birdie and Andie were part of that insidious set of households that loudly proclaimed, “We don’t believe in television,” which meant that Birdie spent nearly every free minute possible at Mona and Elliot’s, because their dad was a doctor who believed in moderation in all things and their mom was normal and paid for cable, giving the three of them access to R-rated movies and endless films that Birdie would envision herself starring in when she got older. Also, because Birdie had been in love with Elliot since the twins moved in when they were twelve. And of course, because Mona was her best friend.
“When did this happen?” Birdie asked, nudging her chin toward the flat-screen.
Andie was lost in a60 Minutessegment and didn’t hear her at first. Birdie was about to prod her again—a TV under this roof was no small feat—when a face she recognized came on-screen. Elliot.Elliot!Elliot O’Brien was in front of her, holding a microphone to his mouth, reporting from some war-ravaged part of the world, yet looking just as delicious as the last time she had seenhim in person, seven years back. Birdie reminded herself that the last time she’d seen him, they’d parted on unpleasant terms, extremely uncomfortable, unpleasant terms, in fact. So she recalibrated and pretended that he didn’t look nearly as handsome as was plain to see. His dark wavy hair flopped in the wind of that war-ravaged country, his blue oxford unbuttoned just enough to turn Birdie’s insides to lava, his intense stare penetrating the lens with both empathy and gravitas.
Goddammit. Birdie was already losing the thread.
“Andie,” she said again.
“Elliot is so incredible at this,” Andie said in reply. “If I didn’t have a girlfriend, I would seriously consider giving it a go.”
Birdie felt the muscles in her face point downward, as if Andie were her competition or as if Elliot were still even an option. He never had been but for one fleeting night, and then it was all the more clear that she’d been wrong about him too.
“I got this letter,” she said, trying topivot. “I found it in a box.”
“Congrats,” Andie replied without even turning from the screen.
“No, not congrats,” Birdie said. “Did you put it in my room? Or in the box? Or... like, do you know when it showed up? Or who sent it?”
Her sister craned her neck toward her. “How would I know who sent you a letter? Isn’t it signed?”
Birdie’s adrenaline surged. This was indeed just the hook she needed, she could sense it, the way that she could sense exactly how to deliver a line reading to garner applause from the crew, the way that she could cry on cue, the way that she could take hold of a room once the cameras were rolling. Yes, this was theremaneuvershe needed, and if she could sell it to her sister of all people, she could sell it to America.
“No, it’s not signed, which is why I asked.”
“Don’t you get a million fan letters? Why is this of any interest to me? Ooh, unless—is it like a ransom note? Then you have my full attention.”
Elliot was wrapping up his segment, and the sisters were momentarily distracted, watching him throw it back to the60 Minutesanchor. Anderson Cooper appeared on-screen, dapper and with twinkling eyes that made you want to listen to anything he told you.
“Hilarious but no, not a ransom note, at least not yet. I care because this is alove letter,” Birdie snipped. “And I think it could be my ticket back to normalcy.”
Andie turned to face her now, and though she was not related to Susana by blood, she shared a remarkably similar expression to the one Birdie had grown so used to in her teenage years. Her lips were pressed into a flat line, her nostrils flaring as if she’d smelled something foul.
“You got an unsigned love letter and you think it’syour ticket back to normalcy?”
“You really need to stop repeating everything I say,” Birdie piped. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one with the master’s degree or whatever?”
