Page 80 of High Hopes

“Hey,” he says, pulling the door open and gesturing me inside. “You’re early. You nervous about seeing me or something?”

I let out an awkward laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughs too, a warm, quiet sound, and follows me inside. We grab a corner booth, tucked away from the rest of the world. I’m trying not to fidget, but I can’t help it—my fingers pick atthe sleeve of my sweater, my leg bounces under the table. Liam notices, of course.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Birdie,” he says gently. “It’s just me.”

And like that, the rope around my chest snaps. I shake my head, my throat tight as tears well up.

“Hey, hey,” he says, sliding out of his seat and onto the bench beside me. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“I—” My voice cracks, and I press my palms into my eyes. “I don’t even know how to explain what I’m feeling. It’s just—it’s everything. It’s too much.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just shifts closer, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. The weight of it steadies me, and when I finally drop my hands, his expression is patient and open, like he’s ready to hold whatever I’m about to give him.

“You can start anywhere,” he says softly. “Wherever it feels right.”

So, I do. I tell him about the fellowship—how much I wanted it, how much I needed it. How losing it felt like the final nail in the coffin of a dream I’ve been holding on to since I was a kid.

I think he already knows how much it meant to me, how much I was relying on it, but saying it out loud makes it feel more manageable. Like I’m naming the loss, giving it shape, and letting it breathe.

Then I tell him about Emily, and that’s the hardest part. I describe the accident, the guilt that’s clung to me ever since. How I can still hear the crunch of metal, the blaring horn, the silence that followed. How I’ve spent the last year trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out how to move forward without letting it swallow me whole.

Liam doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer empty platitudes, or try to fix it. He just listens, his thumb brushing soothing circles over my shoulder.

By the time I’m finished, I feel raw, like I’ve just ripped myself open and laid everything bare.

“I’m sorry, Birdie.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent. “You’ve been carrying all of that on your own?”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

“That’s a lot,” he says, and there’s no judgment in his tone. Just understanding. “But you don’t have to do that anymore. Okay?”

The tears spill over again, but this time, they’re different. Lighter. Freer.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wiping at my cheeks. “I wasn’t there for you after you . . . lost the championship. I should’ve reached out. Should’ve put aside my own heartbreak to comfort you when you needed it.”

He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not a big deal. I played well enough for the scouts, and I still have next year. Besides, I wasn’t exactly expecting you to show up with pom-poms and a megaphone.”

I laugh shakily. “You sure about that? I’d make a great cheerleader.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” he teases, his grin widening.

We fall into an easy silence, the kind that feels like a balm after everything that’s been said. I lean into him, his arm still draped around me, and I feel like I can breathe again.

After a while, he shifts, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I’ve got something for you,” he says, pulling out a folded piece of paper.

“What is this?” I ask, taking it from him.

“Glad/Bad list,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I unfold the paper, and sure enough, it’s split down the middle with two columns labeled in his messy handwriting.

On the Glad side:

Birdie texted me back.

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