High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

28. Birdie

28

BIRDIE

Break’s coming to an end, and campus is alive again. It’s that jittery mix of dread and excitement that always comes with the start of a new semester. But I’ve only been back for two hours, and already the apartment feels warmer, more familiar, just because Sena’s here.

Her laugh echoes from the kitchen as she unpacks a stash of overpriced snacks her mom insisted she bring back. “Do you know how many Trader Joe’s bags I had to carry through the airport?” she calls, waving a box of maple leaf cookies in my direction.

I catch them midair, tuck my knees to my chest on the couch, and dig in. “The sacrifices you make for us common folk.”

“You joke, but my mom is convinced you can’t survive without these. ‘What does Birdie eat?’ she kept asking. Like I haven’t seen you live off plain bagels and instant ramen for weeks at a time.”

“Hey, don’t knock the classics,” I say lightly, though my throat tightens at her words. Sena’s only just arrived, and already I feel a little more like myself. Break was long. Too long.

She catches the shift in my expression—of course she does. Sena always notices. She sets down the last of her bags and plops cross-legged onto the other end of the couch, her bright, knowing eyes locking on mine.

“Okay, spill,” she says, waving a cookie at me like it’s a pointer. “How was break? And don’t even try to feed me some vague ‘fine’ bullshit.”

I shrug and pop another cookie into my mouth, stalling. “But it was fine.”

“Birdie.”

I sigh and pick at the frayed edges of my sweater. “Okay, it was boring and sad. I stayed inside the whole time. Cleaned. Watched some terrible TV. Ignored my dad’s subtle attempts to get me to socialize.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And Liam?”

I gnaw at my lower lip. “We didn’t talk much.”

“Birdie,” she groans. “He texted you, right?”

“A couple of times,” I admit. “But I didn’t text back until New Year’s Eve. When he came by before break, I just . . . didn’t answer the door.”

She drags a pillow over her face with a dramatic groan. “No! Why? He likes you!”

“I know,” I say quickly, guilt bubbling to the surface. “I know. He didn’t do anything wrong. I just—I couldn’t face him. Not after everything that happened. I felt so . . .”

“Defeated?” she offers gently.

“Exactly. And I didn’t want him to see me like that. I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

She sets the pillow aside, leaning forward, her expression soft but firm. “You can’t keep shutting people out, Birdie. You did that after the accident, remember? And you hated it.”

I swallow hard, the memories rushing in. After the accident, I cut everyone off—friends, classmates, even my dad to a degree. I told myself I needed time, space, but the truth was I was scared. Scared of pity. Scared of being seen as fragile. Scared that no one would understand how heavy it all felt—like I wasn’t just grieving the accident but the person I was before it.

And I was right. Most of them didn’t understand. The friends I used to laugh with on weekends, complain about professors with—they vanished. No texts, no visits, not even flowers. They just . . . stopped showing up.

And while I don’t miss those shallow friendships, the thought of doing that to someone I do care about—someone like Liam—that’s terrifying.

“I don’t want to do that again,” I whisper.

“Then don’t,” Sena says simply. “And it’s not too late. If you ever want to reach out to anyone, I’ll be there. Moral support and all that.”

I blink at her, surprised. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” she says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You’ve got me whether you like it or not. And if those old friends aren’t worth it, screw them. But the people who matter? They’ll still be there if you let them.”

Her words sink in, loosening the knot in my chest just a little. Rebuilding trust feels impossible, but the idea of someone standing beside me makes it feel less so.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. “For being here. For putting up with me.”

She grins and nudges my shoulder. “You make it sound like it’s a chore. Trust me, you’re stuck with me.” Leaning back on the couch, she adds, “So, tell me, what terrible TV did you watch over break?”

“Oh, you’re not ready for this,” I say, grateful for the change of subject. “First, there was the Love Boat reboot—yes, it’s a dating show on a cruise ship. Then I fell back into the Too Hot to Handle abyss. But the worst? MILF Manor . It’s like someone dared them to create the most chaotic, uncomfortable show ever, and they said, ‘Bet.’”

She gasps, clutching a pillow. “You’re lying. That can’t be real.”

“It is. And it’s worse than you’re imagining.”

She groans, mock horrified, but she’s smiling. “You need better coping mechanisms.”

“Don’t act like you’re above it,” I tease. “You’ll be watching MILF Manor by the end of the week.”

“Absolutely not.”

For a little while, we keep talking and laughing like nothing’s wrong. Like the world hasn’t been crumbling around me. Like I didn’t lose the fellowship or what little confidence I had left along with it.

It’s nice, the ease of it. The way she makes everything feel easier, even when I’m carrying so much. And for now, I let that be enough.

It’s Thursday, and my chest feels tight the entire walk to the pizza place Liam suggested, like someone’s wrapped a rope around me and pulled it. Every step feels heavier than the last, and by the time I spot him waiting by the door, I’m ready to turn around and run.

But then he sees me. His face lights up with that effortless, crooked grin of his, and I unravel—just a little.

“Hey,” he says, pulling the door open and gesturing me inside. “You’re early. You nervous about seeing me or something?”

I let out an awkward laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughs too, a warm, quiet sound, and follows me inside. We grab a corner booth, tucked away from the rest of the world. I’m trying not to fidget, but I can’t help it—my fingers pick at the sleeve of my sweater, my leg bounces under the table. Liam notices, of course.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Birdie,” he says gently. “It’s just me.”

