Page 90

Luckily, the trails weren’t too far from my apartment—one of the reasons I’d chosen the place—and I adjusted myself on my side of the car.
She got out and said, “You’re right. I didn’t even realize this was here. You can’t see the turnoff through all the trees.”
“Exactly,” I said, walking her way. She easily walked along my side, and I slipped my arm around her waist, squeezing her lush hips toward me.
Just as easy as breathing, she tilted her beautiful face toward me, and I bent to kiss those luscious lips.
We walked onto the trail, barely wide enough for us to walk side by side, and the trees enveloped us in shade and silence. We couldn’t even hear cars on the road once we got a little ways down the trail.
“What do you see?” I asked her.
“Birdwatching is a misnomer,” she said. “In my opinion, it all starts with bird hearing.” She paused, turning toward me and putting her arms around my waist.
I felt like fucking Superman with her holding onto me like that. I put my arms around her too, listening to the quiet of the trees around us. Soon, a small twitter came, and Birdie pointed in the direction the sound had come from. She lifted her binoculars and whispered, “Butterbutt."
I snorted. "What did you just call me?”
She rolled her eyes, laughing. “That’s what the bird’s called.” She pointed to a spot midway up a tall sycamore.
I followed her finger with the binoculars and found a bird with a patch of yellow on its rump. Butterbutt. That name was adorable. I wanted to tell Ollie about it. “I see it,” I said.
“Nice,” she replied.
I glanced sideways to see her looking at it, a small smile on her pink lips. All her lipstick was long gone by now, but I loved the natural color of her mouth and the flush that so easily came to her cheeks.
The knobbly sound of a woodpecker came above the Butterbutt’s song, and I turned my binoculars that direction. I spotted it with my eye first, then zeroed in on it, pointing for Birdie to follow.
“Do you ever wonder if they get headaches?” she said.
I laughed. “What?”
“I mean, banging their beaks against wood all day can’t be comfortable.”
“I never thought about it,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. “But you’re probably right. Think we should toss him some aspirin?”
She chuckled. “A little birdy aspirin for Mr. Woodpecker? I need to ask the vet at Ralphie’s next checkup.”
The thought of her taking her white dove to the vet like a doting parent made my heart want to burst out of my chest, and I looked away, searching for another bird. “Want to walk farther?”
“Sure,” she said.
We walked, hand in hand, her walking ahead when the trail narrowed. We spotted a few birds she said were pretty common, like the California Towhee and the Oak Titmouse. My personal favorite was the California Scrub-Jay with its beautiful blue feathers.
“Stop!” Birdie cried, and I froze mid-step.
She rushed off the trail, kneeling before a small nest of twigs and leaves. I immediately saw what she had—a bald baby bird, its skin still pink, lying beside the nest.
My heart wrenched at it and then the dead sibling just a foot away. “Where’s its mom?” I looked around, as if I could spot its parent. Obviously, its mother was nowhere to be seen.
Birdie shook her head. “I have no idea.” She looked around, her eyes darting all over the ground.
“What do you need?” I asked.
“Something soft so I can carry it. Do you see anything?”
I undid my top button and slipped my shirt over my head, stripping down to my plain white undershirt. In the back of my mind, I was glad I had just bought a new pack, but the thought quickly went away as I saw how gently Birdie took the little fledgling into the shirt.
Her eyes were wide with worry as she stood, holding the bird in my shirt close to her chest.