Page 43 of High Hopes

I asked Birdie to meet me here on a whim. It was a last-minute invite that I honestly didn’t think she’d accept. But she did, and with her by my side, this party might actually be bearable. Maybe even enjoyable.

She texted that she’d be here soon, so I’m waiting.

Five minutes later, she’s walking up the lawn, her wings catching the porch light as she adjusts them. She’s dressed as a woodland fairy, all soft greens and browns, with her hair braided.

She looks so pretty, delicate, perfect. A version of Birdie that makes it hard to remember why I ever thought I didn’t want to be here.

“So, are you just going to stare, or are you going to say hi?” she asks.

“Did you walk here?” The house is a decent trek from her apartment, and the thought of her walking it alone in the dark tugs at me.

She shrugs, brushing it off. “The wings make me faster.”

“Uh-huh,” I reply, unimpressed. “So, are you here to sprinkle magic dust, or are you more of the mischievous type?”

She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Depends. Are you here to drink people’s blood or just to look menacing?”

“Mostly the latter.” I flash the plastic fangs in an exaggerated grin. “Though these fuckers are killing me. Couldn’t find a set that didn’t feel like they were made for toddlers.”

She laughs. “Yeah, you’ve got a little blood just there.” She swipes her thumb across my lip to clean off the fake splatters. The casual touch throws me, and for a second, I’m too focused on the warmth of her hand to come up with a witty response.

“Thanks,” I manage, clearing my throat. “You look . . . really good, by the way. Like you could actually live in a forest somewhere and talk to squirrels or something.”

Her eyes light up, amused. “Squirrels, huh? I was hoping for something cooler.”

“Like . . . a wood nymph?” I suggest.

“Or Edward Cullen, maybe. You know,hop on, Spider-Monkey.”

I wink. “I can be him. I’m halfway there already.”

“Not sparkly enough,” she quips, grinning.

I chuckle, finally gesturing toward the door. “Ready to head in? My roommate’s probably in there plotting his next conquest.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head, and we step inside together. The moment we do, we’re hit with the usual wall of noise. People dressed in mismatched costumes—cowboys, superheroes, random togas—are crammed into every corner. The faint smell of stale beer lingers in the air, mixed with sweat and way too much cheap cologne.

“Welcome to the circus,” I mutter under my breath.

Birdie wrinkles her nose as she scans the crowd. “I should’ve guessed. You’re not a big fan of parties, are you?”

I give her a sideways look. “Not really.”

“So, why are we here, then?” she asks, all low and playful.

“Just felt like it, I guess.”

Her eyes narrow. “Did you?”

“Yeah, I’m trying to be good.”

“Good?” she repeats, tilting her head.

I sigh, running a hand over the back of my neck before diving in. “Before, if I wasn’t up for something, I’d just say no straightaway. No question about it. But . . . the last couple of years, I figured I should make more of an effort. If it makes my friends happy, then why not, even if it’s uncomfortable for me? It’s not that hard to pretend for a little while.”

She looks at me, head tilted, lips pursed in thought. Finally, she says, “That sounds exhausting. Actually, I know it’s exhausting. I used to be such a people pleaser, too, but somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t have to say yes to everything. Learned the hard way what can happen when you’re not taking care of yourself.”

People pleaser. That’s not something I’d generally call myself. In fact, I’ve always seen myself as someone who doesn’t really care what others think. But she’s right. Sometimes, even without meaning to, I compromise more than I realize. Little sacrifices here and there, just to avoid rocking the boat.

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