High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

18. Birdie

18

BIRDIE

We haven’t talked about it. The onset of the migraine, the ensuing vomit, and especially not the fact that I rode in the passenger seat of his car without totally panicking.

It probably helped that I was already incapacitated. Too distracted by the pain to focus on the usual fear, the white-knuckled grip I’d otherwise have had on the door. And I haven’t told him that it was the first time, in nearly a year, that I made it through a car ride without feeling like I was going to crawl out of my own skin.

He doesn’t need to know that.

It’s been a week since that disaster of a night, and we haven’t spoken much at all. Liam’s in the final stretch of the season. His last home game was Wednesday night, and after that, the team is off to the conference playoffs.

If they win, they’ll secure an automatic bid for the NCAA tournament, which means even more time on the road. Part of me wants to wish him luck, to say something, but I’ve been holding back.

I’m embarrassed—by the way my migraine made me unravel in front of his parents and Claire (to whom I wrote a personal apology email). But also by the fact that I’ve let myself rely on him so heavily in such a short amount of time.

Of course, it’s nice having someone willing to show up, no questions asked. But it’s terrifying, too, because I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to let him see too much. All the ugly cracks in the carefully constructed version of myself I’ve been trying to maintain.

He doesn’t seem to mind, takes it all in stride, but I . . . I think I like him. No, I know I like him. I’m crushing, hard. And maybe, despite my hang-ups, I want more.

I can’t let myself spiral, not now. With a sigh, I push all thoughts of Liam to the back of my mind and focus on what I can control: the fellowship presentation. It’s less than two weeks away, and I need it to be perfect.

Winning this would mean financial stability—no more juggling extra shifts to pay for supplies or stressing over how I’ll make next semester’s tuition. It would mean validation, proof that the risks I’ve taken, the sacrifices I’ve made, have been worth it. Most importantly, it would be a step toward building the career I’ve dreamed about since I first stepped into a studio.

It has to go right. Because if it doesn’t, I don’t know what plan B looks like. And that scares me more than anything else.

I boot up my laptop and pull up my presentation slides. The PowerPoint is already half-finished, but there are still tweaks to be made, details to perfect. I set my phone on silent and plug it into the charger, determined not to let any distractions pull me away.

The slides flip past: bold text, high-resolution photos of my work, a few quotes from past professors and critiques. I’ve laid it all out meticulously, but I still don’t feel confident. There’s one last piece I need to finish. A piece that will tie the whole portfolio together.

It’s sitting in the studio now, waiting for its turn in the kiln next week. A ceramic vase inspired by Grecian amphorae but with my own twist—a cluster of sculpted wildflowers blooming from the rim, each petal delicately carved to symbolize growth and rebirth.

It’s the most intricate work I’ve ever attempted, blending everything I’ve learned over the past three years into one cohesive form. I poured myself into it, hoping it will reflect the transformation I’ve gone through, both as an artist and as a person.

For now, all I can do is wait and hope that when I open the glaze kiln next week, it’ll be exactly as I envisioned.

Taking a deep breath, I try to refocus. I flip through the rest of the photos Liam took for me. There’s one where I’m smiling up at the camera, my hands covered in clay, a streak of it on my cheek.

The way he captured me—laughing, carefree, in the middle of sculpting—it’s like he saw a version of me I’d forgotten how to be. The me before the accident, before the stress and pressure of the fellowship.

It’s strange seeing myself like that again. So happy and lively.

Usually, when I catch my reflection, all I notice are the tense lines in my face or the shadows under my eyes. But in this photo, I look so much lighter. It makes me hopeful that I can be that person again. Not my old self, but a healthier, happier version of my new self.

I turn back to my laptop, reviewing the next slide, trying to memorize my key points and transitions.

“Good afternoon, esteemed members of the fellowship committee,” I mutter under my breath, pacing the room.

Liam told me not to force it, to let it flow. To speak from the heart instead of trying to impress anyone. Why is that so easy to do when he’s around but nearly impossible when it’s just me, alone with my doubts?

I close my eyes, centering myself, before moving on to the final slides. My phone buzzes from the counter, interrupting my focus. I glance over, expecting a calendar reminder or an email notification, but it’s a text from Liam.

Liam

can you let me up?

Birdie

I thought you left already!

