Page 44 of High Hopes

Once again, Birdie manages to put words to something I didn’t know I was feeling. She understands what it’s like to go against what feels natural—to mask, to bend yourself into what other people want. There’s a flicker of curiosity in me, wondering what happened to shift things for her. What moment taught her to stop saying yes when she didn’t mean it.

But I let it go, for now.

“If I’m really feeling burnt out,” I say, “I won’t force it.”

She raises an eyebrow, like she’s debating whether to press for more, but in the end, she decides against it. Instead, she grabs my hand, tugging me through the crowd toward the kitchen.

The room is packed, a chaotic mess of bodies and noise, but we manage to carve out a small space by the counter. She grabs a couple of plastic cups, filling them from the keg with the precision of someone who’s clearly done this a few times.

“To learning our limits,” she says, raising her cup with a wry smile.

I tap mine against hers. “And to ignoring them every now and then.”

We drink, the sharp taste of cheap beer making me wince, but it’s manageable. As she takes another sip, I glance over her shoulder and spot a familiar face near the back of the room. I do a double take, almost convinced I’m imagining it.

Leaning against the wall with a scowl that could melt stone is Warren—my uncle’s stepson and the absolute last person I expected to see at a party like this.

Birdie catches my expression and follows my gaze. “Who’s that?”

“My cousin,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s on the swim team. Don’t know what he’s doing here, though. He hates parties even more than I do.”

She narrows her eyes at him, intrigued. “Looks like he’s plotting someone’s demise. Is he always that . . . intense?”

“Pretty much. Warren’s got one of those resting ‘don’t mess with me’ faces. But he actually does hate everyone, I think. It’s not just an unlucky expression.”

Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh. “You’re telling me he’s the antisocial one in your family?”

“Hey, I’m plenty social when I want to be,” I say, nudging her arm.

Birdie glances back at Warren. “Should we go say hi? Or would that just make him bolt?”

“Definitely bolt,” I mutter. “Let’s spare him the pain. He’s probably already counting the seconds until he can leave. Seeing me would only speed up his exit strategy.”

She grins. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m not. But I don’t take it personally. Warren just . . . doesn’t like people. Period. But if you don’t believe me, I’ll prove it to you.”

Before she can argue, I steer her through the crowd, weaving past costumes and clusters of half-shouted conversations. When we reach him, Warren doesn’t so much as blink in surprise. His expression is as stoic as ever, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Hey, Warren. Why are you here?”

Birdie slaps me on the shoulder, and it’s only then that I realize how blunt that sounded. I quickly revise my tone. “I mean, what brings you to this fine social gathering?”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Warren replies, his voice low and grumbly. “Coach said something about ‘team bonding.’ Thought I’d make an appearance and then head out.”

Birdie smiles, her voice light. “Well, you’re doing great so far. Super approachable vibes.”

Warren’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, like he’s debating whether to smile or not. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” Birdie says, clearly amused. “Anyway, don’t let us keep you from your ‘bonding.’ Looks like you’re having a blast.”

Warren raises an eyebrow, giving me a pointed look. “Your friend’s a little too chipper for this crowd.”

I shrug. “She grows on you.”

Birdie rolls her eyes. “Come on, let’s get out of his hair before he starts plotting our demise.”

Warren watches us leave, shaking his head faintly, and I swear there’s the tiniest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Or maybe I’m imagining it.

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