Page 12 of High Hopes

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as one of the five finalists for the prestigious Dayton Fellowship in the Arts. As a finalist, you are invited to present a detailed proposal for your intended body of work, which will be evaluated by a panel of faculty and esteemed artists. The selection process will involve an interview and studio visit, where you will have the opportunity to discuss your artistic vision in depth.

If chosen as the recipient, you will receive a stipend of $15,000, as well as the opportunity to participate in a summermentorship with renowned artists David Donovan and Claire Mahler. The fellowship will culminate in an exhibition at the Oriel Gallery, where you will have the opportunity to showcase your completed works.

Best regards,

Margaret Ellis

Arts Director

Dayton University

My breath catches as I read it again, slower this time, trying to let the words sink in. I’m one of five. I’m in the running for this fellowship, the single thread of hope I’ve been clinging to. The award amount would be just enough to cover a year of tuition.

And I desperately need it. Desperately enough to feel like everything rides on this.

I was raised by a single dad who’s been gracious enough to help with my medical bills since the accident, but there are still outstanding costs—the physical therapy copays I’ve been covering, the ever-mounting credit card debt, on top of everything else with school.

Not to mention the money I donated to the Matthis family to help with Emily’s funeral expenses. A small gesture to show that I held no contempt for her, to make sure they knew I wasn’t planning on suing.

All I’ve ever wanted since the accident is for all of us to find peace.

And the mentorship? I’ve admired Claire Mahler’s sculpture work since I was a preteen. Unlike the other big names, she’s always felt grounded, approachable. Her work reflects it, too—raw, unpolished, but somehow more human because of it.

Watching her rise in the art world has been like seeing the path I’ve always wanted to take. She wasn’t born into success. She fought for it, piece by piece. And now, the thought of potentially working with her? It’s almost surreal.

My heart does this weird stuttering thing in my chest, and I grip the letter tighter, like holding it will somehow cement it into reality.One of five. This isn’t a dream—it’s happening.

All those late nights in the studio, the hours spent hunched over the wheel, the constant fear that I wasn’t good enough ... it might all actually pay off.

I have a real shot here.

But what if I blow it? What if I can’t handle the pressure of competing against the other finalists, artists who are just as hungry and talented as I am? Four other people are fighting for this just as hard, and only one of us will win.

The pressure to perform, to be perfect, has already overwhelmed me. And on top of that ... there’s the wholeDavid Donovanof it all. I’ll have to work with the man if I win. The stern-faced father of the man who just waltzed into my life with that careless grin of his.

Pretty boy Liam. I wonder what he’ll think if I win, if I end up working with his dad after all. I wonder if he’ll even care.

From what little I know about him, he’s made it clear he doesn’t get along with his dad. Or, at the very least, they have some strange oil-and-water dynamic. A bit of a prickly yet begrudgingly loyal situation if I’ve clocked it right.

But, complicated or not, he still knows his dad, knows how he operates . . . what he looks for in a fellowship recipient. Maybe he could give me tips on how to impress him. What the illustrious David Donovan really wants in a protégé.

Liam seemed eager enough the other night—he called me pretty, for God’s sake. Maybe he’d be willing to help me out. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?

A part of me cringes at the thought of relying on someone else to get ahead, but it’s not like I’d be asking him for a handout, just a little insight. A teeny tiny home-grown advantage.

The problem is, I’m not sure what I could possibly offer him in exchange. What does a guy like Liam Donovan need from someone like me? His family is wealthy, he’s a soccer star, and he’s ridiculously good-looking in that effortless way that’s almost infuriating. He’s got everything in his life going for him.

And I’m the girl who spends most of her time covered in clay, barely scraping by.

Still, Liam doesn’t strike me as the type who’s too concerned with what’s in it for him. He didn’t exactly stick around at the gallery event to win points with his dad. If anything, he looked just as out of place there as I felt. Maybe that’s something we have in common—hating the pretense, the forced politeness, the endless schmoozing that comes with the art world.

I lean back, staring at the letter in my hands, the weight of the decision settling over me. If I want to win this thing, I need every advantage I can find. And Liam? Conspiring with him might just give me the edge I need.

I waitfor Liam after practice on Friday night, pacing the edge of the field, arms crossed against the evening chill. It’s a weird sort of feeling, being stationed out here. Almost like I’m waiting for my boyfriend after a game or something. But I haven’t had a boyfriend in years, and Liam Donovan is definitely not that.

I tug my sleeves down, watching as the team finishes their final laps. The soccer guys are all sweat-slicked and flushed from exertion. They look good. Mouthwateringly good. They’re laughing, shoving each other around, and even from here, I cansee the easy confidence in the way they move, like they own the field.

A couple of them eye me as they jog past, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing out here. Am I a groupie, a stalker, or just a random girl who wandered too close to their territory? I ignore it, pretending to be absorbed in my phone.

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