16. Birdie
16
BIRDIE
Tuesday morning brings with it a dull, throbbing headache and the lingering glow of last night’s party. It’s not a migraine, thank God. I haven’t had one of those in months. Still, the ache is enough to make me wince as I stretch.
I didn’t realize just how late we stayed, how deep we let ourselves sink into the night’s chaos. There’s a fine ring of glitter on my pillow to prove it—a shimmering reminder of fairy wings and Halloween magic.
As I rub my temples, a nagging sense of worry tugs at the back of my mind. The last time I felt like this, it started as just a headache, too.
I grab my phone, scrolling through the notifications until I see “Dad” flash on the screen. I pick up, and before I can even get a word in, his familiar voice fills the line.
“How’s my little Bridgie doin’?” he asks, warm, gruff, and instantly comforting.
I lean against the headboard. “I’m doing okay. Keeping busy.”
“And how’s your head been? Not pushing yourself too hard, I hope? You getting enough sleep?”
Three questions. A trifecta that instantly drags me back to the accident—the brain injury, the recovery, all the caution afterward. The doctors told me symptoms can linger longer than you’d expect, especially the headaches and exhaustion.
Lately, they’ve been cropping up more and more.
I’m sure it’s just the extra weight I’m carrying: school, lack of funds, and the pressure to always keep pushing forward, even when it feels like there’s no room left to breathe.
“Yes, Dad. I promise I’m getting enough rest,” I fib, knowing the alternative would only make him worry more. “And I’m trying not to let things get to me.”
“Good. Your ol’ noggin’s been through enough.”
I shift, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “I know, and I’m being careful, I promise. I have someone helping me out with the fellowship stuff, which has been a huge relief.”
“I know you’ll do great, kiddo. But listen, Bridgie . . . if for some reason it doesn’t go the way we want—and I have faith it will,” he adds quickly, “but if it doesn’t, maybe I can pick up some more shifts at the warehouse. It’d be no trouble, just a few extra hours here and there, and—”
“Dad, seriously. Don’t worry about it.” I swallow, guilt pooling in my chest like a slow drip. “You’re already doing so much. Besides, this is on me. I’ll make it work, okay?”
He sighs, long and heavy. “You’re somethin’ else, Bridge. Just know we’re all rooting for you.”
I smile at that, wondering exactly who “all” is. The guys from work, maybe? I can picture them, a bunch of warehouse workers in grease-stained caps and steel-toed boots, asking him every now and then, “How’s your girl doin’ with that fancy art stuff?”
“Thanks, Dad.” I smile, blinking back a sudden sting in my eyes. “I’ll keep you updated, okay?”
“Deal. Now, get some rest. Love ya, kid.”
“Love you, too.”
After I hang up, I want nothing more than to roll over, bury myself in blankets, and fall back asleep for the rest of the day. But duty calls. Life doesn’t slow down just because my head’s aching and my bed’s warm.
I groan softly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and taking a moment to steady myself. Then, I shoot off a quick text to Liam.
Birdie
how’s the hangover?
Liam
alcohol level’s fine. social battery’s depleted
Birdie
aw, poor little bloodsucker
Liam
I have glitter in my hair, by the way
Birdie
lol I hope you know that’s gonna be there forever
Liam
good. now I can look nice for my parents on friday night. they’re making me go to the Montrose opening instead of our usual dinner
Is he serious? The soft opening of the new gallery downtown. The one I’ve been counting down the days for. It’s exclusive, invite-only. I should’ve known Liam would have an in.
Birdie
I’m so jealous
Liam
you wanna come?
Birdie
REALLY?
Liam
yup. plus one is all yours if you want it
Birdie
oh my god, YES. I’ll wear my fanciest ... sweater dress? what do people wear to a gallery opening?
Liam
you’ll look perfect, don’t worry. just promise you won’t leave me alone with my parents
Birdie
deal. I’ll be your personal buffer
Liam
you can schmooze my dad all you want
Birdie
still scared of him. but I’m excited to get inspiration for my portfolio
Liam
don’t go changing things on me now
Birdie
I know, I like what I have. just might get a lil extra spark. thanks for letting me tag along. seriously.
Liam
don’t mention it. gotta keep you cultured
This kind of playful back-and-forth has quickly become one of my favorite parts of the day. Liam has a way of making things feel lighter, like whatever’s heavy in my life could just be tossed aside, at least for a little while.
When we first met, I didn’t expect him to be this easy to talk to. To click with. But it feels like he actually sees me, in a way that so few people do.
