Page 8 of High Hopes

“Let’s go dance!” Sena takes my hand and attempts to drag me out with the rest of them.

It’s tempting, the idea of losing myself in the music and the movement. I used to love dancing, used to get caught up in the energy of it, the freedom. But lately, I just can’t bring myself to move like that anymore. It feels too vulnerable, like exposing a part of me I’ve been keeping locked away.

I smile but shake my head. “You guys go ahead. I’ll hold down the fort here.”

Sena’s face twists into a playful pout, but she doesn’t push. Even though we’ve only been friends and roommates for a few months, she’s already figured out when I’m not in the mood.

“Suit yourself,” she says, giving a little wave before disappearing into the crowd.

I take another sip of my drink, watching them blend into the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Their carefree energy fills the space, and something sharp clenches inside my chest. I shouldn’t be here, should I? Laughing and drinking, pretending like everything’s fine.

Living, moving forward, while Emily’s just ... gone.

I blink, the sudden weight of the thought making it harder to swallow my drink. The accident plays in my mind like an oldfilm reel—the screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the way time slowed to nothing in those few terrible moments. Four broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, and a head injury that left me unconscious for days.

I made it. The other driver didn’t.

I was home for winter break, heading back from a friend’s house, and her car came out of nowhere. T-boned the passenger side of my old Toyota. The force of the impact spun us into oncoming traffic. By the time all the noise stopped and I could finally make sense of what had happened, it was too late.

I was injured, but she was gone.

They said it wasn’t my fault. That the other driver was speeding. She ran a red light and lost control. But it doesn’t matter, does it? It still haunts me just the same.

I met her parents after the accident. She was a senior in high school, they said, Dayton-bound like me. A bright-eyed girl with her whole life ahead of her.

They were afraid I’d sue, like I had any energy to think about lawyers or lawsuits when I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I survived, and she didn’t.

I hadn’t even known her name until I read it in the accident report—Emily Matthis. What a sweet name for a girl who barely had the chance to live. She was a stranger, but she shouldn’t be dead. And I shouldn’t be here, pretending like everything’s okay.

But it’s not just the guilt of being here, of still having a life to live when hers is gone. It’s the fact that I don’t know how to move forward, even though I have to. It eats at me, slowly but surely, until I wonder if I even deserve to be moving forward at all.

A year ago, nobody expected I’d come back to school. Not with the way I reacted. Not with the way I shut everyone out and let myself spiral.

My old friends quickly lost hope of me bouncing back. They were confused as to why I couldn’t be the same vapid, carefree Birdie they used to know. They wanted me to be more self-absorbed, I guess. Shallower. More oblivious. To care about parties and boys and fitting in the way I did before.

But after the accident, I stopped caring about anything other than my dad and my art. And pushing forward with ceramics was really more about surviving. About doing the one thing I know how to do in a world that feels so far out of my control.

Now, nine months later, seated on a rickety barstool at Lucky’s, I take another long sip of my drink. The cool, sour liquid does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. I glance up at the dance floor, at the blur of moving bodies, and the familiar pull of isolation tugs at me.

I should be grateful. I should feel lucky. I made it out alive. But all I can think is that Emily Matthis didn’t. So no, I’m not in the mood to dance tonight. Maybe next week. Next month. Maybe never, if the guilt and uncertainty keep clinging to me like this.

4

LIAM

Late Septemberin North Carolina still feels like the middle of summer, with humidity thick enough to choke on beneath a burning, brutal sun. Sweat runs down the back of my neck, and the grass feels like sandpaper beneath my cleats.

I feel every sensation on my skin like it’s turned up a notch—the sticky cling of my jersey, the sting of salt from sweat dripping into my eyes, the grit under my fingertips when I catch myself on the ground. It’s distracting if I let it be.

Today, we’re running drill after drill, no mercy, just sharp whistles and gruff commands from Coach. “Come on, Donovan!” Harris yells. “Move your damn feet!”

I’m already a step ahead—sprinting, dodging, weaving between cones like my life depends on it. Chase is on my heels, breathing down my neck, probably grinning like a little kid because that’s how he is. He’ll chase you down for the thrill of it.

We’re neck and neck by the time we reach the end of the field, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Chase elbows me, just enough to throw me off-balance, and then bolts ahead, laughing as he does.

“Cheap shot, man!” I shout, trying to catch my breath.

“That’s called winning,” he tosses over his shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”

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