High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

8. Birdie

8

BIRDIE

If only I could skip class and work in lieu of more studio time. The written portion of my proposal is nearly complete, thanks to Liam’s feedback. My sample pieces are ready to go, pieces that feel like they’ve been molded from the guts of my frustration, my late nights, and the quiet ache I can never quite shake.

I should feel relieved. But there’s still so much left to do. I need to prepare a verbal presentation, create a visual slide deck that’ll capture the essence of my work, finalize my artist statement. Plus, I need to add a few newer pieces to showcase the theme.

The problem is, I’ve been running on fumes all week, and my shifts at the bookstore haven’t helped.

I clock in at 4:00 p.m. with a resigned sigh. It’s like I’m moving in slow motion, mechanically shelving books, ringing up customers, answering questions that feel like noise buzzing around my head.

Every task is dragging, and it’s hard to care about whether the new release section is properly aligned when all I can think about is my studio work. My mind keeps wandering back to the pieces I’ve left unfinished.

I’m sure Liam would tell me I’m overthinking again, that I should just let it all come together naturally. But I can’t shake the pressure.

I glance at the clock. Only two more hours of this. My fingers ache to get back to the clay, to let the tension in my body melt away into something tangible. But for now, I’m stuck here.

Another customer approaches the counter, and I force a smile, barely registering them as I ring up their order. I swipe the book across the scanner, watching the red light flicker, hearing the soft beep that’s become part of the soundtrack to my life in this place. But it’s all automatic. I’m not here, not really.

“Excuse me,” the customer says, clearing their throat. The polite, expectant tone cuts through my daydream, and I blink to focus on the person in front of me.

To my not-so-pleasant surprise, I know the guy. Ben Wilkes. A ghost from my past with effortlessly floppy brown hair and a killer smile that could charm the paint off a wall.

“Hey, Birdie,” he says, as smooth as ever, his voice carrying that familiar note of casual confidence. “Long time, no see.”

Ben and I shared art history class during my freshman year. He slid effortlessly into my little circle of friends, the kind of guy who was impossible to ignore. We connected. Kind of. I was mostly interested in him because I felt like I had to be. He was handsome, he was charming in a practiced way, and most importantly, he was there.

My friends were dating, “talking to” all sorts of guys with easy grins and shared playlists. And I wanted to fit in, to be part of whatever they had.

But that was a different version of me. Before the accident. Before everything changed.

“Yeah, hey,” I manage, forcing a tight smile. “It’s been a while.”

He gives me an awkward look, scratching the back of his neck like he’s not sure what to say next. Then, “How’ve you been?” His voice is light, but there’s a certain softness to it, like he’s tiptoeing around the subject. His eyes sweep over me, probably looking for signs of the person I used to be, the girl he remembers.

She wasn’t my favorite person. Too caught up in fitting in, being agreeable, and pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.

“I’m fine,” I say sharply.

The barely veiled sympathy is clear in his gaze, and it grates on me. “You still living over on Blythe?” he asks.

“I’m off campus now. It’s quieter.”

“Oh,” he says, his cheeks coloring slightly. He shifts his weight, looking like he’s unsure whether to leave or keep going. Then he blurts, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“No,” I reply, my voice flat.

His face brightens. “We should meet up for coffee sometime. I owe you one. My treat.”

The way he says it, like he’s extending an olive branch or trying to make up for something, sends a wave of irritation through me. I remember how easily things crumbled between us when I pulled back last year, how he stopped texting when I stopped being the fun, carefree Birdie he’d once been drawn to.

I wonder if he’s still hanging out with the friends I walked away from—those biweekly dinner parties, their paint-and-sip nights, the midnight campus strolls I used to be a part of.

There were five of us back then. We used to trade secrets over cheap wine, cram for exams at the last minute, and dream out loud about the futures we thought we’d have.

And then the accident.

After that, it was like the ground opened up beneath me, and I was just falling, falling, falling, while they stayed anchored in their perfect, uncomplicated worlds. I didn’t belong anymore.

I swallow hard and hand Ben his receipt. “Maybe. I’ve been pretty busy lately.”

“Yeah, I get it,” he says, still smiling, but it’s slipping, put off by my distance. “Anyway, I’ll text you sometime.”

I nod, already turning away, and then he leaves, finally.

By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. Ben’s face lingers in my mind, and so does the weight of everything that fell apart. It’s not that I want my friends back—they were fair-weather at best—but I miss the version of myself who didn’t feel like this, so heavy and out of step.

I want to tap out, go home, and rot in bed. But I know better than that. If I stop moving, even for a second, I might never start again.

Instead, I head to the studio, where I can channel all this frustration, this disappointment, this lingering grief into my work. I need to mold these feelings into something tangible, something that’ll speak for me in ways I can’t.

