34. Birdie
34
BIRDIE
Claire calls back on a quiet winter’s afternoon. The sun is spilling through the windows like warm honey, and I’m trying not to bite my nails as I pace the living room. I answer so quickly it’s embarrassing, the phone almost slipping out of my clammy hands.
“Hello? This is Birdie—Bridget Collins.” Bridget , because we’re being professional today.
“Hi, Birdie. It’s Claire Mahler.”
Her voice is smooth, confident, a little raspy—like someone who’s spent years laughing too loud and working with clay dust in her lungs. I stop pacing and grip the back of the couch for balance. “Hi, Claire. Thanks for calling me back.”
“Of course.” I hear the faint clinking of tools in the background—she’s probably at her studio, mid-project. “I wanted to talk about that proposition I mentioned.”
“Yeah?” I sound too eager, so I clear my throat. “I mean, yes. I’d love to hear more.”
“I’ve been following your work since we met at the Montrose, and I think you have real potential. The fellowship winner will be working with me during the second half of the summer, but I’d like to offer you the opportunity to intern with me during the first half.”
My heart leaps into my throat. Claire freaking Mahler wants me to intern with her. This is huge. This is what I wanted from the beginning. Not David, not a random name on some committee, but someone who truly inspires me to create.
But.
But I need money. Not inspiration, not exposure, but actual, practical, survival-level money.
My stomach twists. “Claire, I—I can’t tell you how grateful I am. That sounds incredible, really, but . . . I need to focus on a paid position this summer. My tuition and, well, everything else—it’s kind of nonnegotiable.”
There’s a pause on the other end. For a split second, I’m sure she’s about to tell me never mind—that I’ve blown it, turned down the opportunity of a lifetime.
“Well,” Claire says finally, “I happen to have a spot open at my studio.”
I blink, not sure I heard her right. “What kind of spot?”
“Receptionist. It doesn’t pay much—minimum wage, plus a little commission for any pieces you sell in the shop—but you’d get to work alongside me and see the day-to-day. You’d help with the shop, assist in classes, and have full access to the studio to work on your own projects.”
My breath catches. A paid position and an internship with Claire Mahler? The tears prickle at the edges of my vision before I can stop them.
“That—” I swallow hard, my voice coming out wobbly. “That would be amazing. More than amazing. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Good,” she says, warm and sure. “I’ll send over the details this week, and we’ll get everything lined up. I look forward to working with you, Birdie.”
When I hang up, I just stand there, phone clutched in my hand like it might evaporate if I let go. Claire Mahler is going to be my boss. My mentor. Holy shit.
And then I’m crying, because of course I’m crying. Big, happy, overwhelmed tears that I wipe away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt as I stumble into my room. For the first time in a long time, I feel like the pieces are clicking into place. Like the universe is holding out a hand, saying, Here. Keep going .
It’s late when I finally pad out of my room to find Sena. The apartment is glowing with the warm flicker of candles and incense. She’s in one of her witchy moods—an oversized black sweater, a messy braid draped over her shoulder, and some kind of ritual bowl clutched in her hands as she moves around the room.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching her light yet another candle and mutter something under her breath.
“Cord cutting,” she says matter-of-factly, setting the bowl on the coffee table. “Symbolic release of all the lingering negativity. Bad vibes, fair-weather exes, imposter syndrome—you name it.”
I snort, sinking onto the couch with my phone. “Sounds ambitious.”
“Let me live,” she says, flashing me a grin. “Speaking of—” She gestures at the notebook and phone spread out in front of me. “Did I hear you on the phone in there earlier?”
I bite back a smile. “Yeah. Claire Mahler called me back.”
Sena freezes mid-candle placement, then straightens, turning to me with wide eyes. “Claire Mahler as in Claire Mahler ?”
“Yes,” I say, grinning like a fool. “She offered me a paid summer position at her studio. Receptionist slash artist intern, basically. I’ll get to help with classes, work in the shop, and have full studio access. Plus, I get a commission for anything I sell.”
Her jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?”
I shake my head, the grin still plastered to my face. “Not even a little. I left her a voicemail this morning, and she called me back to offer the job.”
“Oh my God, Birdie!” She practically launches herself onto the couch next to me, grabbing my arm and shaking it. “That’s huge. You’re going to be, like, the next big thing. I’ll get to say I knew you when!”
“Please,” I laugh, swatting her away. “This is not the life of the rich and famous.”
“Not yet,” she says, wagging a finger at me. “But this is where it starts. Paid work, access to the studio, commissions—Birdie, this is everything.”
“It really is.”
“Does Liam know yet?” she asks, flopping back against the couch cushions and beaming at me.
“Not yet,” I say, tucking my phone into my lap. “I’ll tell him later. I just . . . I needed to sit with it for a minute, you know? Let it feel real.”
