14. Birdie
14
BIRDIE
On Friday evening, I grit my teeth and tug at the kiln door, which creaks open with a slow, metallic groan. Professor Hall wanted me to do the honors after my last mishap. So, I steady my breath, already bracing myself as I pull out the first shelf, scanning for any sign of shards or cracks lurking beneath the surface.
My gaze lands on the three pieces I rushed through, remaking them after the disaster earlier this week. They sit there, pale and matte from the bisque firing, perfectly intact. Relief washes over me—they made it through.
Around me, other students are unloading a separate kiln, carefully setting their pieces on cooling racks. There’s Aria, with her brightly colored home-mixed glazes; Jonah, muttering to himself as he examines a warped bowl; and Nicholas Riordan. He’s also a finalist for the fellowship. I’d like to tell myself his work is overrated, but that would be a flat-out lie.
They’re geometric and precise, like they’ve been engineered rather than sculpted.
I don’t know him well—he’s one of those quietly meticulous types whose reputation precedes him. But I know he has immaculate control, every detail measured and intentional, the kind of perfection that leaves no room for chance.
Even now, he’s setting his tools back in their exact spots, wiping down his work area with a cloth. When he catches my stare out of his peripherals, he glances up, his expression neutral. “Need a hand?”
“No, I got it, thanks,” I reply, shifting a heavier piece into place.
“Well, if you change your mind, just let me know. I know some of those can be a pain to handle solo.”
“Thanks,” I say, brushing off some stray bits of clay from my hands. “They’re a bit awkward, but nothing I can’t manage.”
He chuckles lightly, an easy, practiced sound. “I used to wrestle with pieces like that all the time in my first year. Learned the hard way that balance is half the battle.”
I give a tight smile, unsure if that comment was meant to help or subtly remind me of his expertise. Either way, I decide to let it slide. “So true.”
Nick’s eyes drift back to his own pieces, his gaze careful, almost reverent, as he inspects each line like he’s performing a sacred ritual. “It’s funny,” he says after a moment of silence. “I think ceramics keeps you humble, you know? Just when you think you’ve nailed it, the kiln decides otherwise.”
“Yeah, a few of my pieces were in the kiln that exploded last week.”
“Happens to all of us,” he says with an easy shrug. “Some of my best work started out like that. Adapt and overcome, right?”
I force a smile, nodding like I’m in on the same joke, but inside, there’s a stubborn knot tightening in my chest. Adapt and overcome , my ass. He’s just being friendly, trying to share a moment, and yet . . . why does every tidbit of advice feel like a reminder of the gap between us? Of how far ahead he is, how composed he seems, how effortless he makes this look.
“Right,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “Something to aspire to.”
He chuckles, oblivious to the spiral tightening in my chest, and moves off to his own workstation. I watch him for a moment before turning back to my table, my focus flicking between the bisqued pieces and the jars of glaze lined neatly along the edge.
My hands hover indecisively. Glazing feels like the final step, the commitment—no going back once the color sets. And right now, my confidence feels about as stable as wet clay.
Maybe tomorrow , a small voice whispers. But tomorrow feels like a delay, an excuse to avoid finishing what I’ve started. With a deep breath, I grab the first piece, deciding to press on despite the heaviness tugging at my chest. One brushstroke at a time.
The others finish up and head out, one by one. Nick is the last to leave, giving me a brief nod as he pulls his bag over his shoulder and disappears through the studio doors.
I dip into a deep green glaze first and try to push down the lingering knot of inadequacy that’s grown roots over the last hour. Carefully, I smooth the glaze over the fractured curves of one piece. Steady, deliberate strokes with a fine-tipped brush.
“Honey, I’m home.”
I glance up, startled, and there’s Liam, a camera slung casually around his neck. He’s wearing a fitted hoodie and joggers, his hair a little damp from a post-practice shower. Disarmingly handsome, as usual.
“Wasn’t expecting you,” I say, my brush pausing mid-stroke. “Or did you kick another ball through the window?”
“Nah, Coach let us out early,” he replies. “Figured I’d swing by, grab some more photos like I promised. You know, being the diligent assistant I am.”
“Well, if you were hoping to see the work of a guaranteed fellowship winner, Nick Riordan just left.”
Liam raises an eyebrow. “Well, whoever that is, he sounds like a complete tool.”
