Page 41 of High Hopes

Not that I should care about that. This is my work, my effort, my vision. But the thought nags at me anyway. I don’t want Liam to feel like he’s just a stepping stone, some unspoken obligation wrapped up in this competition.

“I don’t need you to play messenger,” I say quickly. “And you don’t have to bring me up at dinner or, you know, anywhere. That’s not why I—”

“Relax,” he cuts in, a small grin softening his expression. “I’m kidding, Birdie. You’re not some charity project, okay? I’m here because I want to be.”

“Oh.” I glance down, fiddling with the corner of my sleeve, my fingers tracing a loose thread. “In that case, carry on.”

“Gladly,” he says, his grin widening, lopsided and entirely too charming. “Not that you need it, anyway. Your work can speak for itself.”

I glance back up, my lips quirking. “You think everything’s that simple?”

He shrugs, leaning against the table, casually spinning his camera by its strap. “Not everything. But sometimes, yeah. People overthink. They twist themselves into knots trying to be perfect when really, all they have to do is show up and be real.”

I pause, letting his words settle. “And what about you? Do you always just show up and hope for the best?”

“Depends,” he replies, his tone teasing but not quite light. “Not always. Some things matter enough to get it right, to get it perfect.”

There’s something in the way he says it, the way his gaze holds mine, that makes my chest tighten. I blink, shaking off the weight of it, and pick up my brush. “Well, aren’t you just full of wisdom tonight.”

He grins, undeterred. “Must be rubbing off on you. Actually, now that I mention it, I would very much like to—”

I smack him lightly on the arm. “You have a point,” I cut in before he can finish whatever nonsense he’s about to say. “It’s just . . . hard to think that way sometimes.”

“Then let me think that way for you,” he says. “I’ll be your resident hype man, and we’ll get you that fellowship, easy.”

I give him a skeptical look. “You’re talking about months of work, constant rejection, fighting for every bit of validation—”

“Yeah, and you’re still doing it.” He shrugs, leaning against the table. “Because it’s worth it to you. And because you’re damn good at it.”

“Thanks, Coach. Glad to know you’re in my corner.”

“Always,” he says, all soft and genuine, the teasing slipping away. It’s like a promise, steady and certain. Then, with a glint in his eye, he adds, “So, how much would it annoy you if I told you I could whip one of these bad boys up in about thirty minutes?”

I gape at him. “I knew it. You’ve been hiding the fact you’re a prodigy.”

“Nah, I’ve never even finished a piece,” he says, chuckling.

I squint. “It’s hard to believe your dad never got you on the wheel.”

“Oh, he did. But I haven’t touched clay since I was a kid. I was more into running around and kicking shit. Though, really, how hard can it be to spin the wheel?”

“Oh, I see. You think you can just waltz in here and show me up? Be my guest.”

“Give me a crash course?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Gladly.” I lead him over to the wheel, gesturing like a tour guide. “This is the wheel. This is clay.” I grab a ball of wedged clay and smack it onto the center of the wheel with a satisfyingthud. “Put them together and prepare to be amazed—if you think you’re up for it.”

“Am I meant to summon Patrick Swayze now, or will you be caressing me from behind?”

“Keep dreaming.”

I know he’s messing with me. He’s seen the effort this takes—he’s said more than once how much he respects the skill—but right now? He’s having fun pushing his luck, and I’m curious to see just how far he’ll take it.

He sits down, positioning his hands with all the finesse of someone holding a live fish. The wheel starts and takes off spinning, the clay wobbling as his hands slip, sending flecks across his shirt.

“Whoa, whoa!”

I step behind him, leaning in over his shoulder to guide his hands. “First off, don’t fight it. You need to press a little more gently on the sides, keep it centered—yeah, like that.”

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