She gives me a knowing smile. “I get it, and you deserve this, B. You really, really do.”
I glance around the room—the flickering candles, the faint curl of incense smoke, Sena perched cross-legged like the little hedge witch she is—and I feel a tightness in my chest that isn’t fear or sadness. It’s gratitude.
“Thank you,” I murmur, letting my head drop back against the cushions as the moment settles over me. It’s strange how much I suddenly believe it. That I deserve this, all of it. The good things, the small wins, the chance to build something from the brokenness.
I’m not just surviving. I’m starting to live again.
It’s late—almost ten—and the campus studio is empty, save for me and the giant eight-pound monstrosity I’ve been working with for the past hour.
I exhale through my nose, pressing my ribbon tool into the spinning mass on the wheel. “Come on,” I murmur to it, my voice low, coaxing. “Work with me here.”
It’s almost meditative, the way I work—tools trimming, fingers coaxing, a quiet give-and-take between me and the clay. My jeans are streaked with gray smudges, my sweater sleeves rolled up past my elbows, and I’ve already pushed my hair back three times.
I’ve missed this feeling. The quiet focus, hands deep in the grit of something I can control. My spark is back—that little drive that pushes me to sit here for hours on end, spinning and shaping until my back aches and my hands feel raw.
It’s funny how one phone call could change everything. Claire’s voice, so certain, so sure, still rings in my ears: I think you have real potential . I told my dad the next day, and for the first time in a year, his voice was thick with something other than worry-laced caution. Pride. He said he wants to shake hands with Claire himself, like she’d done him a personal favor.
And Liam—oh God. I didn’t even get to finish telling him before he spun me around the kitchen like I’d just won the lottery, his laughter loud and reckless, his smile so big it made me dizzy. “I told you, Birdie. I told you you’d get there.”
That moment, the pure joy in his face—it stuck with me, wedged somewhere warm and unshakable inside my chest. It’s been fueling me ever since. My hands are steady, my focus sharp as I carefully apply my trimming tool to the nearly finished piece.
I’m so absorbed in the work that I don’t hear the footsteps until they stop a few feet away.
“Don’t let me interrupt the magic.”
I jolt, my hands slipping slightly, and glance up. Liam stands near the door, his hair damp from practice, wearing sweatpants and a Dayton Soccer hoodie. Just as handsome and effortlessly self-assured as the day we met but somehow even more familiar now—like he belongs here.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask.
“Long enough to know you talk to clay when you think no one’s watching,” he teases.
“I’m coaxing it,” I reply defensively. “It’s called encouragement.”
“Sure.” He raises an eyebrow, still grinning. “Does it ever talk back?”
“Only when you’re not here to scare it into silence,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes as I focus on the wheel again.
Liam pulls out one of the old wooden stools from under a nearby table, the legs scraping against the concrete floor as he drags it closer. He sits, leaning his elbows on his knees as he studies me.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says after a moment, his tone softer now. “You didn’t answer my text.”
“Phone’s over there,” I say, jerking my head toward the far corner where my bag sits, abandoned. “I needed a break from screens.”
“Everything okay?” he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly in concern.
“Yeah.” I glance up, surprised by how serious he suddenly looks. “Better than okay, actually. I just needed to make something, you know?”
His expression softens. “I get it.”
And I know he does. For him, it’s the field—those endless hours of drills and scrimmages, the repetition, the precision, the rhythm of something he’s mastered. For me, it’s this. The clay, the wheel, the messy, beautiful process of turning nothing into something.
For a while, he just watches, quiet and still, as I work the clay into shape. The silence between us feels easy, natural. Like it’s enough just to be here, in the same space, breathing the same air and existing alongside each other without needing to fill the quiet.
When I finish, I sit back on the stool and wipe my hands on the towel draped over my knee, letting out a long, satisfied breath. It’s not perfect—not yet—but it’s close. The shape is there, sturdy and clean; it just needs a few minor tweaks.
Liam whistles low, leaning back as he looks at it. “That’s impressive, and huge.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling the familiar ache in my arms and shoulders. It’s the best kind of exhaustion—the kind you earn.
“You ready to go?” he asks, standing and stretching.
I glance at the hunk of clay still spinning lazily on the wheel. I’m trimming the piece for Hall’s class, and usually, I wouldn’t dare step away from something when I’m in the zone. But I’m trying to be reasonable these days. Trying to be better to myself.
Obsessing and overworking hasn’t done me any favors in the past—it’s burned me out, left me picking through broken shards of what could’ve been. So, maybe for once, I’ll let this small amount of progress be good enough.
“It’ll still be here tomorrow,” he says gently. “Come on, let’s get you home. I don’t want to have to wrestle you out of this studio.”
