Page 45 of High Hopes

“He doesn’t seem so bad,” Birdie says once we’re out of earshot. “He seems like he can take a joke, at least.”

“That’s because you haven’t been around him long enough.” I shake my head. “I’ve seen Warren sit through family events with the same deadpan expression he wears now. Doesn’t matter if it’s Christmas dinner or someone’s retirement party. The guy’s a statue.”

Birdie quirks an eyebrow. “A Claus denier—sounds like a good time.”

“At my uncle’s wedding, he ditched halfway through the toasts to hide out by the catering truck. Later, I found him by the loading dock, sneaking wedding cake and muttering about how the speeches were all boring and fake.”

That earns a laugh, and she pulls me toward the dance floor. She moves without hesitation, her wings fluttering in time with the music, her whole body alive with this unrestrained energy that’s impossible not to notice.

She turns to me, hips swaying, and I step closer without thinking. The bass thrums between us, and I catch the faint shimmer of sweat along her collarbone. My gaze lingers, tracking the bead as it slides down. My mind flickers to a thought I can’t shake, a thought I shouldn’t have—of leaning down, tasting the salt and warmth of her skin.

Instead, I lean in just enough that her hair brushes my cheek. “You seem happy tonight,” I murmur. “Like you’re really letting go. It’s a good look on you.”

The shift is immediate. Her shoulders stiffen, and the light in her eyes dims, like I’ve said something to ruin the moment. The realization hits me like a gut punch, and I curse myself.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, trying to recover. “I didn’t mean to make it weird. I just—should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

She lets out a shaky laugh, waving me off. “No, it’s not you. Really, it’s me. I don’t usually let myself . . . feel like this. Ever.Not anymore.” Her gaze flickers up to meet mine, hesitant. “But with you, I don’t know. It’s like I forget how not to.”

“And that’s . . . bad?” I ask softly, searching her face for something to latch onto.

She presses her lips together, clearly wrestling with something, and finally shakes her head. “It’s not bad. It’s just . . . complicated.”

I don’t push. Instead, I watch her rub her temples like she’s trying to fend off the weight of her own thoughts. “Do you want to go?” I ask. “We can leave if you want.”

She’s quiet for a beat, her fingers brushing mine absently. Then she shakes her head. “No,” she says, more firmly this time. Her hand slides up to clasp mine, pulling it around her neck. “We should stay. Dance more. Laugh more. Just . . . let ourselves be happy. No overthinking. No second-guessing.”

I don’t question it. I just slide my hand down to the small of her back, settling it gently beneath her wings. Her body softens against mine, and we sway together, barely moving but somehow perfectly in sync.

She looks up, her hazel eyes catching the shifting lights, open and searching. I want to kiss her, to tell her how she makes everything feel right. But I hold back, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing we’ve built in this moment.

We stay like that, lost in the music and each other, her fingers tracing a slow path along my shoulder. It’s not the kind of dancing that fits the chaos around us—it’s quieter, softer, like we’ve found our own little world amid the noise.

And if this is pretending, I think, I don’t want it to end. Because for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like pretending at all.

16

BIRDIE

Tuesday morning bringswith it a dull, throbbing headache and the lingering glow of last night’s party. It’s not a migraine, thank God. I haven’t had one of those in months. Still, the ache is enough to make me wince as I stretch.

I didn’t realize just how late we stayed, how deep we let ourselves sink into the night’s chaos. There’s a fine ring of glitter on my pillow to prove it—a shimmering reminder of fairy wings and Halloween magic.

As I rub my temples, a nagging sense of worry tugs at the back of my mind. The last time I felt like this, it started as just a headache, too.

I grab my phone, scrolling through the notifications until I see “Dad” flash on the screen. I pick up, and before I can even get a word in, his familiar voice fills the line.

“How’s my little Bridgie doin’?” he asks, warm, gruff, and instantly comforting.

I lean against the headboard. “I’m doing okay. Keeping busy.”

“And how’s your head been? Not pushing yourself too hard, I hope? You getting enough sleep?”

Three questions. A trifecta that instantly drags me back to the accident—the brain injury, the recovery, all the caution afterward. The doctors told me symptoms can linger longer than you’d expect, especially the headaches and exhaustion.

Lately, they’ve been cropping up more and more.

I’m sure it’s just the extra weight I’m carrying: school, lack of funds, and the pressure to always keep pushing forward, even when it feels like there’s no room left to breathe.

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