Page 28 of Where the Little Birds Are (Little Bird Duet 2)

Would it have made a difference?

Almost on cue, the phone rings again, and the number in question pops up. This time, his name is sprawled across the screen in bold white letters that blend with my phone’s background of Penny.

Sitting straighter, I press the answer button and stare at the package. “You actually picked up,” he says quietly.

He called nearly a week ago, and I never found the energy to use his number to return it after Mom stormed out. I only saved his information to my contacts for when I had the courage to break the news.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“We are.”

His sigh is heavy, tired even. “Please? I don’t want you shutting me out.”

I move from the counter and glance at the package, walking away with only my phone in my hand. “How does Lena feel about these calls? I’m sure she’s thrilled. You know, since you two are so in love.”

There’s a pause that echoes the hurt in my hollow chest as I lay down on the couch. “What she did is not okay with me, Kinley. You have to believe me. That’s why she doesn’t know I’m calling,” he admits. “But it’s not because—”

“Just don’t. I’m tired, Corbin.” I don’t want his excuses. In fact, I can’t figure out what I do want with him. I’m just over fifteen weeks along and my patience is already wearing thin.

Sinking into the cushions, I close my eyes and try calming my breathing like Dr. Ray taught me. His stress is bad for the baby speech is laughable considering my life is a cement ball of stress that nobody can lessen at this point.

“Did you get the package?”

I swallow. “I haven’t opened it.”

“Please?” is all he says.

Penny stares at me from the floor, waiting for me to make my decision. My body is worn out from the nonstop puking, gross from the amount I sweat, and fatigued from the lack of sleep. I just want to lay here and pretend like there’s no responsibility waiting for me.

It’s the way his voice breaks in quiet plea that shatters my will. I don’t want to appease him, but I do it anyway. I peel myself off the couch and walk back into the kitchen. The cool floor feels good against my bare feet, so I stay standing and eye the package in question for the millionth time since receiving it.

Setting the phone down and putting it on speaker, I work at the packaging it’s wrapped in. “Do I even want to know how you got my address? Or my number? We talked about stalking, Corbin. It’s frowned upon in most, if not all, countries.”

His low chuckle makes the tiniest smile tip my lips upward. It doesn’t last though. “Just open the present, Little Bird. I think you’ll like it.”

I still want to know the answers to those questions, but I let it go. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, I finally get the packaging off and pull out a white cardboard box with a familiar logo across the top. Brows pinching, I open it and stare at the contents inside. My lips part as I pick up one of the origami birds, holding the blue folded paper carefully in my fingers.

“Kinley?” he asks after a long moment of thick silence.

I blow out a breath and notice the printed words on each one of them. They look like pages from a book. When I read a few, I realize they’re pages from my book. “Why would you get me this?”

“The woman who made your corsage back in high school still runs her own business,” he

explains quickly. “She does paper flowers too, but I thought those would mean more. I hope you’re not mad that she used your book, but I wanted to immortalize it in a way that meant something to us.”

Us. My stomach twists with flutters from the simple two-letter word. This shouldn’t mean anything to me, but it does. He shouldn’t know what makes my heart race, or my fingers tingle, or my stomach flutter, but he does. It’s frustrating to feel like the battle within myself is always a losing one when it comes to him.

Reality tells me to shut this down before I’m torn apart. The fantasy I’ve built in my disillusioned head tells me to embrace it without question. Being stuck in between the two has me split, but I think back to the truest line I’ve ever written.

Maybe we’re addicted more to the pain than to each other. But who says the two need to be mutually exclusive? With Corbin, that’s never the case.

I find the stool and slowly sink onto it. “I don’t even know if there is an us,” I whisper, picking up another bird. This one white.

“Don’t say that.”

“I’ve seen the pictures of you and—”

“Those pictures mean nothing,” he insists, making a dry laugh bubble from my lips.

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