I huff out a small laugh. “Fine.”
A few minutes later, we’re in his car, and the engine hums beneath us as we pull onto the road. I have one hand locked in a tight grip on the edge of the seat—my fingers probably leaving permanent indentations—and the other is curled in Liam’s.
It’s been easier lately. The car rides. The weight of being a passenger. Fewer flashbacks, fewer sharp jolts of fear. But it’s still there, lingering in the corners of my mind, waiting for the wrong turn or a sudden brake.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, glancing at me briefly before turning back to the road. “Hey, we can go over the list if you want. What’s next on your Glad side?”
I squeeze his hand in silent gratitude. “Socks,” I tell him. “The expensive ones that don’t slide down.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Solid choice. Nothing ruins a bad day faster than shitty socks.”
When we pull up to the apartment, the weight of the day starts to ease. The anxiety of the drive fades, replaced by the familiar stillness of home.
We trudge inside, kicking off our shoes in the doorway, and head straight to my room. It’s still cozy from the last time he was here—blankets half-folded, fairy lights glowing softly along the walls.
Liam stretches out on my bed like it’s his own, his arms flopping over his head as he sighs dramatically. “So, what’s the verdict?” he asks, staring at the ceiling. “In terms of Otis.”
“Who?” I ask as I rifle through my closet.
He sits up like I’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. “Our turtle. I’ve been thinking, and we’ve not been visiting him nearly enough.”
“I saw him literally yesterday.”
I’ve been dropping by the fountain between classes every now and then. Liam and I talked about giving him a better home, but it would mostly be for selfish reasons. It’s likely that Otis has adapted to his odd little world—the algae-covered stones, the still water, the scattered leaves that collect in the corners of the fountain. Removing him might be more disruptive than leaving him where he is, even if it’s not the life we’d imagine for him.
His jaw drops, and he clutches his chest like I’ve wounded him. “You went without me?”
“All the time,” I reply, trying not to laugh.
He narrows his eyes, pushing up onto his elbows. “That’s why he’s been so aloof with me since winter break. You’ve clearly stolen Otis, and now he’s mine in name only.”
I roll my eyes, grinning as I grab an armful of Jellycats from my shelf and turn back to the bed. Liam’s still rambling about how he’s the picture of excellent company when I unceremoniously dump the stuffed animals beside him.
He freezes mid-sentence, his eyes going wide as he takes in the mountain of Jellycats now surrounding him. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, holding up his hands like he’s trying to process the situation. “This—this is the collection?”
“Yup.” I plop down on the edge of the bed, smug as anything. “Meet my Jellycats.”
His expression shifts to pure amazement as he sifts through the pile, pulling out a brown bunny and a green bunny, each with one floppy ear. He inspects them like they’re precious artifacts, carefully turning them over in his hands. Otis is long forgotten.
“This is . . . more impressive than I expected,” he says finally, his voice filled with mock reverence.
“You thought I was kidding?”
“No,” he admits, holding up a tiny fox with an embroidered scarf. “I just didn’t realize you had a whole society of them. These ones are my favorite,” he declares, gazing lovingly at the bunnies. “They’re us.”
I blink, bemused. “The bunnies?”
“Of course, the bunnies.” He gives me a deadpan stare, completely serious. “Can’t you tell?”
I laugh, shaking my head as I lean back to prop myself on my elbows. “You’re so weird.”
He grins mischievously, and before I can move, he grabs me around the waist and pulls me down onto the bed with him. “Liam!” I shriek, half laughing, half squirming as I try to escape his grip. “Stop! I’m all messy from the studio.”
“And I’m so pristine?” he teases, wrapping an arm securely around me to hold me in place. “You’ve seen me post-practice—I’m practically a swamp creature by comparison.”
I roll onto my side, panting and trying to catch my breath, my hair sticking out in all directions. Liam’s grinning up at the ceiling, one arm draped lazily across his chest, the other casually tucked behind his head.
“Annoying little gremlin,” I mutter, half-heartedly swatting at him.
“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he fires back, turning his head to look at me. His gaze softens slightly, flickering over my face like he’s memorizing every angle, every smudge of clay. He gently brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I like you so much,” he says softly.
I swallow, my heart doing that fluttery thing it always does when he looks at me like this. “Yeah,” I whisper back. “I like you, too. And I plan to stick around as long as you let me.”
Something swells in my chest—this fragile, beautiful thing I don’t quite know how to name. Love, probably. Hope, definitely.
I glance at him, his face lit with a warmth that’s so achingly Liam. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“Good,” he says like it’s the easiest promise in the world.
When we’re together like this, I feel light—giddy, even—like all the broken pieces of me are finally starting to fit back together. One soft, silly moment at a time.