Page 53 of High Hopes

It’s sitting in the studio now, waiting for its turn in the kiln next week. A ceramic vase inspired by Grecian amphorae but with my own twist—a cluster of sculpted wildflowers blooming from the rim, each petal delicately carved to symbolize growth and rebirth.

It’s the most intricate work I’ve ever attempted, blending everything I’ve learned over the past three years into one cohesive form. I poured myself into it, hoping it will reflect the transformation I’ve gone through, both as an artist and as a person.

For now, all I can do is wait and hope that when I open the glaze kiln next week, it’ll be exactly as I envisioned.

Taking a deep breath, I try to refocus. I flip through the rest of the photos Liam took for me. There’s one where I’m smiling up at the camera, my hands covered in clay, a streak of it on my cheek.

The way he captured me—laughing, carefree, in the middle of sculpting—it’s like he saw a version of me I’d forgotten how to be. The me before the accident, before the stress and pressure of the fellowship.

It’s strange seeing myself like that again. So happy and lively.

Usually, when I catch my reflection, all I notice are the tense lines in my face or the shadows under my eyes. But in this photo, I look so much lighter. It makes me hopeful that I can be that person again. Not my old self, but a healthier, happier version of my new self.

I turn back to my laptop, reviewing the next slide, trying to memorize my key points and transitions.

“Good afternoon, esteemed members of the fellowship committee,” I mutter under my breath, pacing the room.

Liam told me not to force it, to let it flow. To speak from the heart instead of trying to impress anyone. Why is that so easyto do when he’s around but nearly impossible when it’s just me, alone with my doubts?

I close my eyes, centering myself, before moving on to the final slides. My phone buzzes from the counter, interrupting my focus. I glance over, expecting a calendar reminder or an email notification, but it’s a text from Liam.

Liam

can you let me up?

Birdie

I thought you left already!

Liam

bus in an hour. wanted to see you first x

I press the button to buzz him in, my heart tripping over itself. The door downstairs clicks open, and I scramble to tidy up the papers and photos scattered across my living room. My stomach is doing full somersaults now, the nervous kind that come with anticipation.

A moment later, there’s a light knock at my door. I swing it open to find Liam standing there, slightly winded, still in his Dayton Soccer hoodie and sweats. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and there’s something in his eyes—an intensity, a kind of vulnerability—that makes my pulse stutter.

“Hey,” he says, his lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, sending a ripple of warmth through me.

“Hey yourself,” I reply, leaning against the doorframe. “Shouldn’t you be halfway to the tournament by now?”

“Yeah, well . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze flicking away for a second before locking back onto mine. “I wanted to see you before I left. Thought maybe . . . you’d wanna see me, too.”

I grin, feeling the heat crawl up my neck. “I’ve never seen you act like this. So sheepish.”

It’s a good look on him—disarming, endearing, completely unraveling me. My crush is no longer just a quiet undercurrent; it’s a full-blown tidal wave, and there’s no pretending otherwise.

He lets out a huff of laughter, but then it’s like a dam breaks inside him. “Look, I know I usually just say whatever’s on my mind, and yeah, it gets me into trouble. But with you . . . it’s different.

“You never look at me like you wish I’d shut up. But at the same time, I—I don’t know, Birdie. I just want to get it right, you know? Saying the right thing, the best thing. Because making you smile feels like—God, it feels like I’ve finally done something right, and I just want to keep—”

I don’t let him finish. The words are perfect, too perfect, and they’re undoing me faster than I can manage. In one quick move, I step forward, bridge the gap between us, and thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him down into a kiss.

It’s bold and reckless and everything I’ve wanted to do since the moment he walked through my door. And judging by the way he melts into me, his hands finding my waist like they belong there, it’s everything he’s wanted, too.

He groans deep in his throat, and suddenly, his arms are around me, lifting me up as if I weigh nothing. I’m pressed flush against him, my feet dangling. It’s all soft lips and tentative brushes of his tongue against mine.

An overwhelming kind of need—his warmth, his touch, the way his fingers thread through my hair and grip tight, like he’s afraid I might slip away.

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