High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

29. Birdie

29

BIRDIE

The smell of wet clay and sulfurous glaze hits me as soon as I step into the studio. I used to love this smell—earthy, honest, full of potential. Now, it just feels heavy.

I take a seat in the back row. The stools are arranged in a semicircle around the demonstration wheel, and I’m hoping to stay unnoticed. The semester might be brand-new, but everything else feels worn-out, like I’ve lived through this scene a hundred times already.

Dr. Hall stands at the center of the room, that perpetual scowl firmly in place. He’s already got the wheel going, his hands deftly working a massive lump of clay into some unrecognizable form.

“Eight pounds,” he announces in a gruff monotone. “We’re starting large this semester, so if you’ve been coasting, it’s time to stop. Mastery Wheel Throwing isn’t for dabblers. If you’re not up to it, drop the class now and spare me the trouble.”

His words send a ripple of nervous laughter through the room, but I don’t join in. I just stare at the spinning clay, mesmerized by how easily he coaxes it upward.

Dr. Hall’s hands move with a confidence I used to dream of having. Now, I’m not sure if I ever will. The fellowship was the sole reason I even came back this year, and now that it’s gone, it’s like trying to relearn how to breathe.

I glance around the room, half listening as Dr. Hall critiques the imaginary mistakes we’ll make when we try this ourselves next week. The other students are all nodding along or scribbling notes.

Nick is up front, sitting way too straight, his blazer hanging off the back of his stool like he thinks this is a board meeting and not an art class. The golden boy. The fellowship winner. The man who beat me.

He’s nodding enthusiastically, like Dr. Hall is dropping life-changing wisdom and not just muttering about the importance of consistent pressure. It’s infuriating. But the worst part is that he looks relaxed. Comfortable. Like he doesn’t even realize what he’s taken from me.

I’m not mad at Nick for winning. Not really.

His work is good—I’ll give him that—and I’m sure he deserved it. But it doesn’t help that I have to see his face after the fact. The sting doesn’t care about fairness or merit. You’d think I’ve had the last month to stew in my own misery and get the fuck over it already, but I haven’t.

Even with all the Glad stuff, the Bad stuff still wins out sometimes. That’s the thing about balance: it’s fleeting. The scales tip, no matter how hard you try to keep them even. Today, the Bad is just louder.

I tighten my grip on my pen, staring hard at the notebook in my lap. I’m not writing anything, just doodling uneven lines along the edge of the page. Lines that wobble and overlap, just like the way I feel right now—messy and unbalanced.

Dr. Hall finishes the cylinder and begins shaping it into something vaguely resembling a vase. “This is what happens if you don’t center properly,” he says, letting the walls of the piece wobble deliberately before they collapse. Then, with a practiced hand, he smashes the clay back into a lump.

By the time class ends, I’m drained. We didn’t even touch the wheels today—just watched our professor throw around eight pounds of clay—but my shoulders ache like I’ve been holding up the weight of the room. Sitting so stiffly, pretending to absorb it all, takes more effort than I expected.

Next week, we’re supposed to put everything into practice, and I’m already dreading it. My hands used to know what to do instinctively—how to center, pull, and shape without hesitation. Now? Now I’m not so sure they’ll still listen.

As the other students file out, I think about thanking Dr. Hall. He didn’t have to support my fellowship application, but he did. He put his name on the line, vouched for me, believed in my work. Thanking him feels like the right thing to do—the professional, respectful thing.

But as I watch him wipe his hands on a towel and glance around the nearly empty room, I hesitate. This is the perfect moment: no students clamoring for his attention, no distractions. And yet, the thought of walking up to him, of saying thank you while my head is still buzzing with everything I’ve lost, makes me feel a little sick.

I look down at my shoes, avoiding his gaze as I shuffle toward the door. I’ll thank him another day—when I don’t feel so raw. When I don’t feel like the whole world is still watching me fail.

“Birdie.”

I glance up to find Nick standing there, hands buried in the pockets of his impeccably tailored pants. “Hey,” he says. “You got a minute?”

I grip the strap of my bag tighter. “What do you want, Nick?”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, Collins. I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”

My stomach twists. “You wanted to check in? On me?”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone infuriatingly sincere. “I know you were vying for that fellowship, and it’s not easy to lose something you put so much into.”

The lump in my throat doubles in size. “Thanks for the reminder.”