I snort as he starts snapping photos, adjusting angles, crouching down to capture each piece in the soft, diffused light. He doesn’t press for details about Nick or try to dig into my insecurities. He just is—present, steady, letting his actions do the talking.
After a few clicks, he turns his attention to my newly bisqued pieces, studying them through the lens. “These yours?” he asks, nodding toward the trio I’d just salvaged from the kiln.
“Yeah. They’re replacements for the ones that shattered last week. Bisque-fired, so they’re ready for glazing.”
He’s silent as he inspects each piece, his brow furrowing slightly, like he’s actually taking them in. “They’re good, Birdie. They look like they’re on the edge of something. It’s cool.”
His words settle into me, filling in some of the cracks that doubt’s been carving out all week. He talks with this easy assurance, like he’s so sure of what he’s seeing.
Here I’ve been, stuck comparing my work to Nick’s polished perfection, tearing myself down before anyone else can. Wondering if what I’m doing even measures up. But Liam? He’s looking past all of that, right to the heart of it. Like he knows exactly what I’m trying to bring to life.
Still, there’s this nagging voice in the back of my mind, whispering that my theme’s overdone. Predictable. A relentless doubt that digs in every time I get close to thinking I might have something worthwhile. What if, no matter how many ways I try to explain it, the judges dismiss it as shallow? Lacking depth?
Or worse—what if they don’t see anything at all?
“Thank you,” I murmur, avoiding his gaze. “Cool is all I’ve ever wanted to be.”
He laughs, lowering the camera. “Are you hiding from me now?”
I flush, keeping my eyes on the piece I’m glazing. “Maybe. Maybe your annoyingly spot-on compliments make it hard to stay level-headed.”
He tilts his head, considering me for a second. “Well, what if I told you it’s more than just cool? It’s unpredictable—like it’s about to crack but somehow holding it together. Like you’re daring people to look twice, and they can’t not .”
I blink, stunned. “That wasn’t in my proposal, was it?”
“Nah, I came up with it myself.”
“Wow, original and insightful. What a catch.”
He feigns offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh, come on, Birdie. Don’t I get a little credit for my artist’s eye by now?”
I smirk, leaning against the table, letting the brush dangle loosely in my hand. “Daddy Donovan must’ve taught you a thing or two over the years.”
He freezes, staring at me with mock horror. “Please don’t ever say that again. Ever.”
“You’re saying he didn’t lecture you on ‘the finer points of art critique’ growing up? Watch. Next, you’ll be calling my pieces ‘mystical and transcendent’ or some other pretentious nonsense.”
“If that’s what gets you the fellowship, I’ll play along. ‘Birdie Collins: her hands are magic.’ I’ll mention it at our next family dinner.”
I laugh, but it’s a little tight, a little uneasy. I know I asked Liam for help, but now that we’re here, I can’t shake the feeling that just knowing him—just being connected to him—gives me an edge the other finalists don’t have.
Not that I should care about that. This is my work, my effort, my vision. But the thought nags at me anyway. I don’t want Liam to feel like he’s just a stepping stone, some unspoken obligation wrapped up in this competition.
“I don’t need you to play messenger,” I say quickly. “And you don’t have to bring me up at dinner or, you know, anywhere. That’s not why I—”
“Relax,” he cuts in, a small grin softening his expression. “I’m kidding, Birdie. You’re not some charity project, okay? I’m here because I want to be.”
“Oh.” I glance down, fiddling with the corner of my sleeve, my fingers tracing a loose thread. “In that case, carry on.”
“Gladly,” he says, his grin widening, lopsided and entirely too charming. “Not that you need it, anyway. Your work can speak for itself.”
I glance back up, my lips quirking. “You think everything’s that simple?”
He shrugs, leaning against the table, casually spinning his camera by its strap. “Not everything. But sometimes, yeah. People overthink. They twist themselves into knots trying to be perfect when really, all they have to do is show up and be real.”
I pause, letting his words settle. “And what about you? Do you always just show up and hope for the best?”
“Depends,” he replies, his tone teasing but not quite light. “Not always. Some things matter enough to get it right, to get it perfect.”
There’s something in the way he says it, the way his gaze holds mine, that makes my chest tighten. I blink, shaking off the weight of it, and pick up my brush. “Well, aren’t you just full of wisdom tonight.”
He grins, undeterred. “Must be rubbing off on you. Actually, now that I mention it, I would very much like to—”
I smack him lightly on the arm. “You have a point,” I cut in before he can finish whatever nonsense he’s about to say. “It’s just . . . hard to think that way sometimes.”
