Page 101 of High Hopes

“Everything okay?” he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly in concern.

“Yeah.” I glance up, surprised by how serious he suddenly looks. “Better than okay, actually. I just needed to make something, you know?”

His expression softens. “I get it.”

And I know he does. For him, it’s the field—those endless hours of drills and scrimmages, the repetition, the precision, the rhythm of something he’s mastered. For me, it’s this. The clay, the wheel, the messy, beautiful process of turning nothing into something.

For a while, he just watches, quiet and still, as I work the clay into shape. The silence between us feels easy, natural. Like it’s enough just to be here, in the same space, breathing the same air and existing alongside each other without needing to fill the quiet.

When I finish, I sit back on the stool and wipe my hands on the towel draped over my knee, letting out a long, satisfied breath. It’s not perfect—not yet—but it’s close. The shape is there, sturdy and clean; it just needs a few minor tweaks.

Liam whistles low, leaning back as he looks at it. “That’s impressive, and huge.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling the familiar ache in my arms and shoulders. It’s the best kind of exhaustion—the kind you earn.

“You ready to go?” he asks, standing and stretching.

I glance at the hunk of clay still spinning lazily on the wheel. I’m trimming the piece for Hall’s class, and usually, I wouldn’t dare step away from something when I’m in the zone. But I’m trying to be reasonable these days. Trying to be better to myself.

Obsessing and overworking hasn’t done me any favors in the past—it’s burned me out, left me picking through broken shards of what could’ve been. So, maybe for once, I’ll let this small amount of progress be good enough.

“It’ll still be here tomorrow,” he says gently. “Come on, let’s get you home. I don’t want to have to wrestle you out of this studio.”

I huff out a small laugh. “Fine.”

A few minutes later, we’re in his car, and the engine hums beneath us as we pull onto the road. I have one hand locked in a tight grip on the edge of the seat—my fingers probably leaving permanent indentations—and the other is curled in Liam’s.

It’s been easier lately. The car rides. The weight of being a passenger. Fewer flashbacks, fewer sharp jolts of fear. But it’s still there, lingering in the corners of my mind, waiting for the wrong turn or a sudden brake.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, glancing at me briefly before turning back to the road. “Hey, we can go over the list if you want. What’s next on your Glad side?”

I squeeze his hand in silent gratitude. “Socks,” I tell him. “The expensive ones that don’t slide down.”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Solid choice. Nothing ruins a bad day faster than shitty socks.”

When we pull up to the apartment, the weight of the day starts to ease. The anxiety of the drive fades, replaced by the familiar stillness of home.

We trudge inside, kicking off our shoes in the doorway, and head straight to my room. It’s still cozy from the last time he was here—blankets half-folded, fairy lights glowing softly along the walls.

Liam stretches out on my bed like it’s his own, his arms flopping over his head as he sighs dramatically. “So, what’s the verdict?” he asks, staring at the ceiling. “In terms of Otis.”

“Who?” I ask as I rifle through my closet.

He sits up like I’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. “Our turtle. I’ve been thinking, and we’ve not been visiting him nearly enough.”

“I saw him literally yesterday.”

I’ve been dropping by the fountain between classes every now and then. Liam and I talked about giving him a better home, but it would mostly be for selfish reasons. It’s likely that Otis hasadapted to his odd little world—the algae-covered stones, the still water, the scattered leaves that collect in the corners of the fountain. Removing him might be more disruptive than leaving him where he is, even if it’s not the life we’d imagine for him.

His jaw drops, and he clutches his chest like I’ve wounded him. “You went without me?”

“All the time,” I reply, trying not to laugh.

He narrows his eyes, pushing up onto his elbows. “That’s why he’s been so aloof with me since winter break. You’ve clearly stolen Otis, and now he’s mine in name only.”

I roll my eyes, grinning as I grab an armful of Jellycats from my shelf and turn back to the bed. Liam’s still rambling about how he’s the picture of excellent company when I unceremoniously dump the stuffed animals beside him.

He freezes mid-sentence, his eyes going wide as he takes in the mountain of Jellycats now surrounding him. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, holding up his hands like he’s trying to process the situation. “This—this is the collection?”

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