2. Liam
2
LIAM
“Dude, are you seriously wearing that?” Chase shouts from the living room, followed by the sound of a can popping open. “You look like you’re about to present a PowerPoint on accounting strategies.”
I adjust the tie in the mirror, frowning. Yeah, it’s a little tight around the neck, but this is a suit. It’s supposed to be uncomfortable. I tug at the collar, willing it to loosen up, but it’s no use.
“I’m going to a fancy event, not a bar,” I shoot back, pulling on the jacket.
Chase is sprawled out on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, phone in one hand and an energy drink in the other. Why he needs 300 milligrams of caffeine just to sit there scrolling through social media is beyond me.
My roommate is the human embodiment of too much. Too much energy, too much confidence, too much everything. Comes prepackaged with his role as a striker—big ego, bigger personality. He’s always got some girl on his arm, and if not, he’s working on it.
It’s weird, rooming with him after last year. That’s when it was just me, James, and Hayes—my older brother and his best friend. But they’ve both graduated now, which left me with the option to either live with Chase or risk getting stuck with a random person.
Chase has his downsides, but at least I knew what I was getting into. Loud nights, a revolving door of visitors, and endless trash talk during FIFA matches. It’s not exactly peaceful, but it’s better than unpredictable.
Chase takes another swig of his drink of death. “Okay, now we’ve gone from business meeting to funeral. Loosen up, man.”
I look at myself in the mirror again. Dark blond hair’s a mess, but that’s normal. Suit looks fine, I guess. But Chase is right about one thing—I look like I’d rather be anywhere else. Probably because I would.
The only reason I’m going to this donor thing is because I promised my parents I’d be there. My dad’s a high-profile, gallery-famous artist. He has a permanent installation at the Oriel and is one of Dayton’s most well-known alums. My mom’s not in the arts, but she’s a social butterfly at these events. It’s her bread and butter.
The two of them donate to the same fellowship every year, and they’re both invested in keeping up appearances. So, they expect their son to show up looking respectable, too. Like a man who has his life together and isn’t still trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing.
“Alright, I’ll see you later,” I mutter. “Wish me luck.”
Chase lets out a laugh. “Good luck? You’re a Donovan. You’ve got this in the bag.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, is that how it works?”
“Absolutely. Just flash that winning smile, and the whole room will eat it up.” He smirks, leaning back like he owns the place. “Though, if I was there, no one would bother looking at you. I’m the main event, baby.”
I snort. He’s not wrong. Ever since he took over the captaincy, our team’s been solid. The guy knows how to find the back of the net like nobody’s business. But I’ll never give him that satisfaction aloud. Not to his face, anyway.
“How did you manage to get your head that far up your own ass?” I ask.
Chase tosses a pillow at me, and I duck out of the way. “Pure skill. Years of practice.”
“You sure you don’t want to tag along, then?” I ask, only half-joking.
It would be nice to have a buffer, sure, but it would also mean watching him the whole time—monitoring both his behavior and my own. Two inevitable screwups in the making, though honestly, Chase could probably play the game better than I ever could. He’s a natural at charming people, even when he doesn’t mean to be.
“Hard pass,” Chase replies. “Rich people and tiny appetizers? Not my scene. Besides, I’ve got much better plans tonight.” He winks, pulling out his phone to check his messages.
I don’t even need to ask what—or who—those plans involve. Chase’s roster speaks for itself.
With a sigh, I grab my keys and head outside. My car is parked in the driveway, and I make my way over, shrugging off my suit jacket and tossing it onto the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel.
As I settle in, my phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen and see a text from my mom.
Mom
Don’t forget to smile and try not say anything too awkward! Remember, less is more. Can’t wait to see you tonight. XOXO MOM.
I let out a small groan, resting my forehead against the roof of the car for a second. My mom means well—she always does—but the last thing I need right now is a reminder of how much she’s banking on me to charm an entire room of donors.
