Page 61 of High Hopes

Liam stands beside me, our shoulders brushing as I reach for the cloth covering my piece. My fingers tremble slightly, betraying the calm I’m trying to project. I pull the sheet back slowly, hesitation curling in my chest.

And holy shit, it’s absolutely perfect. Better than I even imagined.

The glaze caught every detail, the wildflowers blooming from the rim as if they grew there naturally. The soft, muted colors are exactly as I’d hoped, blending into each other seamlessly. It’s breathtaking—like it has a life of its own.

Liam exhales beside me, his voice low with awe. “Birdie . . . it’s incredible.”

I can’t believe it—everything I envisioned, brought to life. A masterpiece, if I’ve ever seen one.

My chest tightens, and I blink quickly, trying to ward off the tears threatening to fall. “I—I didn’t think it’d turn out like this,” I whisper.

Liam chuckles softly, bumping his shoulder against mine. “Why not? You’re the best there is.”

I laugh, a shaky, breathless sound. “That’s a bold statement, Donovan.”

“Bold,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “And truthful.”

I stare at the piece in front of me, flushed with both relief and pride, and think that maybe he’s right. Maybe I can win this.

21

LIAM

Cocktails are already flowingby the time I arrive at the Donovan family estate. The scent of roasted meat and garlic fills the air, and the weight of my mother’s perfectionism hangs in every corner of the house.

I step inside, and the pressure of the evening settles on my shoulders like a heavy coat. My brows furrow as I make my way through the foyer. The polished floors gleam under the chandelier, and the air hums with quiet, practiced conversation. A house that feels more like a showroom than a home.

But then again, I guess it was never reallymyhome to begin with.

I move past the open door to the dining room, where a long wooden table is meticulously set with gleaming silverware and fresh floral arrangements. I have no clue what’s happening here, but everything about the evening seems so perfectly orchestrated, so on brand for my parents.

I glance into the living room, where people are gathered, drinks in hand, chatting casually. A few familiar faces linger among the crowd—alumni from their university days, some of my dad’s associates—but none I want to talk to. I’m not here for small talk, anyway.

Stepping back toward the foyer, I veer into the hallway, out of sight but still within earshot. From this vantage point, I can see the whole scene play out. My father is holding court at the center of the living room—surrounded by a few of his business associates, a couple of college friends, and a handful of faces I don’t recognize. Fellow students, I assume.

Pulling out my phone, I quickly scan for context, confused and irritated. A couple of clicks later, I find an event on our shared Google calendar:Fellowship Finalists Dinner. A last-minute addition that no one bothered to mention to me.

Not even Birdie, who I just spent the night with—finalizing her presentation, calming her nerves. She should be here, shouldn’t she?

I glance over the crowd once more, scanning for her familiar face, but she’s nowhere to be found. Instead, I clash eyes with my dad. He looks calm—too calm. It’s the kind of calm that hides something else entirely, something calculated. It only serves to confuse me more.

Taking a couple of steps toward the bar, I find my mom deep in conversation with an older man. I offer the obligatory smile as I greet her. “Liam,” she says warmly, reaching out to hug me. “So good to see you. Have you had a chance to make the rounds?”

“No, not really. I just got here.”

She frowns, tilting her head in that subtle way that always feels like a reprimand. “Well, I do hope you make an effort. Just . . . please don’t give your father another reason to lecture you tonight. He’s already in one of his moods.”

“I’m not gonna step out of line,” I mutter, disheartened. “Don’t worry.”

She pats my shoulder gently, but her attention is already drifting back to her previous conversation. It’s a familiar dance of forced politeness and quiet judgment.

Sighing, I pull out my phone again—still nothing from Birdie. Maybe she declined the invitation. I guess it’s better that she’s focused on the actual presentation tomorrow. She doesn’t need to waste her energy on this stuff. One extra night of anxious schmoozing isn’t going to help her, anyway.

The chatter dies down a bit as people start wandering toward the dining room. I follow, still scanning the room, and send one last message:

Liam

hey, where are you? dinner’s starting

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