Page 20 of High Hopes

“Really?” I snort, rolling my eyes. “Isn’t physical touch, like, every guy’s love language?”

“Didn’t realize we were talking aboutlovehere.”

My face flushes, and I instantly regret the joke. “I just mean ... most guys I know like to be touched. In some manner of speaking.”

He grins, tilting his head. “Oh, I like to be touched, Birdie. But I’m selective about who gets the honor.”

I groan and throw my hands up. “Why do I even try?”

“Because deep down, you like me.” He shrugs, his expression so casual it almost feels like he believes it. “And because I’m the only guy who’ll show up at midnight to fix your broken proposal.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m pretty sure you just fell asleep on my couch and let me finish up the real work.”

“Falling asleep was part of the process,” he says, all mock seriousness. “You know, moral support.”

“Moral support,” I repeat, deadpan. “Right. I’ll remember that the next time I’m stuck waffling alone at 3:00 a.m.”

“Please do.” He shoots me another grin, his hands still tucked in his pockets, as if he’s entirely at ease despite my awkward fumbling. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. But seriously, if you ever need help—or aride—you know where to find me.”

He tips his chin, and I hesitate for a moment, watching with reluctant fascination as he heads toward the door. There’s something about his easy confidence that leaves me both exasperated and . . . intrigued. The kind of charm that feels effortlessly disarming, like he doesn’t even realize the effect he has.

As the door clicks shut behind him, I shake my head, trying to ignore the lingering warmth in my chest.

“Call me for a ride,” I mutter under my breath, mocking him despite the quiet, undeniable smile tugging at my lips. “What a generous guy.”

8

BIRDIE

If only Icould skip class and work in lieu of more studio time. The written portion of my proposal is nearly complete, thanks to Liam’s feedback. My sample pieces are ready to go, pieces that feel like they’ve been molded from the guts of my frustration, my late nights, and the quiet ache I can never quite shake.

I should feel relieved. But there’s still so much left to do. I need to prepare a verbal presentation, create a visual slide deck that’ll capture the essence of my work, finalize my artist statement. Plus, I need to add a few newer pieces to showcase the theme.

The problem is, I’ve been running on fumes all week, and my shifts at the bookstore haven’t helped.

I clock in at 4:00 p.m. with a resigned sigh. It’s like I’m moving in slow motion, mechanically shelving books, ringing up customers, answering questions that feel like noise buzzing around my head.

Every task is dragging, and it’s hard to care about whether the new release section is properly aligned when all I can think about is my studio work. My mind keeps wandering back to the pieces I’ve left unfinished.

I’m sure Liam would tell me I’m overthinking again, that I should just let it all come together naturally. But I can’t shake the pressure.

I glance at the clock. Only two more hours of this. My fingers ache to get back to the clay, to let the tension in my body melt away into something tangible. But for now, I’m stuck here.

Another customer approaches the counter, and I force a smile, barely registering them as I ring up their order. I swipe the book across the scanner, watching the red light flicker, hearing the soft beep that’s become part of the soundtrack to my life in this place. But it’s all automatic. I’m not here, not really.

“Excuse me,” the customer says, clearing their throat. The polite, expectant tone cuts through my daydream, and I blink to focus on the person in front of me.

To my not-so-pleasant surprise, I know the guy. Ben Wilkes. A ghost from my past with effortlessly floppy brown hair and a killer smile that could charm the paint off a wall.

“Hey, Birdie,” he says, as smooth as ever, his voice carrying that familiar note of casual confidence. “Long time, no see.”

Ben and I shared art history class during my freshman year. He slid effortlessly into my little circle of friends, the kind of guy who was impossible to ignore. We connected. Kind of. I was mostly interested in him because I felt like I had to be. He was handsome, he was charming in a practiced way, and most importantly, he was there.

My friends were dating, “talking to” all sorts of guys with easy grins and shared playlists. And I wanted to fit in, to be part of whatever they had.

But that was a different version of me. Before the accident. Before everything changed.

“Yeah, hey,” I manage, forcing a tight smile. “It’s been a while.”

---