Where The Little Birds Go

by Celeste, B.

  But I did.

  Because the fame has always been my focus, not the town who patted me on the back like they doubted I could make something of myself. I fed my determination until I’d become successful, and by then I had little control over the promises I’d spoken.

  I told myself this was all for Kinley.

  But I’m selfish son of a bitch.

  A liar.

  This has always been for me.

  Chapter Eight

  Kinley / Present

  The second note shows up a few days later, slipped under my door sometime during the night. I went to bed after giving up on my writing deadline, too distracted by the events of the week.

  When I saw the envelope resting on the carpet, I debated on leaving it there or kicking it under the rug so I wouldn’t be tempted to open it. I’m not that strong though, and that’s probably the hardest part to admit.

  Maybe we’re more addicted to the pain than to each other.

  -Ryker

  Staring at the words for a fourth time, I sigh and set the note down by the empty candy wrapper. Around eleven last night I decided to eat my feelings in the form of red licorice. At some point, my sugared-up brain decided it was a good idea to Google Corbin Callum and torture myself with articles and interviews of the man who’s a complete stranger to me now.

  The two hours I spent watching YouTube videos of red-carpet interviews made me remember the few times we joked in the past about making it to black tie events. He never had a doubt that he’d walk the carpet, but me? We were always different in that way. Corbin had a natural confidence to him that I always secretly envied. He carried himself without a care in the world while I let all mine rest on my shoulders so openly for the world to see.

  Video clip after video clip, I would study how well he pulled off a tuxedo like I hadn’t seen him in one at winter formal. His body is nothing like it was though. He’s filled out in all the right places, ripples of muscle he’s clearly worked hard on showcased over every inch of him. Even his face—his cut jaw and narrow cheeks—has a new shape that only age and exercise could give him after all this time.

  The first time I saw him on set, I considered cutting out sugar because I know under my clothes is a softness that jiggles when I move a certain way. Despite the time spent doing at-home workouts every day, my thick thighs remain. Maybe if I didn’t turn to carbs and sugar in times of stress, I’d finally squeeze into a size four again instead of jumping into a seven.

  Blowing out a breath, I move away from the written-on stationary that I folded into a tiny origami bird and get dressed. Buchannan mentioned doing reshoots this morning with some of the smaller roles, so I’m not going in until this afternoon. It gives me time to tour around the city and get away from the world I stepped willingly back into.

  As I pass the folded note again, I grab the waste basket and brush everything from the table into it, leaving it by the door in hopes someone will empty it before I’m back. I don’t want to see the handwriting in the paper animal I’ve loved making since he made up that stupid nickname for me.

  All I see when I glance down is Ryker’s name staring back at me, and I wonder why I let myself get to this point. We can’t keep playing this game because there’s too much to lose. His name brings the press, and mine brings the backlash. One wrong move, and not only his fans will come after me, but his wife’s fans too.

  But I think about his departing words the other day despite trying to bury them.

  I’ve always been Beck.

  He’s always been Ryker.

  And we’re masochists—addicted to the pain.

  Chapter Nine

  Kinley / 16

  Black ink smudges across the side of my palm, leaving traces of unreadable letters on the notebook paper in front of me. Frowning, I wipe my hand on my blue jeans and try making out what I wrote just seconds prior. My mind has been scrambled with a few different story ideas that have distracted me from taking proper notes in class. I’m not even sure what we went over in Geometry today.

  Just as I’m about to flip the page and continue where I left off, the subtle scent of fresh soap and French vanilla coffee hits my nose as a chair is pulled back. My lips curve upward when Corbin plants himself next to me, eyeing the notebook.

  “Writing again?”

  “Yep.”

  He eyes the ink stain on my pants. “You know there’s this thing called soap and water. I hear it works wonders when people’s hands are dirty.”

  Rolling my eyes, I click my pen against the table and lean back. “I doubt you came here to tell me about proper hygiene.”

  “It’s lunch.”

  I blink.

  He sighs and pulls something from his backpack, which rests next to him on the table. I smile when I see the familiar red licorice package resting like a centerpiece between us.

  He watches me peel open the plastic and pull one of the Twizzlers out. “You should eat something that has more dietary nutrition than sugar, but at least you won’t starve the rest of the day. Then I’ll have to hear about how hungry you are on the way home, and you’ll guilt me into buying you something at the gas station with even worse nutritional value.”

  I grin. “I’m not planning on being a famous actor, which means I can consume all the sugar I want.”

  He huffs, making me grin wider. “I’ll remind you of that when you’re sobbing on the phone to me because you can’t fit into your formal dress.”

  “Why would I need a formal dress?”

  “When you come to the Oscars with me,” he deadpans, as if to say duh. “I suppose it could also be for whatever author awards are identical to the Oscars.”

  “The RITA Awards.”

  He stares at me.

  I bite down onto my licorice. “It’s the highest award a romance writer can get for the genre. It’s an award given by the Romance Writers of America group.”

  “Huh.” His brows furrow. “Sounds like it’s a big deal then.”

