Page 42 of Where the Little Birds Go (Little Bird Duet 1)

I frown. “That’s stupid.”

“We shouldn’t focus on that anyway,” he murmurs, scanning over the lines. “I might not get either. I didn’t get the last few.”

“Don’t do that.” If I had a pillow in reach, I’d smack him with it. How many times has he pulled me from my pity party after another contest was lost? Too many.

“I’m just being—”

“Stupid.”

“—realistic,” he finishes slowly.

I cross my arms on my chest. “When I called you crying over another one of my stories being turned down online, what did you tell me?”

His lips twitch. “To eat your feelings?”

I glare. “Before that, dummy.”

Now he smirks. “That your time is coming, you just have to wait for the right people to see your talent.”

My brows go up in reply.

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back and scrapes both palms down his face. “I’m just worried that I may be putting too much energy into something that won’t happen.”

“Says who?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Corbin! Says. Who?”

“My dad, okay?” He blurts, looking toward his door. Getting up, he softly closes it and then leans his back against the wood. “He was having a moment and told me that I should think practically. Mom tried telling him that I’m good at what I do, but Dad brought up how I’ve just wasted gas money going to different auditions.”

Wow. “That’s … I’m sorry.”

“He never used to be like this.” He pushed off the door and grabbed his script before laying down on the other side of Fred. “The car accident he got into a few years ago made him a different person. He always had some anger issues that Mom would get upset over, but hitting his head made it ten times worse.”

My heart aches for him. “He doesn’t, like, hit you guys or anything. Does he?”

“No. Nothing like that.” He grabs ahold of Fred and sets him on his chest. “He’ll lose it and yell over stupid shit or hit the walls. Mom had to plaster the hallway of our old house shortly after he got home from the hospital. He found out he had to do physical therapy before he could be cleared for work and lost it. He was stressed because Mom wasn’t working, and bills couldn’t be paid on time.”

He pauses and lets Fred’s purrs fill the silence between us. After a long moment, he adds, “That’s why we moved here. It was kind of the start of the end. Some companies cut us slack until Mom could find a part time job to start paying things again, but Dad couldn’t get cleared in time. The bank threatened to take our house if we didn’t find a way to pay the mortgage. My grandparents offered to help, but Dad refused.

“Mom found a fulltime position at a local hospital that also had programs Dad could attend while he healed. It got him out of the house and got him to talk out his frustrations instead of punching more holes into the drywall.”

I reach over and take his hand. I only planned on squeezing it, but he interlocks our fingers and keeps them resting on his stomach. Not knowing what to say, I just lean against the wall and let him process whatever he’s thinking.

“Mom managed to get her parents to help pay the bills, but not long after that she lost her job. The grant that paid her and a few others was defunded, so they let them all go. Dad had just finished his PT only to find out another contractor got hired to finish his job because the people who hired him couldn’t keep waiting. Dad found a job out here and the rest is history. He still has his moments. He punched the wall downstairs after we moved in because the movers were late. Mom and I patched it up and repainted it to try matching the color.”

Nibbling on my lip, I stare at our hands and then glance at his face. One arm is bent behind him like a pillow as he stares up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry your family has been through so much. For what it’s worth, your Dad doesn’t mean anything by it. It sounds like there’s something wrong with how he processes things. Plus, it’s a parent’s job to worry about their kids. Mine aren’t exactly keen on going with a career that can leave me homeless if a book flops.”

His head turns to me. “I know you’re right. It just … sucks. But wh

o knows? Maybe I’ll get one of these parts and finally be able to tell him about it.”

“He’ll be proud,” I agree.

He doesn’t seem so sure.

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