High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

23. Birdie

23

BIRDIE

Liam confidently leads me across campus. We weave between darkened buildings and quiet walkways, steady but unhurried. The chilly air nips at my cheeks. It’s nearly winter, and though we’re in the south, the cold still finds its way in, curling around us like a quiet reminder of the season’s end.

“Where are we going?” I finally ask, breaking the silence.

“You’ll see.”

We turn a corner, passing the glow of the main fountain, where students are gathered. A few late-night dwellers, who laugh as we walk by. But Liam doesn’t stop us there. Instead, he veers toward a cluster of older buildings, the kind with faded plaques and ivy creeping up the sides.

When we round the last corner, he slows, gesturing ahead. “Here we are.”

At first, I don’t see it. Then, the faint trickle of water catches my attention, and my eyes adjust to the dim light. It’s a small fountain, tucked between two engineering buildings, almost forgotten by the rest of campus. The basin is shallow, and the stone is worn with age.

And there’s something living in there, too.

A small turtle, lazily swimming in circles, its small head breaking the surface every so often.

“There’s a little turtle in there,” I whisper, crouching closer to get a better look.

“Yeah,” Liam says, settling beside me. “Found this place my freshman year. I come back every now and then. Figured you’d like it.”

I watch as the turtle pauses, floating near the edge before paddling off again. “Do you think he’s always been here? Like, is this his only home?”

Liam tilts his head, considering. “Maybe. Or maybe he wandered in when he was older. Got lost and decided to stick around. I’ve been calling him Otis. Seems like an Otis, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Do you think he got separated from his mom when he was little?” I ask softly, my voice catching in a way I don’t expect. “And now he’s here. In this fountain. Just . . . living.”

He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. “You okay?”

I wipe at my eyes quickly, but it’s no use. A tear slips down my cheek, followed by another. “I don’t know.”

“Is this about the turtle or something else?” he asks, warm, teasing, gentle.

“It’s everything,” I say, laughing weakly through the tears. “It’s nothing. It’s you and me and this damned turtle. And I just . . . I wish I could keep staring at this fountain. That I didn’t have to wake up tomorrow and face the music.”

He shifts closer, his hand brushing against mine. “We can face it together.”

I glance up at him, his face lit faintly by the nearby lamppost. His expression is steady, unwavering.

“Okay,” I whisper.

For a long moment, we sit in silence, the faint gurgle of the fountain and the soft splashes from the turtle filling the quiet. Liam’s hand slips into mine, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles.

When he finally speaks again, it’s barely above a murmur. “You know, I think this turtle’s got it all figured out. He doesn’t care about where he’s supposed to be or what anyone thinks. He’s just here, doing his thing.”

I let out a soft laugh, leaning my head against his shoulder. “Very profound.”

“Extremely,” he agrees, chuckling.

And we stay like that, watching the turtle glide through the water, until the cold starts to creep in too deeply. Liam stands, tugging me gently to my feet, and we head back the way we came, hand in hand, the little fountain and its solitary resident fading behind us.

Monday comes, and it’s all cold and gray, the kind of morning where even the sun can’t be bothered to show up. My stomach’s in knots as I sip my too-strong coffee, scrolling through my inbox and waiting for the email I already know is coming.

It lands at 10:07 a.m. The subject line might as well be in neon: Dayton Fellowship Results . I hover over the trackpad for a moment before I click it open, dread twisting low in my stomach. This is it. The moment I’ve been bracing for.

The words blur together at first, but I force myself to focus.

Dear Miss Bridget Collins,

Thank you for your application to the Dayton Fellowship in the Arts. The selection committee was impressed by the exceptional quality of your work and the passion evident in your presentation. Choosing a recipient from such a talented pool of finalists was not an easy task.

After much deliberation, we have selected Nicholas Riordan as this year’s fellowship recipient.

We encourage you to continue pursuing your artistic vision and to consider reapplying for future opportunities. Your talent and dedication are evident, and we have no doubt you will go on to achieve great success.

Sincerely,

Margaret Ellis

Director, Dayton Fellowship in the Arts

Dayton University

Nick Riordan won, and I lost.

