Page 49 of High Hopes

I glance at him, surprised. “Of course.”

It’s like a gift for me to be here, soaking in the art and finding the tiniest spark of inspiration again. And he’s thankingme?

“No, I mean it,” he says, his gaze steady on the painting, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “This is the first event like this I’ve gone to where I don’t feel like I have to grit my teeth and fake my way through it. Even with my dad being his usual self, I actually feel like I can enjoy it. Like I’m just . . . here, at a gallery opening, with you.”

His words are simple, but there’s something about them that makes my chest ache.

“Good,” I say softly. “Because I’m very glad I came.”

He smiles, small and genuine, and we move on.

We’re standing in front of a towering piece covered in platinum luster, the light catching every fold and ripple in its surface, when a deep voice calls out from behind us. I turn to find David again, this time with a woman beside him, elegant and striking. She has cropped auburn hair and sharp green eyes that I would recognize anywhere.

“Claire Mahler,” David says. “This is my son and his friend Bridget Collins. She’s in the running for the Dayton fellowship.”

My heart skips a beat.TheClaire Mahler. Fellow member of the selection committee. World-renowned ceramicist. A living legend.

“Hello,” I say, nearly breathless. “It’s such an incredible honor to meet you.”

Claire smiles warmly, extending her hand. “Hi, Birdie. You’re the one with the wildflower motif in your ceramics, right?”

“Yes, that’s me. But I—I’m not here to try and impress anyone,” I stammer. “I just wanted to see the new collection for myself.”

“Don’t worry,” she says kindly. “I know the feeling. I was the same way at your age. Very wide-eyed and eager.”

“Oh, thank you,” I say, the words tumbling out. “I really have been a fan of yours for years, and I’m so inspired by your rise in the field. I’d never want to encroach where I’m unwelcome.”

“You are very much welcome here.” She gives me an easy, gracious smile. “Will you tell me a little about your own work? This isn’t a test, so no pressure.”

My nerves slowly settle. It takes me a few seconds to gather my thoughts, and then I launch into an explanation that’s part ramble, part stammer, with a bit of awkward gesturing thrown in.

She listens attentively, her expression open and encouraging, and from there, we fall into an unexpectedly easy conversation. She’s thoughtful, genuinely curious about my projects, even offering a few helpful suggestions. It’s surreal—this moment of being noticed by someone whose work has always been a beacon for me.

I’m so absorbed that I barely register the faint pulsing at my temples. But as she tells me about her latest series, the feeling intensifies. The gallery lights seem sharper. The noise around us grows louder.

My vision blurs at the edges. A creeping sense of nausea builds in my gut, and I’m suddenly, desperately dizzy.

I try to keep my composure, but my body has other plans. A sharp, stabbing pain pierces through my head, and my knees buckle.

“Are you alright?” Claire asks, her voice gentle but alarmed.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” I manage, forcing a tight smile despite the pounding in my skull. “I think I just need a moment.”

Without waiting for a response, I turn away, barely registering the shared look of concern between Liam and his father. My sole focus is on escaping the suffocating crush of noise and light in the gallery. Each step sends another jolt of nausea through me, the pain in my head building like a relentless drumbeat.

I push open the heavy gallery door and step into the cool night air. The sharp contrast of quiet and chill feels like a relief, but it’s fleeting. Leaning against the wall, I breathe deeply, trying to steady myself.

It’s no use.

The migraine has me firmly in its grip now, dragging me under. My stomach twists violently, and I clutch at the wall for support. There’s no stopping it—the rising wave, the inevitable conclusion.

The vomit comes suddenly, spilling out onto my shoes and splattering against the cold concrete. The humiliation hits almost as hard as the pain, and for a moment, I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the world to just slow down.

Behind me, I hear the faint creak of the door and a familiar voice cutting through the haze. “Birdie?”

17

LIAM

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