With a deep breath, I slip into the driver’s seat and start the engine, the low rumble filling the quiet night. Time to face the music—or, in this case, a room full of strangers deciding how well I play the part.
The donor event is exactly what it always is: polished, pretentious, and filled with people who look like they were born with a stick up their ass. A showcase at the Ellsworth Gallery, the campus space dedicated to student work.
Normally, it’s a quiet place, but tonight, it’s transformed for the annual event held for rising seniors in the arts department. The lighting’s dim, soft classical music plays in the background, and the whole place feels like it’s trying just a little too hard to impress.
The walls are lined with paintings, all framed in sleek black metal, with a few larger installations in the middle of the room—sculptures, ceramics, glasswork—all part of the 3D4M program. Pieces with texture and weight. Stuff you could actually touch, not just stare at.
I trail behind my parents like the dutiful son they want me to be, nodding at the right times, offering the occasional polite smile to anyone who glances my way. My mom’s fluttering around, introducing herself to everyone with that perfect smile of hers, already deep in conversation with Dayton’s president, Ted Graham.
My father, of course, is standing beside her, exuding calm confidence, the kind that makes people gravitate toward him without him having to say much.
I’m bored and restless, but I know better than to show it. This is one of those nights where appearances matter more than anything else, and the last thing I need is a lecture about my “attitude.”
When my gaze settles on a vase in the far right corner of the room, my mind jumps right back to that night in the studio. It’s not even the same style—this one’s taller, with sleek lines and glossy finishes—but it doesn’t matter.
All I can think about is kicking that damn soccer ball through the window and meeting Birdie. Her light brown bob, a little messy around the edges, and the fact that she’s on the taller side for a woman were the first things I noticed. But it was her kind hazel eyes—steady and serious—that really stuck with me.
There was something about the way she looked at me, like she was rattled by my presence in her carefully curated life. A disruption she hadn’t planned for but was determined to handle anyway, with that steady, no-nonsense energy of hers.
I went to the arts director the next day, offering to pay for the window. Mrs. Ellis just waved me off, saying they had a budget for incidentals. I wasn’t about to beg the woman to take my money. Still, I kind of wonder what Birdie would have had to say about it—if she knew I got away with the escapade scot-free.
Another perk of being a Donovan, I’m sure.
My mom tugs on my sleeve, breaking me from my thoughts. “Liam, honey, come over here and join us. President Graham has a question for you.”
I blink and follow her to a small circle of suited guests, all mid-conversation.
“I hear your season is off to an impeccable start, Liam,” Graham says. “How’s Coach Harris been treating you all?”
I open my mouth, fully prepared to give the usual nod-and-smile response my parents expect. A safe, polished answer to keep things simple. But something tugs at me. Something that makes me want to say what I’m actually thinking instead.
“Coach is solid,” I reply. “Keeps us running drills until we’re about ready to faint, but hey, that’s his job, right? Better than the end of last season when he had us playing puke-and-rally. Too many losses can really mess with a man’s head.” I grin, fully aware I’m saying too much, but I can’t seem to stop. “We’re all lucky he hasn’t brought out the tactics cone yet.”
Graham raises a skeptical eyebrow, glancing briefly at my dad for context. “Is that like a ... motivational tool?”
I snort. “Yeah, we sit on it if we screw up a play, and the rest of the team has to yell at us. It’s pure humiliation, but I guess it works.”
The president chuckles politely, but I can feel my mom’s hand on my wrist, her fingers pinching in that subtle way that says stop talking, now.
I glance down at her hand, then back up at President Graham, giving him a tight, brief smile. “Anyway, Coach is good. Thanks for asking.”
I shake off her hand, clenching my fist as I step back. It’s a small gesture, but one that makes my skin itch with irritation. It’s suffocating. A reminder that I’m supposed to fit into their mold, even when it feels like wearing a suit two sizes too small.
Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk away from the group, leaving my mom to handle the rest of the small talk.
