Page 35 of High Hopes

Within half an hour, Sena’s theater friends have all filtered in, their vibrant personalities filling every corner. Nessa, always the loudest in any room, is holding court by the kitchen counter, gesturing wildly with a glass of sangria in hand. Others mingle around her—Tazi, Leora, and Brynn.

The music gets louder, the sangria gets sweeter, and it’s not long before the night slips into that comfortable blur. Everyone’s cheeks are flushed from wine and laughter, and I’m feeling okay again.

By midnight, the four of us are sprawled across the couch together, tangled in a chaotic puzzle of limbs and wineglasses. Someone’s foot rests on my lap—I don’t even care to figure out whose—and my cheeks ache from smiling too hard.

“Alright, next question!” Nessa declares, holding up a half-empty wine bottle like a scepter. She slumps dramatically back into the armchair, squinting at a notecard through bleary eyes. “Who . . . in this room would you most want as a partner in a zombie apocalypse?”

Everyone groans, a mix of laughs and tipsy whines, and then we start debating. I barely register the answers, my head all heavy and warm. I’m on my fourth glass of the night, and the edges of the world have softened into a haze.

Sena’s next to me, practically curled into my side, and I can’t stop humming, this light, floating sensation buoying me up even though we’re talking about something as ridiculous as zombies.

“Birdie,” someone calls out, their voice cutting through the haze in my mind. “Would you bring Sena, or is she the first to get eaten?”

“Oh, she’s definitely zombie bait,” I reply, giggling as Sena elbows me, feigning offense. “But if she were a zombie, she’d be the type to incite riots.”

Sena gasps in mock horror. “As if! I’d be the strong, silent type! Like a stealth zombie!”

Everyone bursts out laughing, and the last bits of stress from today slowly dissolve. The kiln disaster, the critique, even the looming fellowship deadline—they’re all miles away.

Hardships that belong to someone else. Someone who isn’t lounging on a couch with a glass of sangria in hand, wrapped in this moment of messy joy.

Sena nudges me. “Come on, Collins, you don’t have to play hard to get. You know I’d be on your zombie team.”

“That’s because you’re so lovely. So thoughtful and noble,” I say with exaggerated sincerity.

She snorts. “You’re damn right, I am.”

That random foot presses into my bladder, and I wriggle out from under it, laughing as I push it away. “Alright, alright, I surrender. I’m tapping out for a second.”

I stand and wobble down the short hallway to the bathroom. With the door behind me, I flip on the light and grip the edge of the sink for balance as the room spins in soft, blurry circles around me.

In the mirror, my face looks different, somehow. Flushed and alive. My hair’s doing its usual wild thing, frizzing up around my face, and my mascara’s smudged just slightly, but there’s a hint of something in my eyes—something that feels good, if unsteady.

I can’t remember the last time I had a girls’ night like this, let alone drank enough to feel ... well, drunk and out of control. I grin, swiping a stray curl out of my face, and dig my phone out of my pocket.

I should text Liam, shouldn’t I?

The idea pops into my head like a spark catching dry wood, quick and insistent. I could tell Liam about the disaster in the kiln, about the ridiculous zombie debates, or I could just say. . . Something. Anything, really.

Birdie

hi *butterfly emoji* *fairy emoji* *zombie emoji*

I’m having a mini breakdown bc my pieces blew up today but sena’s making it better with sangria and zombies. would you survive an apocalypse?

Liam

are you drunk?

Birdie

miiiiight be. why? would u judge me if i am?

Liam

never

Birdie

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