  “Is an Oscar a big deal?”

  “Uh … yeah.”

  I just stare until he gets my point.

  He steals some of the candy. “Anyway, when we’re both famous we should go to events together. You can go to the Oscars with me and I’ll go to the RITA Awards with you.”

  I study him, wondering if he means that. Corbin has been here for about two months. In that time frame, he’s made plenty of other friends. Mostly guys, but some girls who make it obvious they want to be more. I’ve seen him flirt with some of them, which makes me roll my eyes every time. He teases me about being jealous when I pick on him for the thorough eye groping he gets from Shelly Fisher, so in retaliation I gave Shelly his number and said he wanted her to have it. He didn’t find that as amusing as I did.

  “What if I can’t fit into my dress?”

  He shrugs casually. “I’ll have enough money to hire someone to tailor it.

  My eyes narrow. “What if one of us is dating someone else?”

  He snorts in an unattractive way, making me giggle. “When will we have time to date? We’re barely going to have time for ourselves.”

  I lower my candy. “You honestly think you’ll remain single? Don’t be stupid, Corbin. Nobody who amounts to anything in the acting world is ever single for long.”

  When he doesn’t try to argue, I nod.

  I can understand his determination not to get distracted by other people. It’s the same mindset I have. The writing world is competitive, which means your book needs to be unique in order to get a lot of attention. As a writer, you have to stand out against the rest of the crowd. If that means becoming the crazy cat lady until I make something of myself, then so be it.

  “What are you writing?” Corbin asks, instead of continuing our last conversation.

  My arm covers the jumbled words. “I found a website for aspiring writers online. They host contests that have pretty cool prizes.”

  “Like?”

  “Chances to get published.”
>
  His brows shoot up. “So, you’re writing a story for one of the competitions?”

  I nod, glancing at the words that don’t quite make sense yet.

  He smiles, which makes his expression softer. I prefer it to the look he gives girls in the halls, where he winks and smirks and makes most of the female (and some male) student population swoon. I usually laugh at how easy it is for them to fall under his spell, but it gets annoying too.

  “You’ll win, Little Bird.”

  Not bothering to correct him on the name that he insists on calling me, I ask, “How do you know? The story could be horrible.”

  He drapes his arm on the back of the chair he’s tipping back in. “Nothing you could do is horrible. Plus, you submitted a story for the English department newsletter last year, which Mrs. Bishop has in her classroom.”

  My cheeks heat. “You read that?”

  “It’s good, Kinley.”

  Kinley, not Little Bird. “Thanks. I’m hoping to win at least one of these contests. The other prizes are talking to published authors one on one and asking them questions to understand their process.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Nicholas Sparks.”

  He pauses. “The Notebook guy?”

  “That’s one of his,” I confirm, tapping my pen against the paper. “Anyway, it’d be cool to know what they do to focus on their books. Some of my favorite authors have families and other responsibilities. I want to know how they balance everything.”

  He hums and reaches for the notebook, but I slap his hand away. Holding it to his chest like a big baby, he frowns. “You could have hurt me, Little Bird. Is there a deadline that’s making you violent? Perhaps protein deficiency from lack of proper food?”

  I keep the notebook out of his reach. “I don’t like people reading my stuff when it’s not at its best, especially people I know.”

  “Why?”

  “Would you want people seeing you act when your craft isn’t perfected?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Then you understand.”

  He sighs and scrapes the chair back. “Just eat your Twizzlers so you don’t whine to me later about skipping out on lunch.”

  I make a face at him. “The only decent thing they have is peanut butter and jelly. I’ll be there tomorrow. Save me a seat amidst your biggest fans.”

  He chuckles as he walks away. “Still sound jealous, Little Bird.”

  “Think again!”

  The librarian shushes me with a single glance, causing me to sink down into my chair. When Corbin is long gone, I stare at my words and nibble my bottom lip. When my pen meets the paper, the story flows right out of me.

  A month later, I’m scrambling out the door in a rush with Mom yelling after me about a jacket and a piece of paper dangling from my hand. I usually never run unless something with sharp teeth is chasing me, but today is the exception. My sneakered feet take me all the way down Alden and onto Main, where people stare at me as I weave through the Saturday Folk Festival crowd that gathers around the bank parking lot for hippie music and fruit pie.

  When I see the yellow house from a distance, my grip on the now wrinkled paper tightens and a smile plasters on my face. I’d normally be nervous over what his parents thought about me showing up out of the blue, but I met them both a few weeks ago when Corbin asked me to come over and watch more movies. Not Stephen King, but a comedy he’d gotten to break up the horror fest. His dad had greeted me first, and it was obvious that Corbin was Mr. Callum’s clone right from his silver eyes and prominent straight nose, to the quirk of his lips that screamed charm. His mother was gorgeous, and her warm personality reminded me a lot of my new friend when he encouraged me to write. He was a perfect mixture of the two.

  As I run up the sidewalk that leads to the walkway, I begin slowing my steps enough to catch my breath. Mrs. Callum is in the front yard raking orange and yellow leaves with her husband a few feet away. When they hear the crunch of the late fall foliage under my feet, they both turn and smile at me.