It’s dark by the time I step inside, but I can already feel the relief creeping in. This is where I can shed everything else. This is where I can breathe again.

I set up my station, pulling out a slab of clay and kneading it with a little more force than necessary. My muscles are sore, my fingers aching from the day’s work, but there’s something cathartic about the repetitive motion. About the way the clay gives under my hands, as if it understands, as if it’s taking all the frustration and molding it into art.

There are a handful of pieces I still need to finish, and I have to get them right if I’m going to stand a chance at winning this fellowship. The pressure gnaws at me—constantly reminding me that this has to be perfect, or at least close enough to it. If I mess this up, I’m not sure what my fallback will be.

A minimum-wage job, less time for art, and mounting financial stress, most likely. Not exactly the vision of stability for a girl who’s struggling.

I stare at my half-finished sample on the table in front of me. Another large vase—it’s unpolished, and I like that it feels like two sides of me merged into one—delicate but intentional. Jagged yet purposeful. But something is missing, and I can’t figure out what it is.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and pull out my phone, typing out a quick text to Liam.

Birdie

I can’t match the vibe I’m going for. everything looks wrong. it’s like I’m too close to it and can’t see straight :(

While I wait for a response, I grab a needle tool and carefully carve more detail into the floral pattern along the edges. The tension in my chest loosens, just a little, as I focus on making each line intentional, sharp yet soft, like a whisper that leaves a mark.

I set the bat aside and turn to the next lump of clay, letting the frustration roll out of me. I pump out three more pieces in quick succession—another vase, a bowl, and a shallow dish—but none of them are quite right, either. I can feel it, in the way they sit on the table, in how my gut twists when I look at them. Each one is a little off, a little too something .

I wrap them in plastic, ready to call it quits for the evening. My own little Goldilocks moment—one’s too messy, the other’s too clean, the last is just plain boring. None of them feel like me.

As I stand there, staring at my creations with growing dissatisfaction, the door to the studio creaks open behind me. I turn, and in walks Liam, his lazy grin firmly in place. He’s carrying a grocery bag, and I can only assume he’s up to something unnecessary but well-meaning.

“You’re still here,” he says as he saunters over. “I was hoping I’d catch you.”

I haven’t seen him since Tuesday morning when he left my place and I dodged his offer of a ride. It’s now Friday, and I know he usually has late practices on these nights. Either that or an actual game.

I sigh and set down my tool. “Shouldn’t you be at practice or something?”

He drops into the chair beside me. “Canceled. Coach Harris is giving us a recovery day.” He tosses the bag on the table. “Thought you could use a pick-me-up.”

I glance at the spilled contents—an energy drink, popcorn, sour candy, and something that suspiciously looks like a protein bar. “You realize I’m not training for a marathon, right?”

He leans back and folds his arms behind his head. “You’re working yourself harder than I am, and that’s saying something.”

I think there’s an innuendo in there somewhere, but I’m too bedraggled to bother with it. Instead, I let out a small, exhausted laugh and shake my head.

The last week has been a constant blur of studio sessions, writing late into the night, and poring over every detail of my proposal. When I’m not in class or sleeping (which, let’s be real, is barely happening), I’m here, in the studio, trying to mold clay into something that will impress a committee of people who’ve been judging art longer than I’ve been alive.

As if that weren’t enough to keep me teetering on the edge of burnout, I signed up for this intimidating peer critique on Sunday at NCU, hoping to get an unbiased, outside perspective. I just need to know if what I’m creating is good enough—if it’s worth including in my fellowship proposal or if I’m missing something entirely.

“It’s crunch time,” I say as I brush a stray hair out of my face. “No slacking.”

“How’s it coming along?”

I stare hopelessly at the half-finished vase. “It’s getting there. Slowly.”

He leans forward to inspect my work. “You know, I think you could make the contrast even more extreme here. Maybe exaggerate the edges and make the smooth parts even sleeker. Push it further.”

I slowly blink and purse my lips, tilting my head to envision it.

He’s right. Again. He’s so casually good at this. It’s like he doesn’t have to think twice before throwing out ideas that shift my perspective, that unlock something I hadn’t even realized was stuck.

I pick up my tool and carve deeper into the rough edge, the motion deliberate and confident. It feels like breaking through a wall.

“God, how do you do that?” I mutter, half to myself. “You make it so easy.”

He chuckles, grabbing the popcorn and tearing it open. “I’m just throwing out thoughts. You’re the one making them come to life.” He tosses a kernel in the air and catches it in his mouth with a casual flick of his head. “Just so you know, I do freak out about my own shit on occasion. I’m not always so calm and cool and sexy.”

“I think you mean collected,” I say, smirking.

“No.”

