Page 18 of High Hopes

Liam thinks I should lean into that more, play it up in my proposal. He says if there’s one thing donors like, it’s a clear narrative—a reason to care about the artist as much as the art.

And his ideas just make sense. Using smaller, unfinished pieces to demonstrate the shift from rough to refined. Highlighting key themes the selection committee will be looking for—a body of work that isn’t just aesthetically pleasing but that tells a story, that showcases the full breadth of my technique.

Liam’s unfiltered, blunt way of speaking means no sugarcoating, no dancing around what needs to be said. And that’s exactly the kind of help I was hoping for. The kick in the ass I needed to finish this strong.

I’m glad I asked for his help. He’s been nothing but patient and surprisingly thoughtful. Though, somewhere around hour two, the caffeine wore off, and while I was in full-on work mode, he was fading fast. He fought it at first, but eventually, even his endless energy couldn’t keep up.

Silence followed. I turned to find him completely out—head back, mouth slightly open, fast asleep. So, I grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over him. No use waking him up for something that can wait until the light of day.

Now, I’m tiptoeing down the hallway, heading for my bedroom. The apartment is quiet and still, the kind of silence that feels almost sacred at this hour. Just as I’m about to slip past Sena’s room, her door creaks open.

With her messy bed head and oversized pajamas, she sticks her head out, eyes bleary but curious. I stop in my tracks. Without a word, she grabs my wrist and yanks me inside.

“You have a man out there?” she whispers, voice full of scandal.

I roll my eyes, tugging my wrist free. “Kind of?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “What’s that mean?”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “There’s a man, yes, but he’s just helping me with my proposal. He’s . . . the son of that donor I told you about.”

“And he’s helping you with your proposal,” she awkwardly parrots, blinking twice. “So, you’re ... using him, then?”

My nose scrunches. “No, you drama queen. I asked him for help, and he was open to it.”

“And now he’s here, in the middle of the night.” She gives me this knowing look and waggles her eyebrows like she’s living in some ridiculous soap opera. “You sure you’re not trading him somefavorsin return?”

I shove her shoulder. “God, no. It’s not like that. Stop being weird.”

She snickers. “Whatever you say.”

I quietly slip out of her room and into my own, closing the door behind me with a sigh. I could write Sena’s accusations off as ridiculous, but even I can’t deny she has a point.

If I were to hook up with anyone these days, it would probably be him. He’s handsome, goofy in a way that puts me at ease, and just the right amount of charming without being a total schmooze.

The thought isn’t exactly unwelcome—it’s just not why he’s here.

I flop onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, my mind too wired to sleep, the house too quiet without Liam rattling on beside me. And Sena’s comments keep on stirring inside my head.

What am I really doing here? I asked Liam for help, and he agreed. I didn’t blackmail him; I didn’t coerce him by offering empty promises or favors in exchange. But does that automatically mean I’m not taking advantage?

We’ve only spent a little bit of time together, but I already know that I like being around him. He’s helpful, sure, but healso has this way of making everything feel lighter, easier—like I don’t have to try so hard to keep it all together.

Maybe that’s why I feel a little guilty, why I let Sena’s teasing dig under my skin. She’s good at pressing, cutting to the core in a way that feels almost too accurate, like she sees through all my excuses and bullshit straight to my core.

That’s how I ended up living with her in the first place. After the accident, everything shifted. My entire life flipped upside down, and nothing felt the same anymore. I pulled away from everyone I’d known for years, retreating into myself.

My friends didn’t understand why I was shutting them out, why I couldn’t just “move on” the way they all insisted I should. “It wasn’t your fault,” they’d say, like that somehow erased the guilt gnawing at my insides. Like it made a difference to Emily’s parents, her family, her friends.

They didn’t get it. I’d catch their exasperated looks whenever I refused their invites to parties or when I stopped responding to group texts. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about them anymore, but after the accident, I felt like I was existing in a different world.

A world where I was constantly haunted by what happened, and they were free to live without that weight. Eventually, I stopped trying to explain. I stopped talking to them altogether.

And I realized I didn’t miss them all that much.

So, when Sena came into the bookstore last spring to order a play anthology for her directing class, I was intrigued. She was grounded and self-assured. And I wanted to know more. I asked her what interested her in directing, and she just said, “I like being in charge. Obviously. And I’m damn good at it, too.”

It was funny. Blunt. The kind of open levity I was missing in my old relationships.

---