High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

25. Birdie

25

BIRDIE

We’ve been on break for a week, and I’m still spiraling into self-doubt, into this pit of uncertainty I can’t seem to climb out of. I haven’t worked on any new pieces, haven’t touched the wheel, haven’t even sketched anything. The idea of starting something new, of trying and failing again—it’s debilitating.

I haven’t spoken to Liam, either.

He texted, right after Thanksgiving, asking if I’d made it home okay. I stared at the screen for twenty minutes before turning my phone off. When he showed up at my apartment, I pretended I wasn’t there, even though I knew he could probably hear the TV through the door.

I know I’m being unfair to him, shutting him out when he’s done nothing wrong. But facing him feels impossible right now.

Sena’s home in Chicago, and I took the bus to stay at my dad’s place for the entirety of winter break. It’s been years since I’ve stayed over this long. I love my dad, but my independence is important to me.

Usually, I make excuses—work, classes, anything to keep the visits short and sweet. This time, I couldn’t stand the thought of sticking around Dayton. Not with everything that’s happened, where the reminders of my failures would be all around me.

I can’t pick up any extra shifts at work, either. The bookstore is closed for the next month. There’s no budget for seasonal help, and my usual hours are frozen until spring semester starts.

So, I’ve been filling the days with meaningless tasks. Cleaning my dad’s house, binge-watching shows I’ve already seen, scrolling endlessly on my phone. I even reorganized the junk drawer in the kitchen yesterday, sorting every paperclip and rubber band into neat little piles like it was some kind of art project.

I’ll do anything to keep my mind occupied, away from the glaring reminder of everything I’ve lost. And today, I have something real to occupy me—a one-year checkup for the accident.

The ride to the doctor’s office is quiet, almost suffocating in its silence. My dad drives, his hands steady on the wheel, but I can feel his eyes flick to me every so often. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay, doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty words. He doesn’t need to.

When we get to the office, I check in at the front desk and sit in the same stiff chair I sat in a year ago, waiting to hear if I’d ever fully recover. Back then, everything was blurry—pain, guilt, and grief tangled together into one endless knot.

Now, it’s just . . . dull. The physical wounds have healed, but the weight of it all hasn’t lifted.

A nurse calls my name, and I follow her into an exam room. She takes my vitals. She asks me the usual questions—any headaches, dizziness, or changes in vision?

“I had a migraine a few weeks ago, but none since. Just minor headaches here and there.”

The nurse jots that down, offering a quick, reassuring smile before leaving the room.

The doctor arrives a few minutes later, flipping through my chart as he sits on the rolling stool. “Well, Bridget,” he says gently. “How’s everything feeling? Any lingering pain or discomfort?”

“No, everything feels fine.”

He tip-taps away on his laptop, then, “That’s good to hear. Your scans look clear—no residual issues from the fractures, and your head injury seems to have healed well. I’d say you’re in excellent shape.”

I nod, but the words don’t bring the relief they should. Instead, there’s a strange hollowness, like I’ve been expecting him to say something else, something that would explain why I still feel so stuck. So tragically unmoored.

“You’re doing really well,” he adds, his tone encouraging. “I know it can take time to feel like yourself again after something like this. But physically, you’re all set.”

The nurse hands me a printout of the visit summary as I leave the office, my dad trailing behind me. I’m nodding along, going through the motions, but the word sticks in my head like a splinter. Physically, I’m set. But emotionally? Mentally?

I don’t know if I’ll ever feel whole again.

In the car, Dad gives me a sideways look. “Want to grab lunch?”

I shake my head, staring out the window. “Not hungry.”

He doesn’t push, just nods and keeps driving.

When we get home, I retreat to my room, flopping onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. The silence feels too loud, pressing in on me, and the weight of everything I’ve been holding back settles on my chest. The doctor’s words replay in my head, over and over. Physically, you’re all se t.

But what does that even mean? Set for what? For normal? For pretending like nothing happened? Like the cracks don’t run so deep they might never close?

I pull out my sketchbook, flipping to an empty page. My pencil hovers over the paper, but no lines come. No ideas, no inspiration.

I think about Emily. About her family, spending another Christmas without her. About the check I wrote to them with money I barely had, as if it could somehow make up for what happened.

But nothing could. No amount of money or good intentions would ever bring her back. It’s a truth I carry every day, like a stone stitched to my heart.

I think about Liam, the way he looked at me like I was the brightest thing in the room. The way his voice softened when he called me “Birdie, baby,” like it was a name made just for me. I want to call him, to tell him about the appointment, to hear him say something that makes me believe I’m more than just the sum of my mistakes.

But I don’t.

Instead, I close the sketchbook and roll onto my side, pulling the blankets up over my head. I let the darkness settle around me, warm and stifling, and tell myself that maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe I’ll feel stronger, braver, ready to face the world again.

Just not today.