Birdie
just don’t let me embarrass you too much
Liam
trust me, if anyone’s guilty of that, it’ll be me. but if you’re there, I might actually survive the night
I smile, tucking my phone against my chest. He really wants me there beside him. He’s not just doing me a favor, humoring me; he actually wants me there. It’s new and thrilling, this feeling that I’m someone’s anchor in the middle of the chaos. And that maybe he’s mine, too.
Excitement buzzes in my chest—real, unfiltered excitement. Not the anxious kind or the sort that comes with a thousand doubts trailing behind it. Just the pure, giddy kind that makes me want to savor the moment. The fellowship, him, everything—it’s all starting to feel like it might just fall into place.
Friday night arrives quickly. I’m dressed in my Sunday best, a deep green dress and little brown Mary Janes. I slip on my coat, smoothing down my dress and adjusting the delicate silver bracelet my dad gave me. A present for my eighteenth birthday.
It once belonged to my mom. She left when I was barely old enough to remember, but Dad’s always spoken of her with kindness, as if her memory deserves to be cherished, not resented. He says I’m his greatest gift—but that she once was, too.
Tonight feels like the right time to wear it, to carry a piece of her with me. A small reminder of where I come from, of the broken pieces I’ve had to mend, and the person I’ve grown into despite them.
I take the bus into the city. The steady rhythm of the engine, the wide seats, and the blurred city lights outside the window give me a sense of calm I can’t find in smaller vehicles.
Since the accident, car rides twist my stomach into knots, my hands clamping down on anything solid as if that might keep me grounded. The sound of tires skidding or the sudden shift of gears send my heart racing, a reflex I’ve never been able to fully shake.
I can manage it when I have to, but with a headache still lingering from earlier in the week, I’d rather not test my limits tonight.
Instead, I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, letting the hum of the bus carry me toward downtown. Toward Liam. Toward a night I can only hope will be as meaningful as the small, cherished weight on my wrist.
When I arrive, the gallery is glowing. Large glass windows reveal elegant guests milling about inside, and the hum of voices and soft music spills out when the door opens.
I spot Liam near the entrance, looking uncharacteristically polished in a dark suit. His usual messy blond hair is tamed just enough to look intentional, and the sharp, tailored lines of his suit make him seem taller, more composed. Still, there’s an easy, effortless confidence about him that grounds the whole look.
He’s wildly handsome, as usual.
When he sees me, his face lights up with a wide, genuine smile, the kind that reaches his eyes. Not a cocky little smirk, just a steady warmth that makes my heart flip.
“You clean up well,” I say, trying to keep my cool.
“You too.” His gaze lingers, and then he brushes the crux of my elbow lightly. “Come on, I want to introduce you to my mom.”
He leads me through the crowd, weaving us past clusters of people holding champagne flutes and gesturing animatedly toward the art. The space feels alive, buzzing with energy, but Liam moves through it with ease, his hand just grazing my arm to keep us from getting separated.
When we reach Mr. and Mrs. Donovan, they’re deep in conversation with another couple. Liam clears his throat softly, catching their attention.
“This is Birdie Collins,” he says, his voice steady but with a hint of pride. “My good friend. She’s an artist, too.”
David’s sharp eyes flick to me, narrowing slightly as they sweep over me. He glances back at Liam with a subtle, questioning raise of his brow. It’s quick, a silent exchange, but I catch it. Then he turns back to me, his expression shifting into a practiced, charming smile.
“Ah, Miss Collins,” he says smoothly, his tone polished and even. “We spoke briefly at the showcase, didn’t we?”
“Yes, and it was an honor,” I reply, keeping my voice steady even as my stomach twists.
“It’s always nice to see such young talent.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he excuses himself, murmuring something about catching up with someone across the room.
Mrs. Donovan gives me a brief, apologetic smile before following after him, leaving Liam and me standing there in the awkward vacuum they’ve left behind.
I glance at Liam, whose jaw is clenched tight, his hand shifting awkwardly in his pocket as he watches them disappear into the crowd. His expression is a mix of embarrassment, frustration, and something deeper—something resigned, like this is a dance he knows too well.
“Sorry about him,” Liam mutters, his voice low, almost bitter. “It’s—” He stops, exhales sharply, and shakes his head. “He just . . . does that.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, even though my chest feels tight. “Really, it’s okay.”
But it isn’t. Not entirely. The way David’s smile barely held and the tension radiating from Liam—it leaves me wondering. Does he not like that I’m here now, standing next to his son? I’m a fellowship finalist, but I’m not here to show off or prove something. I’m just here with Liam.
“It’s not fine, though. He—” He stops again, his lips pressing into a thin line. “He has a way of making people feel like they don’t belong. It’s not you. It’s him.”