I read the letter over again until it loses all meaning. Just letters on a blurry screen. My throat tightens, and a hot ache settles deep in my chest. It’s not a surprise—not really. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I worked so hard. I poured everything I had into this. And now, what do I have to show for it?

On autopilot, I pull up my bank account next. My stomach drops when I see the numbers. Between medical bills, the money I donated to Emily’s family, and the rising cost of living, there’s almost nothing left.

Next term is covered, but after that? I’m tapped out. My dad makes just enough that financial aid doesn’t cover my full tuition, and I’ve been supplementing the rest on my own. But I can’t stretch it any further.

Without the fellowship, I can’t afford to stay at Dayton. It’s over.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing the tears away. I knew this was coming. After not being invited to that dinner, the writing was on the wall. Still, hope’s a stubborn thing. It clung to me like a second skin, refusing to let go, whispering that maybe I could still pull it off.

But now, it’s official. I’m out.

Sena’s already left for the break, and I’m alone in the apartment, surrounded by the echoes of my failure. I tuck my knees up into my chest on the couch, letting the weight of it all crash into me.

The tears come in waves, each one heavier than the last, until my chest aches from the effort. I don’t know how long I stay there, but it’s long enough that day becomes night.

When Liam shows up later, he knocks softly, so hesitant and careful, like he already knows something’s wrong. I think about ignoring him—letting him stand out there until he gives up—but it’s Liam. He won’t give up.

When I open the door, his eyes go straight to mine, narrowing with concern. “Birdie.” He closes the door gently, like he’s trying not to spook me. “I heard the emails went out.”

“From your dad?”

“No, from stalking the fellowship forum online.”

“I was going to tell you,” I mumble.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asks, his voice soft, careful.

“What was I supposed to say?” I snap, immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry. I just—I didn’t want to talk about it.”

He comes near and brushes a hand over my hair. “It’s okay to be upset. You worked so hard—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I cut him off, my voice breaking. “I didn’t win. And now I can’t even afford to stay in school next year. What was all that hard work for?”

He opens his mouth like a fish out of water, but no words come out. Whatever he wants to say, it’s stuck somewhere between us, tangled up in the tension.

“I feel so foolish. I went to you for help, thinking it might actually make a difference, but all it did was make me look desperate. Your dad obviously thought I was just using you. God, what was I even thinking?”

“Stop,” he says sharply. “You’re not desperate, and you didn’t do anything wrong. My dad is—” He pauses, exhaling heavily. “My dad’s an asshole, babe. But that doesn’t mean your work wasn’t incredible. It was. It is.”

I shake my head, ignoring him. “What did I expect? That I could just waltz into your world and somehow belong there? That I’d get this life-changing opportunity because of talent or hard work or whatever nonsense I convinced myself mattered? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“You don’t actually believe that.”

“Don’t I?” I snap, my arms wrapping around myself like I can hold everything together if I just squeeze tight enough. “Because right now, it feels like no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be enough. Not for your dad, not for the judges, not for—”

“For me?” he interrupts.

I blink, faltering. “I didn’t mean—”

“Good,” he says firmly. “Because I never asked you to be anything but yourself. And if you think for one second that you let me down, that I’d ever see you as anything less than incredible, then you don’t know me at all.”

He reaches for me again, but I take another step back, wrapping my arms around myself. “Please, don’t. I can’t—I just can’t handle anyone being sad with me.”

His face falls. “Okay,” he says softly. “Then what do you need?”

“Time to process, maybe,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “I’m going home for Thanksgiving. I’ll talk to you after the break before you leave for the tournament. I just . . . I need to figure things out first.”

“Birdie, baby, I—”

“I’m sorry, but I just need a little time alone to wallow.”

“Okay,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you need, you got it.”

I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. “Thank you.”

He watches me for a moment longer, his expression heavy and unreadable, like he wants to argue more but knows better. Then, with a soft exhale, he finally turns and leaves.

I sink back onto the couch, pull my knees to my chest, and sob. Violent, gut-wrenching sobs that leave me gasping for air. It’s useless for me to try to hold it together now. I can’t anymore, even if I wanted to.

Because I failed.

I failed. I failed. I lost the fellowship, and I failed.

The words loop over and over in my mind, relentless, each repetition cutting a little deeper, like a knife twisting in an already open wound. I failed, and now, I have no idea what comes next.