22. Birdie
22
BIRDIE
I leave the Ellsworth feeling strangely light and cautiously hopeful. Sure, I fumbled a little during my presentation—who doesn’t when they’re nervous?—but overall, I know I did well.
My pieces looked exactly the way I’d envisioned, shining under the gallery lights, every fine detail pulling its weight. From where I stood, the judges seemed engaged, leaning forward as if they wanted to hear more.
Liam’s dad asked thoughtful questions about my choice of materials and process—curious, reverent, and not the least bit pretentious. And Claire Mahler? She didn’t seem at all fazed that I’d bolted the last time we met. She even smiled when she called my work “brave,” which, coming from her, might as well be a standing ovation.
The thought of them deliberating tonight, weighing my presentation against the others, makes my chest flutter with something I haven’t felt in a while: faith. I gave it everything I had, poured my heart into this, and for once, it feels like it just might be enough.
As I walk across campus, my phone buzzes with messages from Dad and Sena congratulating me. I promised them I’d call later, but right now, there’s only one person I want to talk to. Liam.
He promised to cook dinner tonight—something just for the two of us at his place. A quiet celebration of his conference championship win and my finishing the application process.
Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and after that, Liam will be taking early finals before heading off to the NCAA tournament. We won’t have much time together for a while, so tonight feels even more important.
Still, I can’t shake the weird feeling from our texts last night. He was hounding me about something.
It seemed odd. Not just odd—pointed. Like he wanted to ask me something but thought better of it. When I pressed for context, he backpedaled: just wanted to wish you luck tomorrow. you’re gonna kill it.
Flattery will get you everywhere , I’d replied.
The whole strange exchange has been rattling around in my head ever since.
By the time I get to Liam’s off-campus apartment, though, my mood has lifted again. None of that matters right now—not when there’s so much to celebrate. Not when I’m about to see him.
I knock, and the door swings open almost immediately. Chase is standing there, grinning wide. “If it isn’t the artist herself,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “Liam’s favorite potter.”
Before I can respond, the man of the hour appears, barreling toward me like an overexcited golden retriever. His grin is so wide and unrestrained it makes my heart flip. He wraps me in a hug, lifting me clean off the ground and spinning me in a circle.
“You did it!” he exclaims, his voice brimming with pride.
I laugh, holding on tightly. “I don’t even know if I won yet.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, setting me down but keeping his arms around me. “You’re amazing, and we’re celebrating. Champagne’s already popped.”
Chase saunters over with three glasses in hand, handing one to me. “To Birdie and her masterpieces,” he declares, raising his glass. “Something something, let them eat cake.”
“And to you two, the conference champs,” I add, intertwining my wrist with Liam’s as we drink.
Chase clinks his glass against ours, then takes a long sip. “Alright, lovebirds, I’m heading out to do some celebrating of my own.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and I laugh. From what little I know about Chase, he’s nothing if not predictable when it comes to women.
“Have fun,” Liam calls after him as Chase grabs his coat and heads out the door, leaving us alone.
The apartment goes quiet, save for the soft hum of music playing from Liam’s speaker. It’s unexpectedly tidy—dishes put away, surfaces wiped clean, like he put extra effort into getting it ready for tonight. I set my glass down on the counter and turn to him, my smile softening.
“So, you’re really proud of me, huh?”
His grin doesn’t falter as he steps closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Ridiculously proud.”
My heart feels so full I can’t hold back anymore. I lean up and press my lips to his in a long kiss. It’s sweet and unhurried, filled with the kind of happiness I haven’t felt in a long time.
Liam responds immediately, his hand slipping to the back of my neck to deepen it. His lips are warm, gentle but insistent, as if he’s trying to pour everything he feels into this moment.
But when I pull back, his smile falters. Just for a moment—just enough to make my stomach twist.
“What?” I ask softly, suddenly unsure. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head quickly, his grin snapping back into place, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing,” he says, his voice a little too casual. “You’re perfect.”
Perfect. The word lands softly, but something about it doesn’t sit right. Maybe it’s the way his voice dipped, like he didn’t quite believe it. Or maybe it’s just my own overthinking getting the better of me.
“You know what I really like about you?” I ask, forcing my tone to stay light.
He checks his nonexistent watch. “Don’t think we have enough time to run through the list by the end of the night.”
I roll my eyes. “One thing of many—it’s that you don’t sugarcoat things. Meaning, you would tell me if something weird was going on, right?”
“Right. But the thing is, you’re very happy right now. Confident, even. Accomplished.” He steps away and gestures toward the kitchen. “And I cooked us this dinner. I’m not great at cooking. In fact, some would say I’m terrible. But I put my best effort in, and I think it’s at least edible.”
I frown, confused. “Where are you going with this?”
“I’m just saying, maybe we should enjoy tonight. Eat.” He raises his champagne glass in a faux toast. “Drink. Be merry. I can tell you the bad thing tomorrow.”
Bad thing . My stomach trips over itself. What bad thing?
I wish I could be the kind of person who ignores the warning signs, who can compartmentalize well enough to just enjoy myself for a while. But I’m not, and I never will be.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” I mutter.