Liam

bus in an hour. wanted to see you first x

I press the button to buzz him in, my heart tripping over itself. The door downstairs clicks open, and I scramble to tidy up the papers and photos scattered across my living room. My stomach is doing full somersaults now, the nervous kind that come with anticipation.

A moment later, there’s a light knock at my door. I swing it open to find Liam standing there, slightly winded, still in his Dayton Soccer hoodie and sweats. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and there’s something in his eyes—an intensity, a kind of vulnerability—that makes my pulse stutter.

“Hey,” he says, his lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, sending a ripple of warmth through me.

“Hey yourself,” I reply, leaning against the doorframe. “Shouldn’t you be halfway to the tournament by now?”

“Yeah, well . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze flicking away for a second before locking back onto mine. “I wanted to see you before I left. Thought maybe . . . you’d wanna see me, too.”

I grin, feeling the heat crawl up my neck. “I’ve never seen you act like this. So sheepish.”

It’s a good look on him—disarming, endearing, completely unraveling me. My crush is no longer just a quiet undercurrent; it’s a full-blown tidal wave, and there’s no pretending otherwise.

He lets out a huff of laughter, but then it’s like a dam breaks inside him. “Look, I know I usually just say whatever’s on my mind, and yeah, it gets me into trouble. But with you . . . it’s different.

“You never look at me like you wish I’d shut up. But at the same time, I—I don’t know, Birdie. I just want to get it right, you know? Saying the right thing, the best thing. Because making you smile feels like—God, it feels like I’ve finally done something right, and I just want to keep—”

I don’t let him finish. The words are perfect, too perfect, and they’re undoing me faster than I can manage. In one quick move, I step forward, bridge the gap between us, and thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him down into a kiss.

It’s bold and reckless and everything I’ve wanted to do since the moment he walked through my door. And judging by the way he melts into me, his hands finding my waist like they belong there, it’s everything he’s wanted, too.

He groans deep in his throat, and suddenly, his arms are around me, lifting me up as if I weigh nothing. I’m pressed flush against him, my feet dangling. It’s all soft lips and tentative brushes of his tongue against mine.

An overwhelming kind of need—his warmth, his touch, the way his fingers thread through my hair and grip tight, like he’s afraid I might slip away.

We stumble back, and before I know it, I’m on the couch, his weight fully pressing into me. I can feel the solid length of him through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, and oh God, he’s so hard already.

Heat pools low in my belly, spreading like wildfire, and I can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes me.

He pauses, eyes darkening as he takes me in, like he’s trying to memorize every detail. “Birdie,” he murmurs, voice rough, lips brushing against my ear. “You feel so goddamn good.”

I don’t even recognize the sound that slips out of me in response—half whimper, half squeal. My hands slide under his hoodie, desperate to feel the heat of his skin. His breath hitches as my fingers graze his abs, and then, we’re kissing again, deeper, hungrier.

His hips rock into mine, and I swear my mouth waters at the sensation of him, hard and ready, pressing against me. My mouth. Literally. Waters. What the fresh hell is happening to me?

I’ve never felt like this before. Never wanted someone this much.

But then—his phone dings in his pocket. At first, we ignore it, lost in the heat of each other, but it dings again. And again. And then it’s buzzing, vibrating insistently against my thigh where it’s pressed between us.

“Fuck,” Liam mutters, breaking the kiss, his breaths coming hard and fast. He pulls back just enough to fish the phone out of his pocket, and there’s a flicker of panic in his eyes as he glances at the screen. “Shit. I have to go.”

I’m still breathless, dazed, my lips swollen and tingling. “You’re gonna be late, aren’t you?” I ask in a whisper, even though the last thing I want is for him to leave.

He looks at me, eyes blazing with something that sends a shiver down my spine. Slowly, almost reverently, he swipes his thumb over my bottom lip, his touch lingering. “Yes, but we’re not done here,” he says, voice low and rough. “I promise. And—I want you to know I’ll miss you this week. Okay?”

I swallow heavily. “You too.”

It’s a few frantic beats before he’s gone, and the door clicks shut behind him. The room falls into a heavy silence, the echo of his touch still sizzling on my skin, and all I can think about is how much I want him back. How much I already miss him.

How much I need him, screw my defenses.