Take Two, Birdie Maxwell, page 27
51
ELLIOT
Elliot made it back to the room after three and a half martinis. The half had been a mistake. He fumbled with the key card, dropped it, picked it up, but then Mona swung the door open.
“Goddammit, you’re a mess.”
“At long last, I’m as messy as my twin sister,” he said, his tongue feeling swollen, thick.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, color rising to her cheeks, her fists curled like she was ready to come out swinging.
“Nothing.” He sighed. “It means nothing.” All Elliot wanted to do was make contact with his pillow.
“I cannot believe you,” Mona said. “Are we really doing this again?”
“No,” he said, face-planting on the bed. “We are not doing it again.”
“I’m going to tell you for the last time, Elliot. I know you think I blew it, that I should be working for NASA or at the very least some biotech firm in Palo Alto. But I am happy. I like Monads, and I like our old house, and it’s pretty fucking ironic that you think I’m the one who is stuck.”
Elliot felt his shoulders curl closer to his ears. He knew she was just warming up.
“Just because I don’t live this high-wire life doesn’t make it any less fulfilling. And I think—” Mona took a deep breath. “I think you should, like, figure out why you are so tied to the validation from your career. When, I mean, look, Elliot, we’re not getting any younger. We’ll almost be as old as Mom and Dad were soon . . .” Her words drifted, but she didn’t need to say anything else. They both knew that whatever he was chasing had something to do with his parents and mortality and leaving a mark on the world, but goddammit, the chase was exhausting, and he was beginning to realize he was sprinting down a dead-end street. Sprinting for the sake of it, not because it made any sense. “Also,” Mona said. “I think you should talk to Francesca. Ask for a vacation, take some time to just be a human, not a reporter. I think she’d agree, and you could start fresh.”
Elliot groaned into the bedsheets. She was right. His brilliant twin sister had figured out how to live her life all on her own terms while he was busy judging her. He shifted and rolled on his back and found her glaring at him from across the room.
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” he said. “And I’d be happy to talk to Francesca if she doesn’t fire me after tonight.”
“She’s not going to fire you,” Mona said.
He checked his phone one more time, but there was nothing from his editor, and his eyelids were tugging him toward sleep.
“She is,” he said. “But it’s just as well. I shouldn’t have accepted this assignment in the first place. I should have done everything differently. If I could go back in time, I’d start over. I’d rewrite it all.”
52
BIRDIE
Birdie raced into the lobby and scoured the bar for Elliot. She had things to say to him. They had things to say to each other. She felt the stares and the long gazes from the patrons, and she decided to let them look. Birdie Maxwell hadn’t turned her life upside down to become Birdie Robinson to hide away from the attention. She smiled and waved, and when three people asked for a photo, she cheerfully said, “Of course!”
She could do this on her own terms. She really could. She’d never been one to cower at the first sniff of rejection, and she wasn’t sure why—or how—she’d become the sort of person who did so now. Birdie Maxwell was tired of hiding. Tired of listening to everyone else. Tired of the carefully curated persona. Who ever said that America needed her to be their sweetheart? Who ever said that audiences couldn’t differentiate between a woman they’d like to know exactly as she was and the roles that she played?
She thanked the last picture taker, then felt someone tug on her elbow and turned, and there was Simon.
“We didn’t get a proper hello,” he said, all British charm and sparkle, and Birdie gratefully welcomed his embrace.
“I’m on an apology streak,” she said when they disentangled. “Do I owe you one too?”
He laughed. “No, you and I were always fine with each other. Before, during, since.”
Birdie nodded, relieved that after so many things she’d gotten wrong, she hadn’t gotten this wrong too.
“Elliot went upstairs, though,” Simon said. “A few drinks to the wind. A story to fix, he said.”
“My story,” Birdie said. Acid burned up her throat. “And I don’t think he can fix it.”