I know they mean well, but they expect me to be a different version of myself at these things. The version they’ve carefully molded over the years. The man who’s the perfectly neurotypical poster child of their success.
I’m not that guy. I don’t want to be him, and I’m not great at pretending otherwise.
I wander around the room, weaving between guests and peeking at the art pieces on display. I don’t know much about art. It’s always felt like something distant, something my parents understood and appreciated, while I kept it at arm’s length rather than risk feeling out of place. But it’s quiet over here, just the way I like it.
And there’s something familiar about this corner.
Birdie, standing next to a collection of pieces—small vases, bowls, and what looks like an abstract sculpture of some sort. She’s wearing a dress, simple but nice, nothing flashy. Her short hair’s pulled back, and she looks ... different. More put together, I guess. Not covered in clay like she was in the studio, but still the same sort of intensity in her eyes.
The kind that makes you feel like she’s fully present, like she’s seeing things most people don’t.
I don’t think much about it; I just head straight for her.
She’s busy talking to some older woman, probably another donor, nodding and smiling politely, but the second she spots me out of the corner of her eye, recognition dawns. Her smile tightens slightly, and after a few more pleasantries, the woman pats her arm and drifts off, leaving us alone.
“You’re here,” I say as I approach, flashing a grin. “I was wondering if you would be.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Your deductive reasoning is unparalleled.”
I chuckle, letting the sarcasm roll off me. “These yours?” I gesture to the pieces—small, delicate vases with uneven, organic shapes, bowls that look like they were pulled right out of the earth. And then there’s the abstract sculpture—jagged, almost chaotic, like someone captured movement in clay.
“Yes,” she says curtly. “No soccer balls allowed near them.”
I laugh, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Noted. Don’t worry, I left the ball at home.” Then I turn my attention back toward her pieces. “So, these are pretty ... different.”
She cocks her head. “ Different how?”
Right. People don’t like to hear the word different when it comes to their art, their personalities, their anything. Different means out of place, and out of place means wrong. “I don’t know. I’m not an art critic. I just know I like them.”
A quiet giggle escapes her. “High praise.”
Before I can add anything else, that tentative, soft smile of hers fades into oblivion. She looks right past me, eyes going wide, posture stiffening.
I turn to find what she’s staring at, and sure enough, it’s my dad—heading straight for us, all calm and collected. He’s on a mission, it seems, and that mission is to assess the situation like he’s sizing up a potential investment. Or possibly just to scold me for wandering off.
I swivel back to Birdie, and she’s already waving me off, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “You need to go,” she mutters, voice low and urgent. “I need to impress these donors if I want a shot at winning the fellowship. That guy behind you, he’s a major part of the selection committee, and I already know he’s a stickler for formality.”
I blink. She doesn’t know we’re related, of course, because how would she? But it’s almost funny how dead-on she is about his vibe. “You mean the tall guy in blue? He looks a little lost here, doesn’t he?”
“Just another out-of-touch donor. Made it big, and now he wants to feel all important again.” She huffs, her eyes darting back and forth between us. “But his money talks, and I kinda need him to like me. So, sorry, not sorry, but I need you to leave. Like right now.”
I snort and then flash her a quick, sarcastic bow. “Your wish is my command, Bridget-Not-A-Bird. I’ll make myself scarce.”
Her eyes narrow, but I catch the slightest twitch of amusement in the corner of her mouth. Before my dad can get any closer, I scurry off, slipping through the crowd like I’ve got somewhere to be. The last thing I need is him cornering me for oversharing with the president earlier.
As I head out of her line of sight, I glance back for a second. She’s already in full-on charm mode, that same forced smile in place. A mask I know all too well. And my dad? He’s stuck listening to her pitch now.
It’s a weird thing, watching someone else play the same game I’ve been stuck in my whole life. It’s unnecessary pomp and circumstance. A performance for a man who’s likely already made up his mind.
Right now, I guess I should just be thankful it’s not me standing there, putting on another show for his approval.