Page 40 of High Hopes

Maybe tomorrow, a small voice whispers. But tomorrow feels like a delay, an excuse to avoid finishing what I’ve started. With a deep breath, I grab the first piece, deciding to press on despite the heaviness tugging at my chest. One brushstroke at a time.

The others finish up and head out, one by one. Nick is the last to leave, giving me a brief nod as he pulls his bag over his shoulder and disappears through the studio doors.

I dip into a deep green glaze first and try to push down the lingering knot of inadequacy that’s grown roots over the last hour. Carefully, I smooth the glaze over the fractured curves of one piece. Steady, deliberate strokes with a fine-tipped brush.

“Honey, I’m home.”

I glance up, startled, and there’s Liam, a camera slung casually around his neck. He’s wearing a fitted hoodie and joggers, his hair a little damp from a post-practice shower. Disarmingly handsome, as usual.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” I say, my brush pausing mid-stroke. “Or did you kick another ball through the window?”

“Nah, Coach let us out early,” he replies. “Figured I’d swing by, grab some more photos like I promised. You know, being the diligent assistant I am.”

“Well, if you were hoping to see the work of a guaranteed fellowship winner, Nick Riordan just left.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Well, whoever that is, he sounds like a complete tool.”

I snort as he starts snapping photos, adjusting angles, crouching down to capture each piece in the soft, diffused light. He doesn’t press for details about Nick or try to dig into my insecurities. He just is—present, steady, letting his actions do the talking.

After a few clicks, he turns his attention to my newly bisqued pieces, studying them through the lens. “These yours?” he asks, nodding toward the trio I’d just salvaged from the kiln.

“Yeah. They’re replacements for the ones that shattered last week. Bisque-fired, so they’re ready for glazing.”

He’s silent as he inspects each piece, his brow furrowing slightly, like he’s actually taking them in. “They’re good, Birdie. They look like they’re on the edge of something. It’s cool.”

His words settle into me, filling in some of the cracks that doubt’s been carving out all week. He talks with this easy assurance, like he’s so sure of what he’s seeing.

Here I’ve been, stuck comparing my work to Nick’s polished perfection, tearing myself down before anyone else can. Wondering if what I’m doing even measures up. But Liam? He’s looking past all of that, right to the heart of it. Like he knows exactly what I’m trying to bring to life.

Still, there’s this nagging voice in the back of my mind, whispering that my theme’s overdone. Predictable. A relentless doubt that digs in every time I get close to thinking I might have something worthwhile. What if, no matter how many ways I try to explain it, the judges dismiss it as shallow? Lacking depth?

Or worse—what if they don’t see anything at all?

“Thank you,” I murmur, avoiding his gaze. “Cool is all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

He laughs, lowering the camera. “Are you hiding from me now?”

I flush, keeping my eyes on the piece I’m glazing. “Maybe. Maybe your annoyingly spot-on compliments make it hard to stay level-headed.”

He tilts his head, considering me for a second. “Well, what if I told you it’s more than just cool? It’s unpredictable—like it’s about to crack but somehow holding it together. Like you’re daring people to look twice, and theycan’t not.”

I blink, stunned. “That wasn’t in my proposal, was it?”

“Nah, I came up with it myself.”

“Wow, original and insightful. What a catch.”

He feigns offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh, come on, Birdie. Don’t I get a little credit for my artist’s eye by now?”

I smirk, leaning against the table, letting the brush dangle loosely in my hand. “Daddy Donovan must’ve taught you a thing or two over the years.”

He freezes, staring at me with mock horror. “Please don’t ever say that again. Ever.”

“You’re saying he didn’t lecture you on ‘the finer points of art critique’ growing up? Watch. Next, you’ll be calling my pieces ‘mystical and transcendent’ or some other pretentious nonsense.”

“If that’s what gets you the fellowship, I’ll play along. ‘Birdie Collins: her hands are magic.’ I’ll mention it at our next family dinner.”

I laugh, but it’s a little tight, a little uneasy. I know I asked Liam for help, but now that we’re here, I can’t shake the feeling that just knowing him—just being connected to him—gives me an edge the other finalists don’t have.

---