“Well, you might want to give it a beat,” Simon offered. “Let him sober up, stop feeling sorry for himself.”
“What does Elliot O’Brien have to feel sorry for himself over?” Birdie retorted.
Simon laughed again. “I think a lot of people could say the same of you.”
Birdie raised her eyebrows. She’d forgotten how normal Simon was, how adjusted he was to the pomp and circumstance of celebrity so that he was utterly unfazed by its lunacy. The Birdie Maxwell in her adored him for it. She pulled him into a hug again.
“It’s great to see you, Simon,” she said. “And that’s fine, about Elliot. I have my own plan anyway, so I’ll give him the night. Nothing I have to say can’t wait. It’s been twenty years. What’s one night more?”
Simon’s face broke into a smile. “Birdie Robinson has her own plan. Perfection.”
“Birdie Maxwell does,” Birdie smiled back. “Birdie Robinson is just grateful to be here.” She paused. “Speaking of which—I need a favor.”
53
ELLIOT
Elliot woke to blinding morning light pouring through the drapes. His mouth felt like sandpaper and tasted even worse, like the olives from his martinis last night, but if the olives had curdled on his tongue. He creaked his head up an inch. Mona’s bed was empty.
He patted down the bed, in search of his phone. He thought he might vomit, but he couldn’t be sure if it was his hangover or if he was about to see the article he’d written about Birdie and Kai. His palm landed on his device, and he pulled it in front of his face, prepared for the worst.
Oddly, he had only a few notifications. None from Francesca. None from the Times app. He felt his forehead furrow, suddenly significantly more awake. He logged on to the app and searched for Birdie’s name. Nothing since his last story. He didn’t know if he should rejoice that Francesca had pulled his story or assume that she’d had enough when she did pull his story and was now ghosting him. Shit. He exhaled and was thumbing over to his email when he heard the key beep in the door, and then his twin burst in.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said, and held up a paper bag with grease oozing through. “I brought doughnuts for breakfast. Well, brunch, since it’s almost noon.”
“Noon?” Elliot shot straight up. “Noon?” He hadn’t even noticed the time on his phone.
“You were sleeping.” Mona flopped a shoulder. “I figured you needed it.”
Now Elliot was frantic. His fingers flew over his screen and landed on his texts. Nothing from Francesca. What was going on? He wasn’t sure if he’d been fired or was simply being ignored, but either way, Elliot reverted right back to pro reporter and doubled down.
ELLIOT
F—you’ll get your story by end of day. Thank you for the grace period.
He hit send before he could retract his thank-you because they were not really a relationship of thank-yous, but he wanted to show her appreciation all the same.
“We’re going to Clay Dodara at 3 p.m.”
“Clay Dodara? The magician? I thought . . . I thought we would head back home.” Elliot didn’t want to drag Mona’s oddball interests—magic was right up there with extraterrestrials—because that would only kick them right back into a fight, but he had less than zero interest in sitting through some magician’s matinee show for a packed house of tourists. She might as well have proposed that they divert their drive to Area 51.
“Birdie got us tickets,” Mona said casually, like she was testing the waters. “I didn’t want to say no. Besides, he’s been sold out for six months. Nelson said he’s incredible.”
There was so much to unpack in that sentence that Elliot didn’t even know where to begin. Birdie got them tickets? Nelson said he’s incredible?
“I wanted to get a jump on it, head home,” he grumbled.
“Well, I’m going to Clay Dodara. I guess you can drive back without me.”
Mona knew damn well that Elliot didn’t want to spend three hundred miles by himself in the RV. She was always able to press his pressure points and get him to bend to her will. Well, not always. But most often. Sometimes she had to play the long game.
“Fine,” Elliot replied. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Mona said, a grin spreading across her face. She threw him the bag of doughnuts. Elliot reached up to grab them on instinct. Instinct, he thought. When it came to Birdie, he needed to start trusting his own.