He winces. “I’m serious. Look, I know it probably doesn’t mean much coming from me, but your work? It’s incredible. The judges said so, too. You’re really talented, Birdie.”

I blink at him. “Mmhmm, that’s why you were the winner.”

“My work was good, too. But I also have connections. My dad and David were fraternity brothers here at Dayton, and they’re still close.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Honestly, I just wanted the internship. I wish we could’ve, like, split the win so you could get the stipend.”

The words hit me like a knife sliding between my ribs, hollowing me out. The thing I’d spent months pinning my hopes and future on was just a stepping stone for him—a casual networking opportunity. And the kicker? His father and David, frat bros swapping favors, like this whole process was predetermined from the start.

After all that talk of me having an unfair advantage with Liam, the irony’s almost laughable. His connections were baked in from the start while I was over here scrabbling for crumbs, hoping my work would be enough to speak for itself.

“I don’t know what you want me to say to that,” I snap. “Congratulations? Thank you for taking something I actually needed?”

His smile falters, but only slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I know how hard it is when you put everything into something and come up short.”

“Do you?”

He cocks his head to the side. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought maybe we could . . . I don’t know, talk. Grab coffee or something. You’ve been on my mind.”

There it is. The real reason he’s here. A thinly veiled proposition disguised as a wellness check. How transparent. How audacious.

I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder, my movements sharp. “I’m sure you mean well, but I’m not interested. In coffee. Or talking. Or whatever this is.”

“Birdie, look—” He leans in slightly, his tone shifting to something overly smooth, like he’s reciting lines from a play. “I’m just saying, I think we’d get along if we gave it a shot. You’ve got this edge to you I really like.”

“No,” I say firmly, cutting him off before he can spin more nonsense. “Congratulations on the fellowship, Nick. I mean it. But I’m not interested in getting to know you. I already have someone anyway.”

His brows knit, and for the first time, he looks genuinely taken aback. It disarms me for a moment, but I don’t stick around to see what he’ll say next. I push past him and head for the door.

I have someone, is what I’d told him.

And it’s true. Liam and I were . . . doing some light kissing before everything blew up. But it wasn’t just that. It was trust. It was warmth. It was the feeling of being seen—completely—when the rest of the world felt like it didn’t even notice I existed.

But we’re not together. We weren’t then, and we certainly aren’t now. I’m not sure I’m ready to be, even if he wanted that. I’m not in a good place, and I can’t be the girlfriend who’s constantly falling apart.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket and walk toward the bookstore. There’s no time to go back to the apartment and change before my shift, so I’m stuck in this sweater that smells faintly of the studio.

Once I’m there, I pull out my phone while I wait for the manager to unlock the doors. There’s a text from Liam waiting for me, sent just ten minutes ago.

Liam

you survive your first day back? or should I come rescue you?

Birdie

barely. can’t talk long—waiting for my shift to start. but nick riordan just tried to “check in” on me after class, and I almost lost my shit

Liam

what does “check in” mean? that little bastard didn’t hit on you, did he?

Birdie

oh, he absolutely did. tried to “grab coffee” but I told him to shove it

Liam

glad you dodged that bullet. guy’s got the personality of wet toast

Birdie

you’re not wrong

Liam

seriously though—you good? want me to swing by after work with snacks?

My chest tightens in the best way, and I bite my lip, trying to keep my smile in check. He’s not asking because he feels obligated. He’s asking because he cares. Because he’s Liam.

But caring doesn’t mean he should have to carry me.

Birdie

yeah, actually. we need to talk about something

My fingers hover over the screen, my heart beating a little faster. I want to tell him how important he’s become to me, how supportive he’s been, how lovely it feels to have him in my corner. But the thought is terrifying. Saying that out loud risks everything—our connection, the comfort he brings, the fragile bond we’ve built.

Because what if I can’t be what he deserves? I’m not steady. I’m not whole. He deserves someone who can meet him where he is, not someone stuck trying to claw their way out of their own mess.

Liam

okay

really fucking hate that sentence btw

Birdie

it’s nothing bad. see you tonight x

I stare at the screen, my thoughts swirling. I need to tell him how much he means to me. But I also need to be honest—with him and myself. If I can’t give him what he deserves, I have to draw a line. I have to let him go before I drag him down with me.

Still, I hope he’ll understand. I hope he’ll stay, even if I can’t offer him the romantic version of us. Because losing him completely? That would break me in a way I don’t think I could recover from.