I glance over at him, eyebrow raised. “Right, and what do you have to freak out about?”

“You know, figuring out if I’m gonna go for the draft next year or stick with engineering instead.” He tilts his head back, eyes on the ceiling. The long, graceful column of his neck stretches as his throat bobs. “There’s a lot riding on that decision.”

It takes me a few moments to process that. Liam hasn’t talked to me much about school—we’ve been so focused on me, on my proposal, my work, my frustrations. But now that I know his major, it oddly fits. Engineering has that balance of structure and creativity, much like him.

“Do you ... want to be an engineer?” I ask.

He sighs. “Not really. I do like the problem-solving part of it, though. The logic. The predictability of it all. And it’s a good fallback, right? Safe.”

“Safe doesn’t exactly scream Liam Donovan to me.”

He laughs, loud and sudden, like he wasn’t expecting me to say that. “Yeah? And what does?”

I glance at him, considering. “Just .. . you don’t strike me as the type to settle for safe. You’re more like the guy who runs headfirst into chaos just to see how it plays out.”

He grins, wide and bright. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“Maybe a little.”

He watches me, his gaze steady and intent, like he’s studying me the way he studies my work—eyes lingering as though searching for hidden details. It’s unnerving how intense his focus is when it’s on me, how it makes my pulse quicken, my stomach flutter.

“You’re not wrong,” he says softly. “I like taking risks. But I guess with this .. . choosing soccer ... it feels different. Like, if I screw it up, I’m stuck. And I don’t want to make the wrong choice.”

I pause, contemplating his words, the weight they carry. I’ve seen that same uncertainty in myself, the fear of choosing wrong, of messing up something that feels so big it could change everything.

“Do you think you’d regret not going for it?”

His eyes flick back to the ceiling, and for a second, I wonder if I pushed too far. But then he sighs and says, “Yeah. I think I would.”

There’s a weight to his words, something deeper that I don’t know how to unpack. I’m compelled to say something, to offer advice or tell him it’ll all work out—but I hold in my consolation. He doesn’t need empty reassurances. He just needs someone to listen.

“Then it seems you’ve got your answer.”

“And what about you?” he asks. “You ever think about what happens if you don’t get the fellowship?”

Have I thought about it? Only incessantly. I’ve been trying not to spiral into worst-case scenarios because dwelling can be dangerous. That kind of thinking is a rabbit hole I’m not ready to fall down. But I can feel the panic creeping in at the edges, the what-ifs I’ve been trying to keep at bay.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “All the time.”

“And?”

“And . . . I don’t know. I guess I’d figure something out. But I really don’t want to think about it.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ll get it, Birdie. I know you will.”

Maybe he didn’t need platitudes, but he was right to offer me some. Praise and encouragement aren’t things I’ve heard much of lately.

Plus, the way he says it, like he truly means it, makes my chest tighten. It’s not just empty words with him, not some throwaway reassurance. It settles under my skin, deep in my bones, in a way that nothing else has lately.

And I believe him.

“Thank you.”

He stands, stretching again, and I try not to notice the way his shirt rides up, showing that strip of skin I’ve been pretending not to look at since we met. He’s built—lean muscle, taut stomach, the kind of body that looks like it belongs in a sports magazine, not casually leaning against my worktable.

The worst part is, it seems like he either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that half the people around him are probably thinking the same thing I am: he’s hot as hell. If I were bolder—or significantly less focused on the fellowship—I might joke about offering him sexual favors in return for his help. But that would be crossing a line I don’t even want to toe.

“So, what’s next on the agenda?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. “More clay, or do you want me to take some photos?”

“Photos?”

He nods, already reaching for his phone. “Yeah, you said the committee will want to see the process, not just the finished product. Plus, I like photography. It’s a hobby I’ve been messing around with, and it might help showcase your work better than just tossing it all in a folder.”

I hesitate for a second before nodding, grateful for the suggestion. “Okay. Yeah, that actually sounds perfect.”

As he snaps pictures, I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and there’s something about the way he’s so serious in moments like this that throws me off.

Usually, he’s all jokes and easy smiles, but when he’s focused, he’s ... different. The way he moves, the way his green eyes flick between the piece and the screen, it’s like watching someone step into a role they were born to play. It’s effortless, deliberate, and oddly captivating.

And maybe that’s why being around him feels so unsettling—because the more time we spend together, the more I find myself looking forward to it. Not just for his input or his ideas, but for him. For the way he makes everything feel lighter, even when it shouldn’t. For the way he fills the quiet without taking over.

It’s not just that he’s helpful or insightful. It’s that he’s present. And there’s a part of me—one I’d rather not examine too closely—that’s starting to enjoy his presence a little too much. Too easily, too often, and I can’t afford to think like that. Not now.