Page 19 of High Hopes

She came back the next week to pick up her book and asked me to tape up a flyer on the community board:

Theater major in search of roommate. Here for a good time, not a long time. Must be chill and punctual.

I jumped on it without even thinking. It was an out—a chance to disappear from everything that felt suffocating. To put the final bit of distance between myself and the life I once lived.

And here we are now—two random girls thrown together by circumstance. She pushes me out of my shell, and I haphazardly allow it. To some degree. It’s easier, I think, to listen to someone who doesn’t know your past. Who doesn’t try to fix you or make you explain it all.

Someone who isn’t worried so much about appearances. Because they don’t need tolooklike they have it all figured out, they justdo, effortlessly.

I roll over, pulling the blanket up to my chin, letting the weight of the night settle over me. If I can’t change the past, then I’d quite like to stop running from it. For now, I suppose my disappearing act will have to do.

When I emergefrom my room the next morning, my hair’s a mess, and my oversized T-shirt just barely covers my ass. Liam is still lying on our couch. I freeze when I see him, blinking away the sleep from my eyes.

He looks different in the daylight—more peaceful, almost misplaced, sprawled across the couch with his long limbs claiming most of the space. His messy hair falls into his eyes, and a faint dusting of stubble shades his jaw.

I bite back a smile as I watch him stir, shifting under the blanket I’d tossed over him. He looks so ... comfortable here, like he belongs.

I inch closer, trying not to wake him as I head to the kitchen for some coffee. The apartment is blissfully quiet—Sena’s already left for her usual early morning catch-up with her theater pals, something about “creative brainstorming.”

I would feel bad for waking her up in the middle of the night, but she always says theater people thrive on chaos. If anything, I probably gave her some fresh material for her next improv session.

Liam stirs, his face scrunching briefly before relaxing again. He stretches those impossibly long arms, groaning as he rubs a hand across his face. “Mornin’,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, cracking an eye open to look at me.

“Morning,” I reply, moving toward the coffee machine. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” He sits up and runs a hand through his blond hair. “What time is it?”

“Just after eight.” I pour myself a cup of coffee, taking a slow sip before offering, “You want some?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He gives me a lazy grin. “You need a ride to campus?”

I cough, caught off guard. “What was that?”

He stands, stretching again, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of toned stomach. I quickly look away, pretending to focus on something outside the window.

“I said, I can give you a ride. Since we’re both headed there.” He scratches the back of his neck, yawning. “I’ll just pop by my place, brush my teeth, wash my face ... you know, make myself look less like I just rolled off your couch.”

I laugh nervously and tug the hem of my T-shirt over my barely there shorts. “I usually ride my bike or walk, so ... thanks, but no, thanks.”

His brow furrows slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s been pretty cold lately. You really wanna bike it?”

“It’s fine,” I murmur. “It’s a quick ride.”

Truth is, I really, really don’t like car rides. Not driving, not riding with people I barely know, and definitely not being a passenger with no control. The thought makes my chest tighten a little.

“Suit yourself.”

I clear my throat, trying to shake off the unease. “Thanks again for helping me last night. I’m almost done with the proposal. And I’m feeling a lot more confident now, too.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, still watching me. “You did all the heavy lifting.”

“I’d give you a hug goodbye, but you know . . .” I gesture vaguely to my chest. “Braless, pantsless, haven’t brushed my teeth yet. And I don’t really like hugs, either. My old friends used to sayCollins is like a cactus.”

“Sharp, unapproachable, and thriving in dry conditions?”

“Exactly,” I say, deadpan.

His lips twitch with the beginnings of a smirk. “It’s okay,” he says, “I’m not usually a touchy-feely sort of guy, either.”

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