Page 58 of High Hopes

I laugh quietly into my pillow. God, he’s such a dork. A part of me is tempted to let him continue his tirade without responding, but then another message pops up that makes me pause.

Liam

birdie. need 2 talk 2 u

My heart stutters. I’m supposed to be sleeping, trying to get my head on straight before tomorrow, but who am I kidding? My eyes are wide open, and curiosity’s got me hooked.

I swipe to call him. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Each second stretches out longer than the last, worry creeping up the back of my neck. Just when I’m about to hang up, there’s a click, and his voice filters through, all soft and sleepy.

“Birdieee, you there?”

Relief floods through me. “Yes. How drunk are you right now?”

He chuckles, a low, lazy sound that makes my stomach flip. “Why? Are you judging me?”

I smile. “Never.”

“Good,” he breathes out, a bit of a sigh mixed with a chuckle. “Because now that I know how good your lips feel on mine, you’re never getting away from me.”

I flush, my cheeks burning hot. “Oh, my God.”

“That was a good kiss, wasn’t it?” he asks, sounding almost boyish, like he needs to hear me say it.

I bite my lip, and a wave of butterflies swarms in my stomach. “Yeah, it was. Really good.”

“The best,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We should do it again.”

I can hear the smile in his voice, and my heart skips a beat. God, he’s such a flirt, even when he’s halfway conscious. “Oh yeah?” I tease. “When were you thinking?”

“I’ll come find you when I get back tomorrow. And I’m gonna kiss the hell out of you.”

I bite my lip to keep from squealing like a teenager. “It sounds like you’ve had quite the night.”

“You have no idea.” There’s a rustling on his end, like he’s shifting in bed. “But none of it matters because . . .” He trails off,and for a second, I think he’s fallen asleep. Then he speaks again, quieter this time. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well, here I am,” I say, my voice softening.

“Good.” There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Do you ever think I’m, like, too much sometimes?”

“Too much?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding small. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never heard before. “I talk too much. Say the wrong things. I don’t know when to shut up. I mean ... I dunno.”

My chest tightens. “No, you’re not too much. Not for me.”

“Really?” His voice lifts, like he doesn’t quite believe me.

“Really,” I say firmly. “You’re . . . exactly right, actually.”

There’s another long pause, and I wonder if he’s processing my words or just too drunk to reply. Then, finally, he says, “Birdie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re my favorite.”

My breath hitches. “Liam—”

“God, I’m so tired. I think I might actually be floating.”

---