Page 102 of High Hopes

“Yup.” I plop down on the edge of the bed, smug as anything. “Meet my Jellycats.”

His expression shifts to pure amazement as he sifts through the pile, pulling out a brown bunny and a green bunny, each with one floppy ear. He inspects them like they’re precious artifacts, carefully turning them over in his hands. Otis is long forgotten.

“This is . . . more impressive than I expected,” he says finally, his voice filled with mock reverence.

“You thought I was kidding?”

“No,” he admits, holding up a tiny fox with an embroidered scarf. “I just didn’t realize you had a wholesocietyof them. These ones are my favorite,” he declares, gazing lovingly at the bunnies. “They’re us.”

I blink, bemused. “The bunnies?”

“Of course, the bunnies.” He gives me a deadpan stare, completely serious. “Can’t you tell?”

I laugh, shaking my head as I lean back to prop myself on my elbows. “You’re so weird.”

He grins mischievously, and before I can move, he grabs me around the waist and pulls me down onto the bed with him. “Liam!” I shriek, half laughing, half squirming as I try to escape his grip. “Stop! I’m all messy from the studio.”

“And I’m so pristine?” he teases, wrapping an arm securely around me to hold me in place. “You’ve seen me post-practice—I’m practically a swamp creature by comparison.”

I roll onto my side, panting and trying to catch my breath, my hair sticking out in all directions. Liam’s grinning up at the ceiling, one arm draped lazily across his chest, the other casually tucked behind his head.

“Annoying little gremlin,” I mutter, half-heartedly swatting at him.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he fires back, turning his head to look at me. His gaze softens slightly, flickering over my face like he’s memorizing every angle, every smudge of clay. He gently brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

“I like you so much,” he says softly.

I swallow, my heart doing that fluttery thing it always does when he looks at me like this. “Yeah,” I whisper back. “I like you, too. And I plan to stick around as long as you let me.”

Something swells in my chest—this fragile, beautiful thing I don’t quite know how to name. Love, probably. Hope, definitely.

I glance at him, his face lit with a warmth that’s so achingly Liam. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he says like it’s the easiest promise in the world.

When we’re together like this, I feel light—giddy, even—like all the broken pieces of me are finally starting to fit back together. One soft, silly moment at a time.

35

LIAM

The banquet hallis buzzing tonight. It’s the end of March, and the air outside is just starting to feel like spring, all soft breezes and budding trees. Inside, though, it’s fluorescent lighting and formalwear—soccer cleats traded for dress shoes, jerseys for button-downs.

Birdie’s beside me, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the emerald-green dress. It’s formal but understated, the rich color making the gold in her hazel eyes glow. Her heels—a modest two inches because she insisted on not towering over me—tap a quiet rhythm against the floor.

She looks stunning, obviously, but there’s a tightness to her posture, the kind that says she’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Hey,” I whisper. “You doing okay?”

She nods quickly, but it’s not convincing. Her hands tighten around the fabric, her eyes darting around the room like she’s mapping out potential escape routes. “It’s just . . . your parents.”

Ah, yes. My parents. The immaculately dressed, judgmental elephants in the room.

“They’re not that scary,” I tell her, keeping my tone light. “Annoying? Sure. Overbearing? Absolutely. But scary? Nah.They’re just two people who think being rich makes them more fascinating than they actually are.”

She gives me a look—half-amused, half-exasperated. “That’s not helping.”

I reach over and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Okay, listen. They’re not judging you for who you are.” She raises an eyebrow, skeptical, and I add, “They’re judging you for wanting to be with me.”

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