Page 17 of High Hopes

Birdie

right now? isn’t it kind of late?

Liam

it’s late, yeah, but who’s keeping track? I’m wide awake. I could be there in ten minutes.

A long, stilted pause. I toss the bottle up again, catching it without looking. Maybe this was a bad idea. But before I can overthink it, her message pops up.

Birdie

okay. sure. I live off nile in the oak lane apartments. 304. just ... don’t wake the neighbors.

Liam

quiet as a ninja. be there soon.

I’m already out of bed, pulling on a hoodie and grabbing my keys. As I head out the door, my pulse picks up, thrumming with a weird mix of nerves and excitement.

I’m not sure why—it’s just helping her with a proposal, right? But something about the fact that it’s late and unplanned adds this unexpected edge. Anticipation, maybe. Or just a rush of doing something on impulse.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of Birdie’s door. I raise my hand and tap my knuckles twice.

When the door creaks open, she blinks at me, a little surprised but not unhappy. She’s wearing pajama shorts and a loose sweatshirt, her short hair half-up, with strands fallingmessily around her face. There’s something unguarded about the way she looks.

She’s stripped of pretense here, comfortable in her own skin. No sharp remarks or forced politeness, just Birdie. I like it.

“Hey.” I glance over her shoulder to the living room beyond her. Her tattered blue couch is littered with notebooks, a half-empty mug of coffee, and a scattered pile of pens. She’s clearly been at this for hours, absorbed in her work. “You really needed me, huh?”

She huffs. “You’re here because you begged me.”

“If that’s your version of begging, you’ve got some pretty low standards.”

“Funny, I’ve been told the exact opposite.” Her eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them before she turns, walking further inside and leaving the door open behind her.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, for a good thirty seconds. It’s a wonder why I’m hesitating now. I insisted on coming over to help, but now that I’m here, there’s this strange feeling wriggling its way inside me—anticipation laced with something heavier I can’t quite name.

“You coming?” she calls over her shoulder. “I don’t have all night.”

I like the way she says it—casual, a little snarky, like I’m not standing here at midnight ready to help her get a leg up on my dad. Like this isn’t something most people would think twice about, inviting a virtual stranger into their home.

It’s refreshing. She doesn’t make things weird, doesn’t get all uppity about every little move. I don’t have to guess where I stand with her, and that’s why helping her out seems like the right thing to do. The only thing I can do.

7

BIRDIE

It’sthree o’clock in the morning, and there’s a giant man I hardly know sprawled out on my couch. Large limbs tangled beneath a threadbare blanket. Golden hair peeking out from the edge of the pillow he’s half crushed. Dark lashes fanned across sun-kissed cheeks. It’s oddly peaceful and wholly disarming.

We spent the last few hours cutting and primping my proposal, Liam offering suggestions and ideas that, I have to admit, seem pretty damn helpful.

He has this way of zeroing in on the essentials—like when he suggested focusing on the contrast between my raw, unpolished pieces and the more delicate, floral designs I like to weave into my work.

He says it’s that juxtaposition that makes the pieces stand out. “Anyone can do pretty or messy, but you? You do both at once. That’s what’ll catch their attention.”

And for some strange reason, I trust him.

His dad’s work is all about layers of meaning. Art that doesn’t just sit on the surface but pulls you in, makes you think twice. I know my work has that same potential, that balance between natural textures and intricate details. There’s a rawness to it, an honesty. Something you can’t fake.

---