  “Morning, Kinley,” Mrs. Callum says first, her eyes bright as she rests the rake against her side. “Corbin is inside with a couple of friends. You can go in.”

  My lips part as I suck in some much-needed oxygen into my tight lungs. “I didn’t know he had company.” I glance at the paper and then back at them. “I can just show him another—”

  Mr. Callum walks over to me. “Don’t be silly. Come in. I was just about to put on some hot water for tea. Do you want any? We also have hot chocolate.”

  Corbin’s father makes me wonder if he’ll sound the same when he’s older—gravelly and sweet, but also blunt and demanding. It wouldn’t hurt if Corbin also aged like him too, but I keep that little tidbit to myself.

  Corbin never mentioned hanging out with anyone today when we talked last night, so I’m not sure if agreeing to go inside is a good idea. The cold air against my body is making my hands shake, and I know Mom will give my blue skin one good look before saying I told you so when I get back.

  “I wouldn’t mind cocoa,” I admit, following him inside. He holds the door open for me like Corbin does every time I’m over, before closing it and leading me into the kitchen.

  From upstairs, I hear laughter. The louder tone is undoubtedly Corbin and makes me smile. The others I don’t know though. One of them even sounds pitchy, girly, and I feel like maybe I should make up an excuse to go home and leave him to whatever is going on.

  “I forgot,” I blurt, jabbing my hand toward the door. “I just remembered that I promised my mom I’d help her clean the house today.”

  Internally cringing at the poor excuse, I turn toward the door and shoot Mr. Callum a quick wave before walking out. The laughter dies down as I pass the stairs, and I hear Mr. Callum call my name which causes me to walk a lot faster before anyone else can hear him.

  I’m fighting the wind that’s picking up my loose hair with its brutal gusts when I hear a different voice call out after me. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk just as Corbin jogs over to where I’m standing.

  “Hey.” His smile is no different than usual, which makes me feel a little better. The last thing I want is to bother him when he’s with his other friends. I even like some of them, like Zach Russo. He’s two years older than me like Corbin is, and not nearly as annoying as the boys in my sophomore class. He’ll even say hi to me in the hallway, and not just when Corbin is around.

  “I didn’t know you had people over.” I lick my lips and gesture toward the house. “Sorry about just showing up. I should have texted you or something to see if—”

  He nudges my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Kinley. What’s up?” His eyes look down at the paper in my hand. “What is that?”

  The smile on my face reappears. “It’s what I wanted to show you. I got so excited that I bolted out my house like it was on fire.”

  He laughs and reaches down, taking the paper and studying what’s written on it. When he glances up at me, the prideful smile showcased on his face makes my fingertips tingle.

  “You won.”

  I nod enthusiastically. “They chose the winner last night, but I didn’t see the email until this morning. As soon as I saw it I squealed. Mom thought I found another mouse in my room which freaked her out. She hates mice.”

  “Noted.”

  “Anyway,” I press on, jumping. “I won a chance to talk to a bestselling author and get my story published in a literary magazine!”

  He draws me in for a hug and squeezes me to his body. Melting into his warmth, I wrap my arms around his midsection, burying my nose into his chest. We’ve never done this before, but I like it.

  I pull away first when he asks, “Who’s the author you get to talk to?”

  “I have no idea.”

  His laugh bursts out of him. When I meet his amused gaze, I can’t help but laugh too. In the bright November sunlight, a rarity between cold snaps and snow flurries, I notice the prominent scar on his e
yebrow. We exchanged war stories about our scars not long ago. He was chasing Fred around the house when he lost his footing and slammed his head into the corner of the coffee table, leaving the slightest white scar across his brow. I remember how embarrassed he was to admit that he’d been wounded because of his cat.

  “But,” I amend, pulling my focus back to the contest, “it doesn’t matter. Do you want to know why? I may not have heard of them, but someone has. And in turn, they’ll have heard about me. Even if they forget about my existence after we’re done talking.”

  “Nobody could forget you, Little Bird.”

  I scoff. “Stop. Did you forget the bestselling part? They’re busy being successful. The last thing they’re going to think about in their free time is the girl from a town they’ve never heard of in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It’s still your name out there.”

  Grinning, I take the paper back. “True.”

  “I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

  For the first time since I arrived at his place, I take a deep breath. “I’m proud of me too. It may not be much, but it’s something. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your friends. I need to go put on like forty layers to warm up.”

  He notes my lack of outerwear. “It’s like forty today. Where is your jacket?”

  I roll my eyes. “At home, Mom.” Sticking my tongue out as I back up, I hug the paper to my chest. He mimics me, making me laugh.

  “For the record, you’re my friend too.”

  I wave it off. “Whatever. I bet you’re making them watch Stephen King movies and droning on for hours about everything King does in his free time.”

  He winks. “But I don’t feed them while doing it. Especially not our favorite candy. You should feel special, Little Bird.”

  The annoying part is, I do.

  Chapter Ten