Page 11 of High Hopes

“No.” She taps her temple. “This thing up here, it’s like a steel trap. Perfectly tempered at all times.”

I grin. “Right. I can tell by the way you were sweating bullets at the donor event on Saturday. Screams calm under pressure.”

She rolls her eyes. “If I was going to throw something in a fit of rage, I’d pick something a little more satisfying to break.” She gestures noncommittally to the remaining shards. “This one was already on its way out.”

I glance at the pieces, then back at her. There’s something in the way she talks—so casual, like everything’s under control—but the way she was muttering under her breath a minute ago says otherwise.

I’ve only known her a few days, but even I can already tell she’s not the type to let anyone see her slip, not easily.

“So, kintsugi, huh?” I say lightly. “It’s meant to make things more beautiful, isn’t it? The cracks, the imperfections. Wouldn’t it be the perfect fix for a broken piece like this?”

She snorts. “Did your dad teach you that?”

I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “I try not to listen too hard when my dad talks.” Most of it’s just noise—art metaphors, life lessons I’m supposed to care about but don’t. But this one ... it kind of stuck with me. “But if you can fix something and make it better, why not try?”

She’s quiet for a long while, like she’s considering my point, her gaze flickering over the broken pieces in her hands. But then she murmurs, almost to herself, “It doesn’t always work that way.”

I shrug, letting it go. “Okay.”

She tilts her head. “Okay?”

“What? Did you want me to argue with you about it some more? You’re right. Some things are meant to stay broken. Some things can’t be fixed with a bit of gold-dusted glue. I’m not here to change your mind.”

She flashes me a sideways smile. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Just ... let things go like that? Most people would have tried to convince me. Push me to see their point.”

“Not my style. I say what I think, you say what you think, and we move on. Doesn’t mean I have to keep hammering at it. I’m not here to win some devil’s advocate debate.”

Her smile lingers for a second, and then she nods, almost to herself. “That’s ... kind of chaotic. Kind of refreshing.”

I wink. “I aim to please.”

She laughs gently. “You’re strange, too. I like that.”

“So are you,” I say, because it’s the truth. She’s honest in a way that most people aren’t. Guarded, sure, but there’s something else there, too. Something that pulls you in, like she’sconstantly holding back a storm but doesn’t let it show. Plus, she’s quite beautiful. “And you’re really pretty.”

Her cheeks go pink. “I—I’m not even sure what to say to that.”

“Well, since we’re exchanging compliments, you could tell me I’m pretty, too.”

She lets out a laugh, one of those short, surprised ones that bubble up before she can stop it. For a second, it looks like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. And then, with a little shake of her head, she says, “You’re pretty, too, Liam. The prettiest disaster I’ve ever met.”

I smile. “I’ll take it.”

5

BIRDIE

The pretty littleenvelope sits on the edge of my desk, taunting me. It’s thinner than I imagined it would be, a single crisp piece of paper enclosed inside the smooth, cream-colored card stock. I don’t know why I expected something grander, something more—after all, it’s just a letter.

A letter that could change the course of my entire life.

With shaky hands, I tear it open and pull out the folded sheet inside.

Miss Bridget Collins,

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