Page 103 of High Hopes

Her mouth drops open. “Liam! Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. “They’ve never really warmed up to the whole autistic thing, you know? It’s like they think they got dealt a bad hand with me or something. They’d rather I—” I pause, considering my words. “Blend in better. Be quieter. Basically, not be myself.”

I say it casually because that’s how I’ve learned to deal with it. The blunt honesty makes it easier to swallow. I’m not ashamed of who I am—it’s the rest of the world that tries to make it feel like something to apologize for.

When I glance at Birdie, her brow is furrowed, her lips pressed together in this way that tells me she’s working through how to react. How to balance between sympathy and outrage without making it weird. Then she tilts her head slightly, studying me like she’s trying to see past the words. Finally, she squeezes my hand back.

“Well, screw them,” she says fiercely.

A startled laugh bubbles out of me, warming the tightness in my chest. “Yeah. Screw them.”

The corner of her mouth twitches upward, but the tension hasn’t fully left her shoulders. I fumble in my jacket pocket, feeling the cool, waxy skin of what I’m looking for, and pull it out with a little flourish.

“Here,” I say, holding it up between us.

Birdie blinks at the lemon in my hand, then at me, like she’s waiting for the punchline. “What . . . what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Sniff it,” I say, completely serious.

“Sniff it,” she repeats flatly.

“Yeah.” I roll the lemon between my fingers. “My brother told me that sniffing lemons or limes can help with anxiety. Thought I’d give it a shot. You know, start carrying one around for you. Combat tool.”

She stares at me for a long moment, her lips twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. Then, out of nowhere, she loops her arms around my neck and pops a kiss on my cheek.

“The strangest brand of sweet,” she murmurs, her voice warm and amused.

“Maybe,” I say, grinning. “But you’re not panicking anymore, are you?”

She huffs out a small laugh and shakes her head. “You win, Donovan. Pass me the lemon.”

I hand it over, and she brings it to her nose, inhaling deeply like she’s humoring me. “I hate to admit it, but it actually smells . . . calming.”

“Told you.”

She rolls her eyes but slips the lemon into her bag, her lips quirking into a faint, reluctant smile. Just like that, the tension in her shoulders softens, and the restless tapping of her foot comes to a stop. For a moment, we sit together in easy silence, her hand still nestled in mine. Then I catch sight of the clock on the wall and let out a quiet sigh.

“Time to face the music,” I say, standing and offering her my hand.

She takes it, and we make our way back to the table, where my parents are already seated alongside two of my teammates and their families. My dad is mid-conversation with Amir’smom, his expression polite but distant. My mom, on the other hand, is scrolling through her phone, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against the screen.

“Liam,” she says when she notices us, cool and composed. “There you are.”

“Hi, Mrs. Donovan,” Birdie greets. “So nice to see you again.”

“Bridget,” my mom replies, offering her a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You as well.”

We sit, and I slide my palm over Birdie’s thigh, a small, grounding gesture meant as much for me as it is for her. Her hand brushes mine in response, her fingers warm and reassuring.

“How was the drive in?” my dad asks, his tone as formal as ever.

“Uneventful,” I say, reaching for the water glass in front of me. “You know, cars, roads, the usual. Though, there was a squirrel that looked like it was plotting something sinister at a crosswalk. Pretty sure it made direct eye contact.”

My dad doesn’t laugh, but I catch the faintest twitch of my mom’s lips, like she’s fighting a smile. Small victories.

Birdie taps the back of my hand lightly. “How was your day, Mrs. Donovan?”

“Oh, you know,” she says vaguely. “Busy. But nothing terribly exciting.”

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