Page 15 of Where the Little Birds Go (Little Bird Duet 1)

I count to three, then look over my shoulder at his smiling face. His plate of pizza is perched on the leg stretched out straight in front of him, while his other is bent at the knee with his arm resting over it. “I don’t bite.”

Swallowing, I smile back. “I didn’t think you did.”

He eyes me. “Why are you sitting there like that then? Hell, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

Staring down at my food, I murmur out a soft apology. I’m not used to this. I’ve hung out with people before, but usually girls. Unless Gavin had his friends over, which was rare, my time around the opposite sex who isn’t related to me is limited.

He pats the spot next to him. “I promise to keep my hands to myself. Can’t make that promise about Fred though. He’s all paws. I mean, have you seen them? They’re disproportional to his body.”

From the ground, I hear another meow like he’s talking back to Corbin. It makes a genuine smile spread across my face. Taking a deep breath, I slide backwards until my back is pressed against his light blue wall.

I let my eyes go around the room, taking in the shelves lining the opposite wall that have random knick-knacks on them like baseballs, picture frames, books, and movies. Under one of the hanging shelves is a big dresser, with some of the drawers partially open and clothes hanging out—more t-shirts knowing him. The curtains on the only window off to the side are black, and the blinds are down but open so sunlight pours in.

“Are the books by Stephen King?”

“Yep.”

“Do you like to read?”

“Just him,” he admits.

I nod absentmindedly, studying a picture of him with two older versions of him in one of the black frames on the shelf. They’re obviously his parents. I can’t tell from here who he gets his eyes from, but his dark hair is from his father. I’m sure at closer inspection I’d get to see where his other features originated too. I’m a clone of my mother, and Gavin is a clone of my father. We both have the same dark brown eye color from Mom though. Dad’s eyes are blue, which I always envied. Mom thought it w

ould have been cool to see me get his eye color with her dark brown, almost black, hair—sort of like her father had based on the pictures I’d seen in our old photo albums.

“You good?” he asks, holding up the remote and pressing play again.

I wiggle until I’m settled, my eyes going back to his TV. It’s slightly smaller than the one we have at our house, but not by much. “Which one are we starting with?”

“Carrie.”

I nod and dig into my pizza.

For the duration of the movie, we’re in comfortable silence. I’m surprised by how much I like the movie, considering I’ve never thought I’d like anything Stephen King related. It’s creepy but not too dark, though the electrocution thing was a bit much. Not that some of those kids didn’t deserve it.

We eat three-fourths of the pizza before Corbin digs into the junk food. By the end of the movie, we’re sharing a pack of red Twizzlers, which we also use as straws for our soda. Gavin taught me how to do it when we were younger, so I showed Corbin our trick which he seemed intrigued with as we downed our Mountain Dew.

When the movie ends, Corbin turns to me with waiting eyes. “Well? What did you think? I know you liked it, but I want you to tell me.”

I roll my eyes. “How could you possibly know I liked it?”

He takes another Twizzler. “You’d lean in when it got good, like you couldn’t look anywhere else. Did you even notice when Fred came over to get attention from you? Poor guy looked all rejected when you ignored him.”

Guilt over my new favorite feline eats at my heart as I search the room for him. “I didn’t mean to ignore him. I just wanted to know what happened, especially when they were at the pig pen. Like … who does that? Pig’s blood?”

“Do you prefer horse? Sheep? Human?”

My nose scrunches. “Gross.”

Corbin moves off the bed and switches the movies before closing the pizza box and gesturing toward the junk food bag in silent inquiry. When I shake my head, he settles back into his spot, resting one ankle over the other.

“I want to do a Stephen King movie,” he tells me, shifting his body in my direction.

“Like a play?” There’s no way our school would let something like that run. Even if it’d be in higher demand than another rendition of an already famous musical done by thousands of other schools nationwide.

“Like a movie.” He rests his head against the wall and studies me. “I want to act. That’s what I plan to do with my life. It’d be a dream to be cast for an adaptation of one of his books. Even a remake of a film already out.”

“Like Carrie?”

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