Page 69 of High Hopes

The words loop over and over in my mind, relentless, each repetition cutting a little deeper, like a knife twisting in an already open wound. I failed, and now, I have no idea what comes next.

24

LIAM

I don’t goto my parents’ house for Thanksgiving. Not this year. Not after everything with Birdie and the fellowship. Just the thought of sitting across the table from my dad, watching him carve the turkey like nothing’s happened, makes me want to punch a hole in the wall.

I was a rowdy kid, but I’ve never been the violent sort. Better not start breaking character now.

They weren’t thrilled when I told them. My mom sniffled a little, saying it wouldn’t feel the same without me. A phony guilt trip if I’ve ever heard one. My dad just grumbled something about priorities.

I sold them on a made-up story about James being lonely. Something about a minor league community outreach project he was “obligated” to stick around for—not entirely true, but close enough to be convincing.

Baseball season’s over, and he could’ve driven home if he really wanted to. But he’d mentioned wanting to lie low, avoid the usual family chaos, and I figured we were on the same page about that.

James doesn’t need the family drama, and neither do I. I’ll confront my dad eventually. When I have the energy for it. WhenI know what to say. But not today. Today, I just want to see my brother.

I drive to his place out in Stonewater.

It’s not much—just a small apartment near the minor league complex—but it feels a hell of a lot better than being at home. James doesn’t cook, though, so we head out to the Cracker Barrel and settle in for a low-key Thanksgiving.

We sit in a corner booth, plates piled high with turkey, stuffing, and those little biscuits they keep bringing out in baskets. It’s so far removed from our family’s usual Thanksgiving—formal dining room, silver platters, wine pairings—that I can’t help but like it more. It’s weirdly perfect.

“So,” James says, leaning back in his seat as he spears a piece of meat. “What’s been going on with you? And don’t mumble or dodge the question with a half-assed joke.”

He’s right—I’m usually a straight shooter—but talking about this stuff makes me antsy. It’s like trying to talk around the real thing, dancing when all I want to do is stand still. But I know James. If I don’t give him something real, he’ll just keep pushing.

I shrug, swirling a forkful of mashed potatoes. “You remember that girl I mentioned before? The artist?”

James narrows his eyes slightly, already suspicious. “Yeah, what about her?”

“Well . . . I like her. Like, really like her. And we’ve been kissing.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Kissing? Is that code for—”

“No,” I cut him off, scowling. “Quite literally just kissing. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh, and?”

“And she’s feeling really shitty right now,” I add, ignoring his pointed tone. “She lost the fellowship, and she’s super anxious. Like, shut-down-anxious. We said we’d handle shit together, butshe’s pulling away. And I don’t really know how to help her other than to give her the space she’s asking for.”

James’ smirk fades. “Yeah, that’s tough.” He sets his fork down, leaning forward slightly. “You, uh, you remember Declan? My buddy who moved away senior year?”

“Obviously.”

Declan was practically a third Donovan brother for half of high school. While I had trouble making friends, my brother collected them like trophies.

“Well, he used to get anxiety attacks. Before a game, he’d be in the stands sniffing lemons. Said it helped calm him down. I guess it’s a thing.”

I stare at him, deadpan. “So . . . I should give her some lemons to sniff?”

“No, you dipshit.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m saying you should think of things that calm her down. Things she likes, stuff that makes her happy. And try them with her. If you like her, show her.”

I nod, chewing it over. “Like what, though?”

“How the hell should I know?” he says, grinning. “You’re the one who likes her. Figure it out. Or if you can’t, at least just . . . sit in the shittiness with her for a while.”

We shovel the rest of the food into our mouths, the conversation trailing off into comfortable silence. The biscuits are good—like, I ate twelve of them good—and when the check comes, James insists on covering it, and I don’t bother to argue.

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