Liam runs a hand through his hair, exhaling a long, heavy sigh. Finally, he places a gentle hand on my shoulder and guides us over to the couch. We sit together in stilted silence.
“I’m going to tell you something now,” he says carefully. “Something about my dad and the fellowship finalists. And I don’t want you to freak out.”
Naturally, I freak out.
This is it. I didn’t get it. Oh God, I didn’t get it.
He already knows. Of course he already knows—it’s his dad’s committee. And he probably told Liam to break it to me gently, like that would somehow soften the blow. But it doesn’t. It just makes it worse because now the guy I’m crushing on has a front-row seat to my failure.
How am I supposed to look him in the eye after this? How am I supposed to act normal, knowing the thing I’ve poured every ounce of myself into isn’t enough?
He’s watching me carefully, waiting for some kind of response, but I can’t get my breathing under control. My chest tightens, and I press my palms into my knees, trying to steady myself.
“Birdie,” he says softly. “It’s not—it’s not that.”
That? I force myself to glance up at him. His expression is tight, his jaw clenched like he’s bracing for impact. Whatever it is, it’s bad.
“Then what is it?” I whisper, my throat tight. “What did your dad do?”
“Last night, the dinner with my parents . . . it was a fellowship dinner.”
I tilt my head, confused. “A fellowship dinner?”
“For the finalists,” he says slowly. “Except you weren’t invited.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in, and when they do, it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room.
“What?”
“My dad didn’t invite you. He said it was to keep things fair because I’ve been helping you. That you already had enough of an advantage. He wanted to ‘level the playing field.’”
“Enough of an advantage,” I repeat, the words foreign and jagged in my mouth. “He didn’t think I deserved to be there.”
“That’s not true,” Liam says quickly, urgently. “He’s just—he’s like that. He thinks he knows what’s best, and he’s obsessed with appearances. It doesn’t mean anything about you, Birdie.”
But it does. It absolutely does.
I stare at the floor, my thoughts spinning. All I can see is the gallery earlier today—my pieces under the lights, the judges’ questions, Claire Mahler’s smile. For once, I let myself believe I belonged in a room like that. That maybe I’d finally done something right.
And now? Now, it just feels like a cruel joke.
“I should’ve told you last night,” Liam says, his voice breaking through the fog in my head. “I know I should’ve. I just didn’t want to mess you up before today. I didn’t want you to feel psyched out or like you had to prove anything to him. You’ve already done enough.”
He’s right about one thing: if he’d told me last night, I probably wouldn’t have made it through today. I would’ve fallen apart before I even set foot in that gallery.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “You were right not to tell me. I just . . .” My voice cracks, and I force a swallow. “It sucks. It really, really sucks. I worked so hard, Liam. I thought maybe for once, it would be enough.”
“It is enough. You are enough,” he says fiercely, leaning forward. “What he did has nothing to do with you or your work. It’s about him. You’re incredible, Birdie. You blew them away today, and you can still win this thing. He’s not the only one making the decisions.”
The conviction in his voice almost makes me believe him. Almost.
But if I wasn’t invited to a dinner the night before the application cycle ends, that means I’m probably already out of the running. David Donovan might not make the sole decision, but he’s the largest donor. His voice carries the most weight.
And even if by some slim chance I did win . . . how could I work alongside him, knowing what he really thinks of me? That I took advantage of his son? It would be awful. Wrong.
I nod stiffly. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He studies me for a long moment, then stands, holding out his hand. “Come on.”
“What?” I blink up at him, quiet and uncertain.
“Let’s get out of here. We can’t sit around and let my dad’s bullshit ruin your night. We’ll go somewhere—anywhere you want.”
“What about your ‘at least edible’ dinner?” I ask, my words falling out in a flat, hollow tone.
He grins softly, his hand still extended. “There’s this new invention called a microwave. We can heat it up when we get back.”
I hesitate, staring at his outstretched hand like it holds the answer to all the conflicting thoughts swirling in my head. A big part of me wants to stay right here on the couch and let the disappointment settle—feel every ounce of it, let it wash over me until it passes.
Because that’s what I usually do. I dwell. I overthink. I replay every decision, every word, every moment, searching for where I went wrong.
But another part of me—the softer, squishier part—wants something else. Wants to be distracted, even just for a little while. Wants to be anywhere but here, with Liam’s hand in mine, pretending for a night that things don’t hurt as much as they do.
Tomorrow, I’ll let myself wallow. Tomorrow, I’ll replay every second of this and let the weight of it crush me if it wants to.
But tonight, I’ll let myself be with Liam.
I slide my hand into his, and his fingers close gently around mine. He pulls me to my feet, his grin widening just a fraction as he tugs me toward his room.
“Wait here,” he says, disappearing for a moment. When he comes back, he’s holding a big, baggy Dayton Soccer sweatshirt. “Here. It’s cold out.”
He helps me pull it over my head, and it smells like him—clean and faintly woodsy, with a hint of detergent. The sleeves swallow my hands, the hem hanging well past my hips, but it’s comforting in a way I can’t explain.
“Better?” he asks, his voice low, his smile softer now.
I nod, letting him lace his fingers through mine again. Together, we walk to the door, hand in hand, and I let myself believe—just for tonight—that things might still be okay.