Page 89 of High Hopes

His expression shifts slightly, enough to tell me I’ve hit on something he actually cares about. “Yeah. Next month.”

“Nice,” I say. “What’s your event again? Backstroke, right?”

“Freestyle and medley relay,” he corrects.

“Ah, I’m more of a doggy paddle kind of guy,” I say with a grin. “You think you’re gonna take the title this year?”

He shrugs again. “Maybe. Depends on our split times and who shows up for the other teams.”

“Right,” I say, nodding along like I know what I’m talking about. “Split times are huge.”

His lips twitch, just barely, like he’s trying not to laugh at my cluelessness. “Yeah. They’re kind of the whole deal. But you don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, do you?”

“Not even a little. I respect the hustle, though. You swimmers have it rough. Early mornings, endless laps, and smelling like chlorine 24/7.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” I say, taking another sip of coffee. “Tell that to your pruney fingers and your likely even prunier di—”

“Annnd that’s enough of that.”

“What? I’m just stating facts.”

I hold back a laugh and start making myself some pancakes as Warren finishes his cereal. He’s acting like I’m not even here,but there’s something oddly calming about his presence. Like he’s perfectly content with the quiet.

“What’s your schedule like?” I ask after a while. “We can do a calendar on the fridge.”

He stares at me, brow furrowed like I’ve just suggested synchronized swimming lessons. “Why?”

“Trying to figure out when I’ll have the kitchen to myself.”

He pulls out his phone and taps away. “Morning practice, afternoon classes, evening practice. Pretty much the same every day.”

“Cool,” I say, nodding. “Guess I won’t have to worry about hiding the good snacks.”

“I’m not interested in your protein bars and sour gummy worms, anyway.”

I sigh dramatically. “Ah, a man with no taste. No wonder you’re always so serious.”

“Right.” He stands, washes out his bowl, and sets it back in the cupboard like a robot programmed for efficiency. “See you around, Donovan.”

“Later, Flipper.”

He disappears back into his room, door clicking shut behind him.

Warren’s definitely a little strange. Grumpy, aloof, and way too serious for someone who spends most of his time in a Speedo.

Still, I think I’m gonna like having him around. He’s nothing like Chase, miles away from Hayes and James, but there’s something solid about him. And I guess, despite the unfamiliarity, change doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

It’squiet this time of day, with most students in class or holed up in the library. Birdie walks ahead of me, her cropped bob bouncing slightly as she moves. She’s still nervous—I can see it in the way she fidgets with the strap of her bag—but there’s a steadiness to her that wasn’t there just last week.

“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low as we approach the front desk.

She glances at me, her lips quirking in a small, hesitant smile. “Yeah. I think so. Thanks for coming with me.”

“Anytime,” I say, and I mean it. If she asked me to haul these pieces to the moon, I’d probably find a way. But we’re just at the Ellsworth, picking up her artwork. And standing here beside her is no big deal, really.

The receptionist barely glances up as Birdie explains why we’re here. Her pieces from the fellowship showcase are stored in the back, and she hasn’t been by to pick them up yet. She felt too awkward before—too sad, she told me last night—but today, there’s a quiet determination in her.

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