Page 82 of High Hopes

Loneliness.

Failure.

David fuckin’ Donovan.

Fellowship committee making bad decisions.

A rush of warmth and something sharper prickles under my ribs as I skim over the lists two more times. I blink hard, trying to make sense of the sudden swell of sweetness that lodges itself in my throat, leaving me unsteady. It’s so quintessentially Liam—equal parts earnest and absurd.

“I can’t believe you actually wrote this,” I say, shaking my head. “And you put yourself at the top of the Glad side?”

“Of course. I take my research seriously.”

“So, what’s your plan, Dr. Donovan?” I ask, holding up the napkin. “To cure me with . . . sour candy?”

“Exactly,” he says without missing a beat. “Which brings me to exhibit A.”

He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a bag of sour gummy worms, holding it up like it’s the answer to all of life’s problems.

I laugh. “Of course you have those.”

“I’m a man of action,” he says as he rips the bag open. “And I’m gonna work on this side.” He points to the Glad column with a grin, then pops a gummy into his mouth.

For a moment, I just look at him, overwhelmed. By his humor, his thoughtfulness, the way he seems to know exactly how to take the weight off my chest. He doesn’t just show up; he makes showing up feel like an art form.

“You really think this works?” I ask, holding up another neon worm. “Just a bag of sugar and all my problems magically disappear?”

His grin softens. “No. But I think it helps. And if it doesn’t, we’ll figure out what does. Together.”

That word—together—wraps around me like a safety net. I didn’t want to lean in on trusting it before, but now I think Icould. I pluck another gummy worm from the bag and chew it slowly, letting the sweetness spread across my tongue.

“Fine,” I say, sitting back in the booth. “You win. The gummy worms stay.”

“Victory is mine.”

I glance at the crumpled napkin on the table, the scrawled lists. I don’t know how he does it—makes me laugh when I feel like crying, makes me feel less alone when I’ve spent weeks convincing myself I had to be.

“Liam,” I say, quieter this time. “Thank you. For this. For being . . . so perfectly you.”

His grin falters for just a second, his throat working through a heavy swallow. “Thank you for letting me be.”

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