Page 48 of High Hopes

I take the bus into the city. The steady rhythm of the engine, the wide seats, and the blurred city lights outside the window give me a sense of calm I can’t find in smaller vehicles.

Since the accident, car rides twist my stomach into knots, my hands clamping down on anything solid as if that might keep me grounded. The sound of tires skidding or the sudden shift of gears send my heart racing, a reflex I’ve never been able to fully shake.

I can manage it when I have to, but with a headache still lingering from earlier in the week, I’d rather not test my limits tonight.

Instead, I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, letting the hum of the bus carry me toward downtown. Toward Liam. Toward a night I can only hope will be as meaningful as the small, cherished weight on my wrist.

When I arrive, the gallery is glowing. Large glass windows reveal elegant guests milling about inside, and the hum of voices and soft music spills out when the door opens.

I spot Liam near the entrance, looking uncharacteristically polished in a dark suit. His usual messy blond hair is tamed just enough to look intentional, and the sharp, tailored lines of his suit make him seem taller, more composed. Still, there’s an easy, effortless confidence about him that grounds the whole look.

He’s wildly handsome, as usual.

When he sees me, his face lights up with a wide, genuine smile, the kind that reaches his eyes. Not a cocky little smirk, just a steady warmth that makes my heart flip.

“You clean up well,” I say, trying to keep my cool.

“You too.” His gaze lingers, and then he brushes the crux of my elbow lightly. “Come on, I want to introduce you to my mom.”

He leads me through the crowd, weaving us past clusters of people holding champagne flutes and gesturing animatedly toward the art. The space feels alive, buzzing with energy, but Liam moves through it with ease, his hand just grazing my arm to keep us from getting separated.

When we reach Mr. and Mrs. Donovan, they’re deep in conversation with another couple. Liam clears his throat softly, catching their attention.

“This is Birdie Collins,” he says, his voice steady but with a hint of pride. “My good friend. She’s an artist, too.”

David’s sharp eyes flick to me, narrowing slightly as they sweep over me. He glances back at Liam with a subtle, questioning raise of his brow. It’s quick, a silent exchange, but I catch it. Then he turns back to me, his expression shifting into a practiced, charming smile.

“Ah, Miss Collins,” he says smoothly, his tone polished and even. “We spoke briefly at the showcase, didn’t we?”

“Yes, and it was an honor,” I reply, keeping my voice steady even as my stomach twists.

“It’s always nice to see such young talent.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he excuses himself, murmuring something about catching up with someone across the room.

Mrs. Donovan gives me a brief, apologetic smile before following after him, leaving Liam and me standing there in the awkward vacuum they’ve left behind.

I glance at Liam, whose jaw is clenched tight, his hand shifting awkwardly in his pocket as he watches them disappear into the crowd. His expression is a mix of embarrassment, frustration, and something deeper—something resigned, like this is a dance he knows too well.

“Sorry about him,” Liam mutters, his voice low, almost bitter. “It’s—” He stops, exhales sharply, and shakes his head. “He just . . . does that.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, even though my chest feels tight. “Really, it’s okay.”

But it isn’t. Not entirely. The way David’s smile barely held and the tension radiating from Liam—it leaves me wondering. Does he not like that I’m here now, standing next to his son? I’m a fellowship finalist, but I’m not here to show off or prove something. I’m just here with Liam.

“It’s not fine, though. He—” He stops again, his lips pressing into a thin line. “He has a way of making people feel like they don’t belong. It’s not you. It’s him.”

I force a small smile. “Well, good thing I’m used to being underestimated.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration giving way to something softer. “You shouldn’t have to be. You deserve more than two seconds of his time.”

I try to brush it off, but there’s a prickle of disappointment creeping up, settling like a splinter beneath my skin. I’ve seen Liam do the same thing—shutting people out when he’s done with a conversation. But it’s different with David. He isn’t brushing me off out of habit; he just doesn’t think I’m worth the effort.

And Liam sees that—feels it, too, on my behalf.

Rather than dwelling on it, we turn our attention to the exhibits, walking slowly through the rooms, studying the piecesin silence. The art around us is stunning, everything from sleek modern sculptures to intricate, gravity-defying installations.

It’s humbling, and it fills me with a kind of quiet awe. A renewed drive to create.

We stop in front of a vivid, abstract painting, its sweeping lines and textures drawing me in, when Liam shifts closer, his voice low. “Hey, thanks for tagging along tonight.”

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