Page 52 of High Hopes

By the time I glance at the clock, it’s well past midnight. My eyes are heavy, and I’m half-asleep, sprawled across the couchwith the sudoku book still open on my chest, the pencil dangling from my fingertips.

That’s when I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me.

I turn, blinking against the dim light, and there she is—my Birdie, standing at the end of the hallway. Her short hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up in every direction, and her cheek is marked with faint pillow lines. She’s wrapped in one of my oversized hoodies, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

“Hey,” I say softly, sitting up and setting the book aside. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

She shrugs, fingers tugging at the hem. “Couldn’t stay asleep. Head’s still pounding, but it’s a little better.”

I stand and cross the room to her. “You need anything? Water? More aspirin?”

“No, just . . .” She pauses, her voice dropping. “Didn’t want to be alone.”

The words hit me square in the gut, and for a moment, all I can do is stare. Not only is she embarrassed and sick, but she’s also lonely. It’s the last thing I want her to feel.

I reach out, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. “You’re not. Come sit with me.”

I guide her to the couch, grabbing a blanket and draping it over her as she sinks into the cushions. She curls up against me, tucking her legs beneath her.

“You okay here?” I ask, my voice low.

She nods, her eyes already half-closed. “Yeah. Thanks, Liam.”

I don’t say anything else, just grab the sudoku book again and pretend to focus on the numbers. But out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she drifts back into a fitful sleep, her breathing evening out little by little.

In a weird way, this feels exactly like where we were supposed to end up tonight. Not at the gallery, not surroundedby strangers, but here—curled up on the couch together after a long, messy night. And though I’d rather she not be sick, there’s something oddly comforting in being the one she leans on.

The one to make her feel safe.

18

BIRDIE

We haven’t talkedabout it. The onset of the migraine, the ensuing vomit, and especially not the fact that I rode in the passenger seat of his car without totally panicking.

It probably helped that I was already incapacitated. Too distracted by the pain to focus on the usual fear, the white-knuckled grip I’d otherwise have had on the door. And I haven’t told him that it was the first time, in nearly a year, that I made it through a car ride without feeling like I was going to crawl out of my own skin.

He doesn’t need to know that.

It’s been a week since that disaster of a night, and we haven’t spoken much at all. Liam’s in the final stretch of the season. His last home game was Wednesday night, and after that, the team is off to the conference playoffs.

If they win, they’ll secure an automatic bid for the NCAA tournament, which means even more time on the road. Part of me wants to wish him luck, to say something, but I’ve been holding back.

I’m embarrassed—by the way my migraine made me unravel in front of his parents and Claire (to whom I wrote a personalapology email). But also by the fact that I’ve let myself rely on him so heavily in such a short amount of time.

Of course, it’s nice having someone willing to show up, no questions asked. But it’s terrifying, too, because I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to let him see too much. All the ugly cracks in the carefully constructed version of myself I’ve been trying to maintain.

He doesn’t seem to mind, takes it all in stride, but I . . . I think Ilikehim. No, I know I like him. I’m crushing, hard. And maybe, despite my hang-ups, I want more.

I can’t let myself spiral, not now. With a sigh, I push all thoughts of Liam to the back of my mind and focus on what I can control: the fellowship presentation. It’s less than two weeks away, and I need it to be perfect.

Winning this would mean financial stability—no more juggling extra shifts to pay for supplies or stressing over how I’ll make next semester’s tuition. It would mean validation, proof that the risks I’ve taken, the sacrifices I’ve made, have been worth it. Most importantly, it would be a step toward building the career I’ve dreamed about since I first stepped into a studio.

It has to go right. Because if it doesn’t, I don’t know what plan B looks like. And that scares me more than anything else.

I boot up my laptop and pull up my presentation slides. The PowerPoint is already half-finished, but there are still tweaks to be made, details to perfect. I set my phone on silent and plug it into the charger, determined not to let any distractions pull me away.

The slides flip past: bold text, high-resolution photos of my work, a few quotes from past professors and critiques. I’ve laid it all out meticulously, but I still don’t feel confident. There’s one last piece I need to finish. A piece that will tie the whole portfolio together.

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