And like that, the rope around my chest snaps. I shake my head, my throat tight as tears well up.

“Hey, hey,” he says, sliding out of his seat and onto the bench beside me. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“I—” My voice cracks, and I press my palms into my eyes. “I don’t even know how to explain what I’m feeling. It’s just—it’s everything. It’s too much.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just shifts closer, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. The weight of it steadies me, and when I finally drop my hands, his expression is patient and open, like he’s ready to hold whatever I’m about to give him.

“You can start anywhere,” he says softly. “Wherever it feels right.”

So, I do. I tell him about the fellowship—how much I wanted it, how much I needed it. How losing it felt like the final nail in the coffin of a dream I’ve been holding on to since I was a kid.

I think he already knows how much it meant to me, how much I was relying on it, but saying it out loud makes it feel more manageable. Like I’m naming the loss, giving it shape, and letting it breathe.

Then I tell him about Emily, and that’s the hardest part. I describe the accident, the guilt that’s clung to me ever since. How I can still hear the crunch of metal, the blaring horn, the silence that followed. How I’ve spent the last year trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out how to move forward without letting it swallow me whole.

Liam doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer empty platitudes, or try to fix it. He just listens, his thumb brushing soothing circles over my shoulder.

By the time I’m finished, I feel raw, like I’ve just ripped myself open and laid everything bare.

“I’m sorry, Birdie.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent. “You’ve been carrying all of that on your own?”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

“That’s a lot,” he says, and there’s no judgment in his tone. Just understanding. “But you don’t have to do that anymore. Okay?”

The tears spill over again, but this time, they’re different. Lighter. Freer.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wiping at my cheeks. “I wasn’t there for you after you . . . lost the championship. I should’ve reached out. Should’ve put aside my own heartbreak to comfort you when you needed it.”

He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not a big deal. I played well enough for the scouts, and I still have next year. Besides, I wasn’t exactly expecting you to show up with pom-poms and a megaphone.”

I laugh shakily. “You sure about that? I’d make a great cheerleader.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” he teases, his grin widening.

We fall into an easy silence, the kind that feels like a balm after everything that’s been said. I lean into him, his arm still draped around me, and I feel like I can breathe again.

After a while, he shifts, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I’ve got something for you,” he says, pulling out a folded piece of paper.

“What is this?” I ask, taking it from him.

“Glad/Bad list,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I unfold the paper, and sure enough, it’s split down the middle with two columns labeled in his messy handwriting.

On the Glad side:

Birdie texted me back.

Birdie agreed to meet me.

On the Bad side:

Birdie’s been sad for too long.

Birdie thought she had to go through all this alone.

I laugh, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it. “You’re so . . . silly,” I say, my voice thick with emotion.

“And yet, here we are,” he says, his grin soft and steady. “I made one for you, too. Thought it might help.”

My eyebrows lift. “Let’s see it, then.”

Liam pulls a second folded napkin from his other pocket, offering it with the same flair someone might use to present an Oscar. I take it, already bracing myself for whatever ridiculousness he’s scrawled this time.

Unfolding the napkin, I find another Glad/Bad list, this one tailored just for me.

On the Glad side:

Liam Donovan.

Pottery.

Birdie’s dad.

Sour candy.

On the Bad side:

Loneliness.

Failure.

David fuckin’ Donovan.

Fellowship committee making bad decisions.

A rush of warmth and something sharper prickles under my ribs as I skim over the lists two more times. I blink hard, trying to make sense of the sudden swell of sweetness that lodges itself in my throat, leaving me unsteady. It’s so quintessentially Liam—equal parts earnest and absurd.

“I can’t believe you actually wrote this,” I say, shaking my head. “And you put yourself at the top of the Glad side?”

“Of course. I take my research seriously.”

“So, what’s your plan, Dr. Donovan?” I ask, holding up the napkin. “To cure me with . . . sour candy?”

“Exactly,” he says without missing a beat. “Which brings me to exhibit A.”

He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a bag of sour gummy worms, holding it up like it’s the answer to all of life’s problems.

I laugh. “Of course you have those.”

“I’m a man of action,” he says as he rips the bag open. “And I’m gonna work on this side.” He points to the Glad column with a grin, then pops a gummy into his mouth.

For a moment, I just look at him, overwhelmed. By his humor, his thoughtfulness, the way he seems to know exactly how to take the weight off my chest. He doesn’t just show up; he makes showing up feel like an art form.

“You really think this works?” I ask, holding up another neon worm. “Just a bag of sugar and all my problems magically disappear?”

His grin softens. “No. But I think it helps. And if it doesn’t, we’ll figure out what does. Together.”

That word— together —wraps around me like a safety net. I didn’t want to lean in on trusting it before, but now I think I could. I pluck another gummy worm from the bag and chew it slowly, letting the sweetness spread across my tongue.

“Fine,” I say, sitting back in the booth. “You win. The gummy worms stay.”

“Victory is mine.”

I glance at the crumpled napkin on the table, the scrawled lists. I don’t know how he does it—makes me laugh when I feel like crying, makes me feel less alone when I’ve spent weeks convincing myself I had to be.

“Liam,” I say, quieter this time. “Thank you. For this. For being . . . so perfectly you.”

His grin falters for just a second, his throat working through a heavy swallow. “Thank you for letting me be.”