I force a small smile. “Well, good thing I’m used to being underestimated.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration giving way to something softer. “You shouldn’t have to be. You deserve more than two seconds of his time.”
I try to brush it off, but there’s a prickle of disappointment creeping up, settling like a splinter beneath my skin. I’ve seen Liam do the same thing—shutting people out when he’s done with a conversation. But it’s different with David. He isn’t brushing me off out of habit; he just doesn’t think I’m worth the effort.
And Liam sees that—feels it, too, on my behalf.
Rather than dwelling on it, we turn our attention to the exhibits, walking slowly through the rooms, studying the pieces in silence. The art around us is stunning, everything from sleek modern sculptures to intricate, gravity-defying installations.
It’s humbling, and it fills me with a kind of quiet awe. A renewed drive to create.
We stop in front of a vivid, abstract painting, its sweeping lines and textures drawing me in, when Liam shifts closer, his voice low. “Hey, thanks for tagging along tonight.”
I glance at him, surprised. “Of course.”
It’s like a gift for me to be here, soaking in the art and finding the tiniest spark of inspiration again. And he’s thanking me ?
“No, I mean it,” he says, his gaze steady on the painting, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “This is the first event like this I’ve gone to where I don’t feel like I have to grit my teeth and fake my way through it. Even with my dad being his usual self, I actually feel like I can enjoy it. Like I’m just . . . here, at a gallery opening, with you.”
His words are simple, but there’s something about them that makes my chest ache.
“Good,” I say softly. “Because I’m very glad I came.”
He smiles, small and genuine, and we move on.
We’re standing in front of a towering piece covered in platinum luster, the light catching every fold and ripple in its surface, when a deep voice calls out from behind us. I turn to find David again, this time with a woman beside him, elegant and striking. She has cropped auburn hair and sharp green eyes that I would recognize anywhere.
“Claire Mahler,” David says. “This is my son and his friend Bridget Collins. She’s in the running for the Dayton fellowship.”
My heart skips a beat. The Claire Mahler. Fellow member of the selection committee. World-renowned ceramicist. A living legend.
“Hello,” I say, nearly breathless. “It’s such an incredible honor to meet you.”
Claire smiles warmly, extending her hand. “Hi, Birdie. You’re the one with the wildflower motif in your ceramics, right?”
“Yes, that’s me. But I—I’m not here to try and impress anyone,” I stammer. “I just wanted to see the new collection for myself.”
“Don’t worry,” she says kindly. “I know the feeling. I was the same way at your age. Very wide-eyed and eager.”
“Oh, thank you,” I say, the words tumbling out. “I really have been a fan of yours for years, and I’m so inspired by your rise in the field. I’d never want to encroach where I’m unwelcome.”
“You are very much welcome here.” She gives me an easy, gracious smile. “Will you tell me a little about your own work? This isn’t a test, so no pressure.”
My nerves slowly settle. It takes me a few seconds to gather my thoughts, and then I launch into an explanation that’s part ramble, part stammer, with a bit of awkward gesturing thrown in.
She listens attentively, her expression open and encouraging, and from there, we fall into an unexpectedly easy conversation. She’s thoughtful, genuinely curious about my projects, even offering a few helpful suggestions. It’s surreal—this moment of being noticed by someone whose work has always been a beacon for me.
I’m so absorbed that I barely register the faint pulsing at my temples. But as she tells me about her latest series, the feeling intensifies. The gallery lights seem sharper. The noise around us grows louder.
My vision blurs at the edges. A creeping sense of nausea builds in my gut, and I’m suddenly, desperately dizzy.
I try to keep my composure, but my body has other plans. A sharp, stabbing pain pierces through my head, and my knees buckle.
“Are you alright?” Claire asks, her voice gentle but alarmed.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I manage, forcing a tight smile despite the pounding in my skull. “I think I just need a moment.”
Without waiting for a response, I turn away, barely registering the shared look of concern between Liam and his father. My sole focus is on escaping the suffocating crush of noise and light in the gallery. Each step sends another jolt of nausea through me, the pain in my head building like a relentless drumbeat.
I push open the heavy gallery door and step into the cool night air. The sharp contrast of quiet and chill feels like a relief, but it’s fleeting. Leaning against the wall, I breathe deeply, trying to steady myself.
It’s no use.
The migraine has me firmly in its grip now, dragging me under. My stomach twists violently, and I clutch at the wall for support. There’s no stopping it—the rising wave, the inevitable conclusion.
The vomit comes suddenly, spilling out onto my shoes and splattering against the cold concrete. The humiliation hits almost as hard as the pain, and for a moment, I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the world to just slow down.
Behind me, I hear the faint creak of the door and a familiar voice cutting through the haze. “Birdie?”