Page 36 of High Hopes

good bc I would totally survive an apocalypse better than you

Liam

wanna bet?

My heart gives this funny lurch, like a little somersault I don’t entirely understand. It feels nice, though, whatever it is—light, unguarded, the kind of ease I’ve been needing.

Birdie

would you save me? If it came down to it, would you fight them off to rescue me???

Liam

always

Birdie

thought so. you know I’m rly glad I met you, right? for more than just the pottery stuff, I mean

Liam

yeah. I know. me too, birdie.

There’s a knock on the door, and then Sena shouts, “Birdie, you okay in there?”

“Yeah!” I call back. “I’ll be out in just a second!”

I stare at the screen for a long while, feeling that little flutter again, that mix of excitement and warmth that seems to bubble up every time we talk. It’s silly, but I feel like I can hear his voice, steady and strong, cutting through the fog in my head.

“Birdie!” Sena’s still knocking on the door, a bit more insistent now. “Stop flirting with yourself in the mirror and come out here!”

I lock my phone, tuck it back into my pocket, and take a steadying breath. I don’t know why my chest feels so light, why the corners of my mouth keep trying to pull into a smile that I’m not sure I can suppress.

Maybe it’s just a little crush, or maybe it’s something else entirely—something I’m not quite ready to name.

When I finally open the door, Sena’s standing there, one hand on her hip and the other holding a freshly poured glass of sangria. “Good God, woman! Thought we’d lost you to the depths of the toilet.”

I laugh, stepping out into the hallway and playfully nudging her. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m still alive and well.”

“For now,” she quips, holding the glass out to me like a peace offering. “Drink this and get back to the couch. Nessa’s declared herself the queen of the apocalypse, and I’m about to stage a coup.”

I take the glass, the warmth of the moment wrapping around me like a blanket, and let her pull me back to the living room. Whatever’s happening in my chest—the lightness, the fluttering—it can wait.

Right now, there’s alcohol to drink, theater majors to debate, and a fleeting kind of happiness I’m not ready to let go of.

13

LIAM

The floodlights glareover the field, cutting through the dark as a light rain drizzles. It’s a Wednesday night game, late October, and the air’s thick with that edge of chill that creeps in just before winter in Carolina, the kind that finally makes you pull your sleeves down and your collar up.

But I’m warm, my body humming from pre-game adrenaline and hours of training. It’s everything that’s been building to these last games before the season’s end.

As I stretch on the sideline, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I catch a glimpse of the bleachers filling up. Not exactly packed—midweek games rarely are—but the stands have a decent crowd already.

I scan the seats with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Birdie mentioned maybe coming. She texted me earlier, something about being swamped but wanting to try. And the thought of her sitting up there, watching me, makes my pulse kick up a notch.

It’s Chase who snaps me back, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Focus up, man. Let’s show them what we’ve got.” He’s grinning, always keyed up before games, his usual smirk replaced with something sharper. The kind of focus I’ve been trying to channel all season.

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