Page 54 of Maybe We Can Fake It

“And then what?”

“Then...” I try to come up with the next logical step, but I’ve got nothing. So I throw my arms up in exasperation. “I don’t know. But please dosomething!”

I’m growing hysterical again. All I wanted to do was watch Netflix, for fuck’s sake. What did I do to deserve a goddamn chicken running amok in my living room?

Travis steps closer and pulls me back into his arms. He guides my head to his shoulder, his fingers splayed through my hair, rubbing tiny circles over my scalp. I gratefully lean more of my weight against him. If humans could purr, I’d be doing that right now.

Screw the chicken. She can have the house. It’s not that nice anyway.

Humming softly, Travis kisses the top of my head. Nowthat’snice.

Squawk.

He startles, releasing me. “Okay, we’ve got to do something about the bird.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!”

He gives me a look that suggests I should shut up, so I do. Then he steps farther into the room and assesses the situation before taking control like I wanted him to. It takes a lot ofstealth and coordination between the two of us, but eventually we manage to wrangle Delilah into Travis’s arms.

She immediately stops trying to flap away. In fact, she appears perfectly content being held by him.

I know the feeling, girl.

“What now?” I ask.

Travis glances down at the chicken warily. “Let’s go over to Mitch’s yard and put her in her coop.”

I frown. “I’m supposed to be watching her because she’s depressed. Or possibly dying.”

The exasperated look he gives me is probably fair.

“Fine,” I say. “But we have to sit there with her.”

The exasperation grows stronger.

“Well,Ihave to sit with her,” I amend. “You will obviously be free to go on living your life. I’ll just remain on sacred chicken duty by myself.”

With an eye roll, he says, “I can stay with you.”

I try not to smile too smugly.

After we successfully deposit Delilah in her coop, we drag two of Mitch’s Adirondack chairs over to it so we can sit in front of her. I take a couple subtle peeks at Travis beside me, checking him out. He’s relaxed back in the chair, jean-clad thighs splayed open in what looks like an engraved invitation to climb into his lap.

Forcing myself to look away before I get caught—or actually attempt to climb into his lap—I train my gaze on Delilah, watching her for any signs of distress. “I don’t know why she freaked out on me,” I tell Travis. “She hangs out in Mitch’s house all the time and acts normal.”

“There is nothing normal about that,” he says.

Well. True.

As Delilah struts proudly around her coop, I think about my destroyed living room and lost relaxation, and I get a bit depressed.

“I hate my life.”

“No, you don’t.”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t. But seriously. How do I wind up in so many ridiculous situations?”

Travis assesses me a moment, then says, “It’s because you’re too nice.”

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