“Then let me think that way for you,” he says. “I’ll be your resident hype man, and we’ll get you that fellowship, easy.”
I give him a skeptical look. “You’re talking about months of work, constant rejection, fighting for every bit of validation—”
“Yeah, and you’re still doing it.” He shrugs, leaning against the table. “Because it’s worth it to you. And because you’re damn good at it.”
“Thanks, Coach. Glad to know you’re in my corner.”
“Always,” he says, all soft and genuine, the teasing slipping away. It’s like a promise, steady and certain. Then, with a glint in his eye, he adds, “So, how much would it annoy you if I told you I could whip one of these bad boys up in about thirty minutes?”
I gape at him. “I knew it. You’ve been hiding the fact you’re a prodigy.”
“Nah, I’ve never even finished a piece,” he says, chuckling.
I squint. “It’s hard to believe your dad never got you on the wheel.”
“Oh, he did. But I haven’t touched clay since I was a kid. I was more into running around and kicking shit. Though, really, how hard can it be to spin the wheel?”
“Oh, I see. You think you can just waltz in here and show me up? Be my guest.”
“Give me a crash course?” he asks, feigning innocence.
“Gladly.” I lead him over to the wheel, gesturing like a tour guide. “This is the wheel. This is clay.” I grab a ball of wedged clay and smack it onto the center of the wheel with a satisfying thud . “Put them together and prepare to be amazed—if you think you’re up for it.”
“Am I meant to summon Patrick Swayze now, or will you be caressing me from behind?”
“Keep dreaming.”
I know he’s messing with me. He’s seen the effort this takes—he’s said more than once how much he respects the skill—but right now? He’s having fun pushing his luck, and I’m curious to see just how far he’ll take it.
He sits down, positioning his hands with all the finesse of someone holding a live fish. The wheel starts and takes off spinning, the clay wobbling as his hands slip, sending flecks across his shirt.
“Whoa, whoa!”
I step behind him, leaning in over his shoulder to guide his hands. “First off, don’t fight it. You need to press a little more gently on the sides, keep it centered—yeah, like that.”
“See? Not so hard,” he says proudly.
I snort. “Congratulations, you’re officially mediocre.”
“Oh, don’t sell me short. This is a masterpiece.”
“It . . . sure is something,” I mutter as he tries to shape it into a vague bowl-like form. Within seconds, it leans dangerously to one side, threatening to collapse. His eyebrows knit as he tries to salvage it, but it’s a losing battle.
“Okay, maybe I was a bit overconfident.”
I tsk. “Understatement.”
He laughs and tosses his hands up. “Alright, you win. This wheel-throwing business is all yours. Better I stick to what I’m good at.”
“Kicking balls?” I scrunch my nose. “Not so good with your hands, are you?”
His eyes spark, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t heard any complaints yet.”
“Guess I’ll reserve judgment until I see more evidence.”
“Careful, Birdie.” He licks his lips, his voice dropping just enough to make my pulse stutter. “Might have to give you a full demonstration.”
I swallow, trying not to lose my cool, but it’s impossible. Heat creeps up my neck. My mind’s already running away with the idea, and judging by the look he’s giving me, his isn’t far behind.
But I know it’s just Liam being Liam—always walking that line, keeping the banter alive, no harm intended. Probably.
“Hold still.” I clear my throat, forcing a laugh to break the tension. Before he can fire off another comment, I swipe a bit of clay from the wheel and smear it unapologetically across his cheek. “There. Now you’re a real potter.”
He freezes for a moment, then bursts out laughing. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.” He scoops a bit of clay onto his fingers and flicks it at me, but it veers wildly off course, splatting against the wall instead.
“Wow. Amazing aim. Definitely stick to soccer.”
“Hey, it was a warning shot,” he protests, still chuckling as he leans back on the stool. “But fine. Point taken.”
The lopsided grin he gives me softens his features, and for a second, I forget where I am. His piece is a complete disaster—smooshed, shapeless, an absolute wreck by any technical standard—but it’s a nonissue. There’s something oddly endearing about how he doesn’t seem to care.
Failure doesn’t embarrass him. He allows himself to stumble, to fumble, to laugh at his own mistakes without a second thought—and he does it all right in front of me, like it comes naturally.
And maybe that’s what I like most. Nothing feels ruined when he’s around. Just messy, and real, and somehow so much better.