Page 32 of High Hopes

And even if it wasn’t, I’d probably pursue it anyway—just to prove them wrong.

When I pullinto the driveway, the weight of the night hasn’t let up. My parents’ expectations, the internship talk—it all builds up inside me until it feels like I might burst from the pressure.

Chase is out for the night. He’s probably crashing at someone’s place or hitting up one of those parties he’s always trying to drag me to. Usually, I’m fine being on my own. Hell, I prefer it.

But tonight? The thought of sitting in an empty house, alone with my thoughts circling back to the same tired conversation, feels unbearable. And worse, the idea of not having someone to talk to who actually gets it—who won’t just dismiss it or try to fix it—makes me all sorts of itchy.

I reach for my phone, scrolling through my messages to find Birdie’s last text about her speech. She’s become that person for me, hasn’t she? Just as trusted as Chase. Maybe even more.

Liam

you up?

Birdie

if this is a booty call, then no

Liam

it’s not . . . unless?

Birdie

liam donovan

Liam

I just want to know if you’re busy or not

Birdie

I’m drowning in drafts. why? what’s up?

Liam

come over. I wanna help you

That sounds casual enough, right? I mean, Idowant to help. But I also just don’t want to be alone right now, and I think Birdie would get that. She doesn’t expect me to be anything other than what I am.

Birdie

I don’t know. aren’t you tired of helping me yet?

Liam

trust me, I’d love nothing more than to whip your speech into shape

Birdie

okay then. text me your address, and I’ll be over soon

I text back, then tuck my phone away before heading inside. The house is too quiet—the kind of silence that’s more suffocating than peaceful. I toss my keys onto the counter and start pacing, trying to shake off the leftover frustration fromdinner. But it clings to me, heavy and unrelenting, like wet clothes after a storm.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. Birdie steps inside with her notebook and laptop tucked under her arm. She’s in one of those oversized sweaters, her hair clipped back with those barrettes she always wears. She looks . . . content.

Beautiful as always, but also calm. Like she carries none of the tension I’m drowning in and might even be able to help me wade through the water.

“Hey.” She gives me a sweet smile, and the coil of heat in my chest loosens, spreading into something softer. “You serious about helping me with my presentation, or was this just a ploy to get me to come over?”

---