54
BIRDIE
Birdie was calmer than she expected to be. She and Andie, who was beside herself with excitement about the house seats to see Clay Dodara, walked to the Bellagio early, the sidewalks pooling with puddles from the snow that had come and gone and already melted. Simon had left their tickets at the front desk, so Birdie pinged Mona and told her to meet them there. She wanted to get a move on.
Clay Dodara was the hottest ticket on the Strip. Birdie wasn’t particularly interested in magic, wasn’t interested at all, in fact. But he’d done a TV special that had blown the minds of even the toughest of critics, so Birdie had grudgingly tuned in a few months ago in her trailer, and what she liked most about him—or, she should say, what she needed most from him—was that he always invited an audience member up onstage to participate. And Birdie needed to participate.
She intentionally had muted Imani’s and Sydney’s texts this morning, of which there were many—checking in, saying hi, trying to be casual but also likely frantically waiting for updates. But this was something she could do on her own. This was something she was going to do on her own. They could read about it when everyone else did. And if it backfired, if it didn’t go exactly as planned? Well, then Birdie had started over before, and there was almost nothing in life that stayed permanent if you didn’t want it to.
Birdie and Andie loitered in the Bellagio lobby, Birdie trying to be inconspicuous, trying to calm her nerves. She chewed on her thumbnail and shifted her weight from one foot to the other until finally Andie said, “What is wrong with you? Is this about Kai? Please tell me this isn’t about Kai.”
Andie had returned to the room last night to find Kai red-eyed and sniffling on a love seat in the suite’s living room. It took her twenty minutes to cajole him to leave. Birdie suspected he’d talked himself into crying just so someone would catch him doing so.
“It’s not about Kai,” Birdie said, just as she saw Mona and Elliot stroll into the lobby, Mona looking giddy, Elliot looking like he’d ingested E. coli–laced beef. Birdie understood because she, too, felt like she had ingested E. coli–laced beef. But the show had to go on.
“Hey,” Birdie said to Elliot.
“Hey,” he said back but did not meet her eyes.
They found their seats and waited for the lights to dim, and soon, Clay Dodara, in a tux, with extremely gelled hair and very white teeth, was in front of them. Just a few minutes in, Andie and Mona, sitting between Birdie and Elliot, were pie-eyed, giggling, astounded at Clay’s sleights of hand, at his ability to make a horse disappear. (Yes, he really had a horse onstage. This was Vegas.) About an hour into the act, the house lights came up for the big finale, and Clay ambled to center stage, directly in front of them. Birdie’s breath quickened. When she’d envisioned this last night, it had seemed brilliant, foolproof.
“I’d like to request some audience participation,” Clay was saying. “A volunteer?” The crowd began to cheer, and hands flew into the air. Clay’s eyes settled on the seats directly in front of him. “Wait, ladies and gentlemen, please wait for a moment,” he said. “I believe I see—yes, I definitely do—is that Birdie Robinson in row three?”
The cheers turned to squeals, and Birdie felt every stare from the entire two-thousand-person venue on the back of her neck. Shit shit shit shit. What had she been thinking, asking Simon to phone Clay to pull her onstage? She raised a hand meekly to acknowledge the crowd.
“Birdie Robinson! I can’t have you in my audience and not demand that you come onstage. Get your ass up here,” Clay called. The auditorium absolutely lost it, and if Birdie had felt like enjoying herself, she would have floated on the high of this adulation for days. Alas, she was too consumed with regretting her plan to enjoy it.
“Birdie,” Andie whispered into her ear, “I think you’re supposed to go up there.”
Birdie nodded and pushed herself up with the armrests on her seat, her legs so wobbly she wasn’t certain she’d hold steady. In any other circumstance, she’d remind herself that she was an actor, a total pro, and she’d stitch herself into a mask, a costume, and carry on as if this were all an act. But it wasn’t. She had to do this as Birdie Maxwell, and it was absolutely fucking terrifying.
