“You are remarkably adept at remembering all the men I’ve dated,” Birdie replied.
“I liked Simon,” her friend said. “But possibly because his British accent made me weak in the knees. I think Elliot keeps up with him, I can ask.”
“Oh, you don’t have to ask Elliot,” Birdie said, suddenly unable to meet her friend’s eyes. “Please don’t bother him with this.”
Mona shrugged. “Okay, well, that’s a start. Anyone else I’m forgetting?”
Yes, Birdie thought. “No,” she said.
“Well, three is not exactly a lengthy list, but three is better than zero. So now what?”
Birdie raised an eyebrow and chewed the side of her lip, repressing a smile. Only Mona would know that this was her conspiratorial look, the face she’d made when they were kids and Birdie was out of cash so pocketed a KitKat from the 7-Eleven because they absolutely woulddiewithout a KitKat, then would whip it from her pocket with sly triumph. (Her petty-theft phase was limited to a three-month period in eighth grade, no need to alert the tabloids.) Or the face she’d make when she decided that she and Mona should pull a Ferris Bueller and bail on school for the day. There wasn’t nearly as much to do in their neighboring towns of Fresno or, if they really pushed it, Bakersfield, as there was in Chicago like in the movie, but they took the Honda Accord for a joyride as soon as Birdie called the school to sign Mona out under the guise of her grandmother dying. (Her grandmother had already died, so Birdie didn’t feel too guilty.)
“Are you... No, you’re not... You are!” Mona cheered because their brains were so synced, even now, that her friend could almost read her mind. “You’re gonna make this into a thing, and you think it’s going to save your ass with the public, don’t you?” Her eyes grew to globes and a grin spread across her face. Birdie didn’t even need to explain the rest. Her best friend loved a great rom-com, and so she knew a brilliant plot device when she saw one. “And maybe you’ll even find love along the way!”
The front door opened again before Birdie could reply and tellher that finding love was honestly the least important criterion in her plan. A breeze strong enough to kick up the hem on her caftan swooped in, and if she’d been thinking straight, she would have seen it as an omen, a sign, a warning. Like when the chilly winds blew in from the north in some medieval HBO series, and with them, death and crows and bloodshed and all of those harbingers soon followed. As it was, she was completely shell-shocked and ill prepared when in following Mona’s gaze and subsequent smile toward the door, she spun on her stool and found herself staring at Elliot O’Brien, star reporter in a war-ravaged land no longer.
Birdie’s insides torpedoed and her sweat glands kicked into immediate overdrive. She worried she was going to vomit, right there on top of her seasonally inappropriate sandals, or possibly dissolve into a puddle of nervous perspiration that would require patting down her forehead and armpits and definitely the waistband of her underwear with those little cocktail napkins piled on the bar.
She hadn’t spoken to him in seven years, since he’d walked out of her Tribeca apartment. She’d tried not to eventhinkof him in seven years. And now Elliot O’Brien had come home, just in time for her own return.
The stars, Birdie thought, had aligned against her.
5
BIRDIE
Birdie’s first instinct,obviously, was to run. She jumped from the barstool just as Elliot’s eyes met hers, and then she plopped back down just as quickly. If she ran now, he’d know it was because of him, and that would start a whole thing that Birdie didn’t have the emotional fortitude to withstand. Besides, it felt critically important—for reasons she didn’t understand—that Elliot think she was calm, totally collected. That seeing him for the first time since they’d slept together was no different from seeing, say, Nelson Pratt. Who, it was true, Birdie would have been happy to put in a headlock, but that wasn’t the point, and she needed to focus.
“Elliot!” Mona shrieked from behind the bar. “Look who surprised us with a visit!”
Birdie felt herself wince as heads swiveled and stares lingered. A hush fell over the room as everyone registered that Birdie Robinson* (*Maxwell) was among them, and then slowly, an electric buzz pulsed through the bar. Or that could have been the rate of her pulse, which had taken flight and was only gaining speed.
Calm. Stay calm, she thought, though it was already a losing battle.
Elliot’s hand floated up in an awkward wave as blood flooded her cheeks. And then he walked across the bar and was right in front of her. If she could have crawled underneath her stool without giving herself away, she would have.
“Birdie,” he said, and she thought she heard his voice catch. “To what do we owe this honor?”
“Elliot,” she replied, and he tipped forward to kiss her cheek. She was so surprised that she was late on reciprocating, so she semi-kissed the air as he pulled back, and she was certain she’d never been more mortified. He could kissanyone, he could makeanyonego weak in the knees, and here she was screwing up a hello.
“What’s wrong with you? Why do you look like you’ve swallowed a toad?” Mona belted at her brother. Birdie was too busy trying not to come completely unraveled to realize that Elliot himself looked a little peaked. “Please don’t tell me that you, of all people, are intimidated by our friend Birdie?”
Elliot wasn’t intimidated by her fame, and Birdie knew it, and Elliot knew that Birdie knew it. Still, the question bought Birdie a few seconds to compose herself, to stitch herself back together and, ideally, white-knuckle her way back from a nervous breakdown.
“You know that fame is just a construct,” Birdie managed sweetly, which was entirely for Mona’s benefit. “It’s just me, Elliot. Just the same old me.”
Elliot narrowed his eyes, and Birdie batted hers at him overdramatically, and there were a million things to say to each other that couldn’t be said because Mona had no clue they’d spent a night together seven years ago, and it had to stay that way forever.
“It’s good to see you, Bird,” Elliot said, then pulled back the stool beside her. “Do you mind?”
“You’re already sitting, so is it too late to say that I do?” she replied. She reached for whatever she was drinking and drained it. She minded, very much.
“So, Birdie Maxwell, what brings you back to Barton?” Elliot asked, and Birdie tried to assess if he genuinely had no idea that she had spiraled into an internet punching bag or if he simply didn’t care. She knew that Elliot spent his days jet-setting across the globe, reporting on “real things” (as Andie had once explained it to her), and so perhaps was the only person on the planet who had not seen her ill-advised apology video. She hated that she wished that he had, and then she hated that she wished for that wish too.
“I thought you were in, like...” Birdie decided to dodge his question, meet indifference with indifference. Yes, that was the way to play this. “I just saw you on TV in some far-flung country. What bringsyouback to Barton?”
“We pretape things, you know. That’s the magic of television,” Elliot said. “I’ve been back for three days. And back in Barton for two.”
