Page 3 of High Hopes

She waggles her brows, grinning. “Fine, you say.”

I pop open a can of Diet Coke. “Please, you know I’m not interested in talking to some random guy after the year I’ve just had.”

“Uh-huh.” She leans against the counter, taking a long sip of her smoothie and eyeing me carefully. “So, is this fine guy of yours gonna be back to fix the window?”

“He said as much.” I shrug, brushing past her toward my room.

“Chin up, sunshine!” she calls after me. “Oh, and by the way, don’t forget about our rent this month. It’s due next week.”

I groan, mentally calculating the amount I’ll need to scrape together from my part-time job at the bookstore and whatever freelance art commissions I can get. Rent isn’t outrageous here, but between school supplies and art materials, things are tight.

“I know, I know,” I reply over my shoulder. “I’ve got it covered.”

Sena doesn’t push. She knows I hate talking about money and how much it stresses me out. Instead, she trails after me and sticks her head into my room, smoothie still in hand. “So, how are things going with the art? That donor thing is coming up, right?”

I nod, glancing at the half-finished sketches on my desk. I was hoping to lie down, sip my Diet Coke, and pretend I didn’thave a thousand deadlines breathing down my neck. But, of course, Sena wants to chat now.

“Yeah, it’s . . . coming along. Just need to make sure my stuff doesn’t completely suck.”

Sena shakes her head, smiling. “You’ll be fine. Your stuff is incredible. And besides, you’ve got time to figure it out.”

I snort, kicking off my tennis shoes. “If by ‘time’ you mean two weeks, then sure.”

Sena heads back to the kitchen, leaving me on the edge of my bed.

There’s a small collection of pieces on my desk—messy sketches, a few experimental pots, the kind of work that never sees the light of day. My stomach tightens a little as I stare at them.

Art is the one thing that’s always made sense to me, but lately, it feels like I’m chasing something that’s just out of reach. Like no matter how hard I try, I’m never quite good enough. Never quite worthy enough.

I know it’s mostly in my head—imposter syndrome, Sena would say—but knowing that doesn’t make it any less real. I just need to push through. I’ve made it this far, right? One more project, one more show, one more piece to prove I belong. Maybe then . . . I’ll finally feel like I do.

2

LIAM

“Dude, are you seriously wearing that?”Chase shouts from the living room, followed by the sound of a can popping open. “You look like you’re about to present a PowerPoint on accounting strategies.”

I adjust the tie in the mirror, frowning. Yeah, it’s a little tight around the neck, but this is a suit. It’s supposed to be uncomfortable. I tug at the collar, willing it to loosen up, but it’s no use.

“I’m going to a fancy event, not a bar,” I shoot back, pulling on the jacket.

Chase is sprawled out on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, phone in one hand and an energy drink in the other. Why he needs 300 milligrams of caffeine just to sit there scrolling through social media is beyond me.

My roommate is the human embodiment of too much. Too much energy, too much confidence, too much everything. Comes prepackaged with his role as a striker—big ego, bigger personality. He’s always got some girl on his arm, and if not, he’s working on it.

It’s weird, rooming with him after last year. That’s when it was just me, James, and Hayes—my older brother and his bestfriend. But they’ve both graduated now, which left me with the option to either live with Chase or risk getting stuck with a random person.

Chase has his downsides, but at least I knew what I was getting into. Loud nights, a revolving door of visitors, and endless trash talk during FIFA matches. It’s not exactly peaceful, but it’s better than unpredictable.

Chase takes another swig of his drink of death. “Okay, now we’ve gone from business meeting to funeral. Loosen up, man.”

I look at myself in the mirror again. Dark blond hair’s a mess, but that’s normal. Suit looks fine, I guess. But Chase is right about one thing—I look like I’d rather be anywhere else. Probably because I would.

The only reason I’m going to this donor thing is because I promised my parents I’d be there. My dad’s a high-profile, gallery-famous artist. He has a permanent installation at the Oriel and is one of Dayton’s most well-known alums. My mom’s not in the arts, but she’s a social butterfly at these events. It’s her bread and butter.

The two of them donate to the same fellowship every year, and they’re both invested in keeping up appearances. So, they expect their son to show up looking respectable, too. Like a man who has his life together and isn’t still trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing.

“Alright, I’ll see you later,” I mutter. “Wish me luck.”

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