Page 51 of High Hopes

We pull up to my place, and I cut the engine. Chase is gone for the night—probably off at some party, making the most of his Friday. That’s one less thing to worry about. I unbuckle my seat belt and turn to Birdie.

She’s already trying to push herself up, but her body sags and trembles with exhaustion. “Hey, easy,” I say as I rush to her side. “Let’s take it slow.”

I help her out of the car, and we pause on the porch together. She needs to catch her breath, to steady herself. So, for a moment, I just let her lean against me. It’s quiet, grounding, and I hope it’s enough to give her even a sliver of peace.

When her breathing evens out, I glance toward the bench tucked against the porch railing. “Come on, let’s sit for a second,” I murmur, easing her down onto it. She leans back, her shoulders slumping.

“I’m gonna take these off before we go in,” I add softly, crouching down to unbuckle the strap on her shoe. She shifts forward, fumbling with the clasp herself, but I gently bat her hands away. “I got it, don’t worry.”

She lets out a tired huff. “So embarrassing.”

“It’s really not,” I reply simply, sliding her puke-stained shoes off and setting them aside by the door. “It’s life. Happens to the best of us.”

Once she’s free of them, I slip an arm around her shoulders and guide her carefully inside. The living room is dimly lit, and the quiet hum of the fridge from the kitchen fills the space. Chase is gone for the night—thankfully—so the house feels peaceful, still.

I steer her toward the bathroom, grabbing a little Dixie cup and filling it with mouthwash. “Here,” I say, holding it out to her. “Swish this around. Might help with the taste.”

She accepts it, her fingers brushing mine briefly, and takes a shaky sip. As she leans over the sink, rinsing her mouth,her short hair falls forward, strands slipping into her face. Instinctively, I reach out, brushing it back and holding it gently out of the way.

Her shoulders stiffen for a moment, but she doesn’t pull away. When she straightens, dabbing her lips with a tissue, her eyes meet mine, wide and searching.

“Thanks,” she says softly, her voice raw and small.

I drop my hand and step back, giving her space but staying close enough to steady her if she needs it. “Anytime,” I say, and there’s a tightness in my chest I can’t quite shake. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

I guide her toward my room, knowing it’ll be more comfortable for her than the couch. The blackout curtains are already drawn, and I quickly cut the lights. The room is quiet and dim, the perfect retreat for someone who just wants the world to stop spinning.

“Just rest for a while,” I say, helping her to the bed. She crawls under the blankets, pulling them tight around her shoulders, and I slip out to the kitchen. A moment later, I return with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin. Propping up a few pillows behind her, I hand her the glass and place the pills on the nightstand.

“It’s not much,” I murmur, “but it might help.”

She takes the water with trembling hands, and I watch as she settles deeper into the blankets, almost disappearing beneath them, like she’s trying to cocoon herself from the weight of the night.

“I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

I step back, lingering in the doorway for a moment. There’s something about seeing her there, curled up in my bed, that tugs at something deep inside of me. It’s not just about wanting to take care of her—it’s the quiet trust she’s giving me, even at her lowest.

I pull the door mostly shut, leaving a small gap in case she needs me, and head back to the living room alone. I sink onto the couch, staring at the ceiling as the night stretches on, the sound of her steady breathing faintly reaching me through the walls.

Eventually, I grab my phone, the glow of the screen almost too harsh after the dim light of the room. A flurry of texts from the family group chat stares back at me.

Mom

Where did you disappear to?

Dad

Is it your personal mission to embarrass us?

Do you even understand the importance of appearances at an event like this?

I don’t have the energy for them right now. Not after everything tonight. With a sigh, I power down the phone, tossing it onto the coffee table before grabbing a sudoku book and a pen.

There’s something soothing about mind puzzles, about numbers fitting together in a predictable way—logic with rules I can actually rely on. Usually, they’re enough to clear my head, to give me a sense of control when everything else feels off-kilter.

But as I scan the grid, the house feels oppressively quiet. The steady hum of the fan does little to fill the silence, and no matter how hard I try to focus, my thoughts keep drifting. All I can hear is Birdie’s soft, pained breaths from earlier, echoing faintly in my mind.

Hours pass. I’ve filled out a few pages, but the quiet continues to press in, heavy and unrelenting. I try turning on the TV for background noise, but it feels too loud, too intrusive, so I switch it off again.

---