High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

1. Birdie

1

BIRDIE

I’m not sure how long I’ve been at this. Long enough for my back to ache and my hands to be coated in clay but not long enough to get this vase right. It’s always the neck. That’s where things go sideways. Too thin, too uneven, too ... something. There’s probably some deep metaphor about life imitating art in there, but I’m too tired to think about it.

The ceramics studio is my sanctuary, especially this late at night. The university shuts down most of the campus by ten, but the lower floors of the arts building? They’re a secret treasure.

After-hours access is one of the rare perks of being a 3D4M major—short for Three-Dimensional Forum, which focuses on ceramics, glass, and sculpture. It’s a niche and hands-on field of study, housed within a building that hasn’t seen a renovation in decades—a relic of an era when the arts received even less funding, patched up just enough to keep the wheels turning.

But it’s also full of charm, with its creaky floors and mismatched shelves. And it’s mine. Ours, really. I’m sure it feels like home to every artist who spends enough late nights here.

Every shelf is stacked with half-finished pieces, each one a small test of patience, waiting for someone to decide whether they’re worth saving or scrapping. Every tool, every lump of clay, every dusty corner holds the marks of people who’ve tried—and sometimes failed—to make something meaningful.

That’s the thing about pottery. You don’t get to rush it. The clay knows when you’re pushing too hard. It knows when you’re not giving it the care and patience it demands. Outside of this room—outside of this craft that feels like both my sanctuary and my life’s purpose—you can’t always tell when things are about to crack until it’s too late.

I lean closer to the wheel now, squinting at the wobble forming at the top of the vase. Damn it. My fingers are slipping. One wrong move and this whole thing collapses. I can’t afford to start over—literally.

I need this for the donor event in two weeks. A whole room of rich alumni peering over their glasses, deciding if my art is worth their time, their money. It’s a sort of pressure that feels heavy and constant, like a weight pressing into my chest every time I think about it.

I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, smearing a streak of clay across my skin. Typical. I could take a break, but I don’t trust myself to stop once I’m in this zone. The silence is perfect—no chatter, no noise. Just me and the wheel.

I like the way the world fades out when I’m working. It’s a different kind of rhythm, one that makes sense even when nothing else does.

“C’mon, Birdie,” I mutter to myself. “Don’t blow this.”

I know talking out loud to myself is strange, but the habit keeps me focused. Keeps me from staying inside my head too much and spiraling into the self-doubt that always seems to hover just out of reach.

My former friends used to say I take things too seriously, especially when it comes to my art. Maybe they were right, though they never seemed to take much seriously at all—least of all me. But when I’m here, working with my hands, it feels like the only time everything makes sense.

It’s not about being quirky or cute or some sort of tortured artist—it’s about getting it right. And sometimes, getting it right takes more focus than people think.

I’ve got a plan. An actual, real-life plan that includes a paid fellowship and gallery showing. A stepping stone on my way to building a name for myself in the art world. That’s the goal, anyway. Not that anyone really expects an art major from Dayton University to hit it big.

Then again, nobody expected I’d still be here at all. I sure didn’t.

I press my fingers into the clay, feeling it yield beneath my touch. The tension in my chest eases a little. This is something I can control, something I can shape into what I want it to be.

I push the hair out of my face with the back of my wrist and focus back on the wheel. The steady hum of the motor and the glide of the clay under my hands is almost meditative, pulling me into the rhythm of it. But just when I’m settling in again, a loud crash shatters the silence.

My hands jerk off the vase, and it wobbles dangerously before I stop the wheel with my foot. I freeze, every muscle tensing.

The sound came from somewhere close. Too close. My heart pounds as the distinct thud of footsteps approaches, followed by the creak of a door opening.

I glance around the studio, searching for something to defend myself with in case this is the start of some late-night horror movie. A paintbrush? A wire tool? Fantastic. I could maybe poke someone to death with the tiny carving needle.

There’s another heavy footstep, then a pause. Whoever it is, they’re getting closer.

Then, the door swings open, and a guy steps into the studio. He’s tall—tall enough to make the space feel smaller—with messy blond hair that looks like it’s been tousled by the wind or a lazy hand running through it.

He’s wearing soccer gear—an athletic jacket zipped halfway, clinging to broad shoulders, and shorts that show off thick, muscular thighs. His presence fills the room, magnetic and confident, like he knows exactly how striking he is and doesn’t have to try.

Not exactly the murderous intruder I was expecting.

I blink, trying to calm myself. “Uh, can I help you?”

His mouth quirks into a slight, lopsided grin, and it’s unfairly perfect—one of those grins that probably gets people to say yes to anything. “Oh—sorry,” he says, holding up his hands as if to prove he’s harmless. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Well, you did,” I mutter, still on edge. “Did you need something?”

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing at the door he just came through. “I think I ... kicked a soccer ball through a window. We were coming back from practice, and my roommate bet me I couldn’t get it over the roof.”

“And you missed, I presume?” I ask, tilting my head.

His green eyes are soft and apologetic, and he gives me a sheepish look. “Yeah, badly. The lights were off, so I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

I stare at him for a moment before standing to dust my hands on my clay-splattered jeans. “Well, it wasn’t here. It was probably next door in storage.”

He stares at the form now slumping on my wheel. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to mess with your ... clay thing.”

I blink. “It’s a vase.”

“Oh.” He stares at it for a beat longer. “It’s nice. I mean, you’re really good at throwing.”

“Thanks,” I mumble. I’d wager he couldn’t tell the difference between a wheel-thrown mug and a pinch pot if his life depended on it. Still, a compliment’s a compliment—even if it’s coming from the guy who just shattered a window.