She made her way down her row, and then up the stairs, to where Clay was beaming. He gave her a quick hug, then bowed, as if she were royalty. She’d only met Clay once in passing, and she knew that he loved nothing more than a celebrity collaboration, which inevitably drew views to his YouTube channel, so she wasn’t particularly surprised at his enthusiasm. She was doing him as much of a favor as he was doing her.
“Birdie Robinson,” he said, holding one of her hands and raising their linked arms in the air, like they’d just won Olympic gold, “it is an honor.”
The crowd went completely nuts. Just bananas. As if they’d forgotten that Birdie was no longer their sweetheart, as if she’d been forgiven for everything. It would have been easy, Birdie realized, to simply get swept up in Clay’s act, to set aside her plan and let Clay encourage a redemptive arc that she would ride like a wave. But it had dawned on her last night that she didn’t want anyone else to be responsible for her own happiness: not Imani, not Sydney, not Ian, not Carter, not her parents, not Andie, not Kai, and not Elliot either.
So she steadied her breath, reminded herself that she was more self-reliant than she’d gotten used to, and then she reached for Clay’s mic.
55
ELLIOT
Elliot was dubious, even grouchy, about wasting his time at some ridiculous magic show in a packed house full of tourists when he could have been writing. But now Birdie was onstage, and he found he could barely breathe. There was a moment, initially, when Birdie looked like she couldn’t breathe either, and Elliot wanted to run up there and wrap himself around her, like what she needed was protection. But then he saw what he knew almost no one else in the theater did: she stitched herself together and grew taller, bolder, stronger, all with a nearly undetectable shift in her posture. Elliot detected it, though, because he was made to read Birdie Maxwell like a well-worn book. Every page, every sentence, every line. He’d been reading it since he was twelve.
“Thank you so much for inviting me up here, Clay!” she said, her voice dancing, her tone animated. “What an absolute surprise. I hope you don’t intend to saw me in half. My agents would be quite unhappy if I were sliced in two today.”
“Your agents may be, but maybe not that ex of yours, the chef?” Clay retorted. The crowd roared.
Elliot saw the tiniest of flinches behind Birdie’s eyes, but she played along, the good sport. She had to know that just about every phone in the auditorium was trained on her, that fingers were flying over their keypads to update every social media app possible. Which reminded him.
Francesca was going to kill him if he didn’t scoop this first.
He tugged his phone from his jacket pocket.
“What is she doing up there?” Mona hissed in his ear. “Is this why we came here?”
“Shh,” Andie said. “It will be okay. Give her some credit. Also, Elliot, put your fucking phone away. You don’t have to be a reporter at all times on all things.”
“Do you know what’s going on?” Mona snapped. “I don’t like this one bit.”
“Maybe it’s not up for you to like,” Elliot said, surprising himself, that he’d choose Birdie’s side over his twin’s. He set his phone back in his pocket. Andie was right: he could be a reporter when all of this, whatever it was, was over.
Mona scowled. Elliot scowled back. They all turned their attention back to the stage.
“Yes, well, about that ex,” Birdie was saying. “Well, about everything. If you don’t mind, Clay, can I steal your spotlight for a second?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s already been stolen,” Clay replied, “with or without asking my permission.”
The audience’s applause was thunderous, and Birdie, Elliot was relieved to see, broke into a genuine grin that reminded him of high school, of her belting out those songs. He wondered if it was possible to die from an exploding heart, and if so, if that was going to be his fate.
The lights dimmed, and a spotlight went on. Clay faded to the back of the stage, and then it was just Birdie, beautiful Birdie, all by herself. The auditorium hushed to a near-dead silence.
“So,” she said. “Well, gee. I thought I’d be better prepared to say something now.”
Someone in the mezzanine shouted, “Birdie, you can dump me anytime!” And that seemed to electrify the audience all over again, which in turn electrified Birdie.