He raises an eyebrow, flashing that grin again. “You’re not gonna come with me? What if it’s all dark and scary in there?”

I give him an odd look, unsure if he’s serious or not. “You’re an athlete, right? Tall and strong. I’m pretty sure you can tackle a broom and a few bags of clay alone.”

He dramatically glances over his shoulder, then back at me. “You don’t know that. I could be one of those ‘tough on the outside, scared of the dark’ types.”

I snort. “Well, even if that’s the case, I’ve still got a vase to fix.” I half-heartedly gesture to the slumped form beside me. “I’m afraid you’re on your own, pal.”

He laughs, and it’s a light sound, like he doesn’t take himself too seriously. “Okay, fair. But just so you know, I’m gonna fix whatever damage the ball did. Well . . . I’ll get someone who knows how to fix it. I’m Liam, by the way.”

I pause, studying him for a second. “Birdie.”

“Birdie? Like tweet tweet?” he asks, his grin widening. “That’s cute.”

I narrow my eyes, bemused. “It’s a nickname for Bridget. And before you ask, no, I don’t fly.”

He chuckles again, backing toward the door. “Got it, Bridget-Not-A-Bird. I’ll, uh . . . go check on that window now. Prayers I’ll survive the scary storage closet.” He gives a mock salute before slipping out of the room.

I shake my head as the door clicks shut behind him, the faint echo of his footsteps fading. Typical athlete—overconfident, cocky, and somehow . . . a sense of humor means that makes him not the worst company.

My hands return to the wheel, but my rhythm is gone. The studio feels too quiet now, the stillness heavy and strange. I stare at the misshapen vase, sigh, and then scrape the clay off the wheel before packing up my things.

There’s no point in staying here. The vase is beyond saving, and I’m too distracted to focus.

So, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head into the night, locking the door behind me. The walk to my apartment is long, but it’s not too bad at this hour—quiet, empty, and peaceful. It feels safe because the campus is well-lit and familiar, though the occasional rustling in the bushes always makes me glance over my shoulder just in case.

Unfortunately, I don’t like driving. I avoid it whenever I can, which isn’t too hard to do in a big city with a bustling student population. Besides, campus parking is a nightmare I’d rather not deal with.

By the time I reach our place—an off-campus apartment that smells vaguely like coffee and burnt popcorn most days—I’m tired enough to fall face-first into bed, clay-covered jeans and all.

But when I push open the front door, the familiar sound of a blender greets me. Of course. I drop my bag on the floor by the entrance, expecting to see some kind of soupy, alien-like concoction brewing on the kitchen counter, and I’m not disappointed.

“You’re back late,” calls out a voice from the kitchen. My roommate, Sena, appears from around the corner, clutching her latest smoothie creation—a bright green, questionable-looking mixture of things no one should ever drink after midnight.

Sena is my opposite. She’s bright, chatty, and always surrounded by people. She runs track, does theater, and somehow still manages to keep a full social calendar while acing her classes. Being roommates with her is like living with a whirlwind of color and noise.

She’s the one who drags me out of my head and into the world. I’m the one who reminds her to study for finals instead of planning another weekend party.

“I had to stay late,” I say, wiping my hands on the towel hanging by the door. “I was in a groove until some guy kicked a ball through a window.”

Sena’s eyebrows shoot up. “A guy, huh? Was he cute?”

I roll my eyes and make a beeline for the fridge, ignoring her question. “That’s not the point. He was . . . fine.”

She waggles her brows, grinning. “Fine, you say.”

I pop open a can of Diet Coke. “Please, you know I’m not interested in talking to some random guy after the year I’ve just had.”

“Uh-huh.” She leans against the counter, taking a long sip of her smoothie and eyeing me carefully. “So, is this fine guy of yours gonna be back to fix the window?”

“He said as much.” I shrug, brushing past her toward my room.

“Chin up, sunshine!” she calls after me. “Oh, and by the way, don’t forget about our rent this month. It’s due next week.”

I groan, mentally calculating the amount I’ll need to scrape together from my part-time job at the bookstore and whatever freelance art commissions I can get. Rent isn’t outrageous here, but between school supplies and art materials, things are tight.

“I know, I know,” I reply over my shoulder. “I’ve got it covered.”

Sena doesn’t push. She knows I hate talking about money and how much it stresses me out. Instead, she trails after me and sticks her head into my room, smoothie still in hand. “So, how are things going with the art? That donor thing is coming up, right?”

I nod, glancing at the half-finished sketches on my desk. I was hoping to lie down, sip my Diet Coke, and pretend I didn’t have a thousand deadlines breathing down my neck. But, of course, Sena wants to chat now.

“Yeah, it’s . . . coming along. Just need to make sure my stuff doesn’t completely suck.”

Sena shakes her head, smiling. “You’ll be fine. Your stuff is incredible. And besides, you’ve got time to figure it out.”

I snort, kicking off my tennis shoes. “If by ‘time’ you mean two weeks, then sure.”

Sena heads back to the kitchen, leaving me on the edge of my bed.

There’s a small collection of pieces on my desk—messy sketches, a few experimental pots, the kind of work that never sees the light of day. My stomach tightens a little as I stare at them.

Art is the one thing that’s always made sense to me, but lately, it feels like I’m chasing something that’s just out of reach. Like no matter how hard I try, I’m never quite good enough. Never quite worthy enough.

I know it’s mostly in my head—imposter syndrome, Sena would say—but knowing that doesn’t make it any less real. I just need to push through. I’ve made it this far, right? One more project, one more show, one more piece to prove I belong. Maybe then . . . I’ll finally feel like I do.