Page 62 of High Hopes

My father’s already ushering people to the table, arranging everyone in their “proper” spots like it’s some kind of power play. The whole room feels suffocating, like a show he’s making me sit through for his own amusement. I glance at my phone again, and my pulse kicks up. Still nothing.

I check the door. No sign of her. I glance around the dining room, scanning the faces more carefully now, my chest tightening with each second. My eyes catch my dad’s again, and something about the way he looks at me—calm, strangely satisfied—makes the feeling in my gut worse.

Something is most definitely off. I don’t know what it is yet, but I know this feeling well. It’s the one I get when I’m not in control of a situation—when things aren’t going the way I expect. The same feeling I had when James first left for the minors. The same feeling I get when the game plan shifts mid-match and I don’t know where to position myself.

And tonight, for reasons I can’t yet put into words, it feels like I’m about to lose.

I push back from the doorway and cross the room. “Dad,” I say, pulling him to the side, away from the rest of the group. “Can we wait a minute? I think Birdie must be running late.”

“I didn’t invite Miss Collins here tonight.”

I freeze, my pulse skipping. “What do you mean?”

“What I’ve just told you,” he says flatly, straightening his tie as if this is a perfectly normal thing to drop on someone. “Miss Collins was not invited to this dinner.”

“Why the hell not?” Heat creeps up my neck.This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

He gives me that look—the one that’s half disappointment, half condescension. “She’s had enough of a leg up, don’t you think?”

I stare at him, the words barely registering. “What are you talking about?”

“She was already invited to the gallery opening,” he says in that clipped, dismissive tone that always grates on me. “And I know you’ve been helping her with the presentation. That’s an unfair advantage.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of me. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can’t even breathe. “You’re telling me you excluded her because of me?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s not personal, Liam. It’s about fairness.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I spit, low and furious. “Birdie deserves to be here. She’s worked harder than anyone.”

“Enough,” he snaps. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

But the damage is already done. My blood is boiling, and all I can see is Birdie’s face—the way she would have walked in here, steady and determined, ready to hold her own. And now? She doesn’t even get the chance. All because of some petty, manufactured nonsense my father’s conjured up to suit his narrative.

I realize then that he’s already written her off. No matter how brilliant her presentation tomorrow, no matter how hard she’s worked, he’s decided she’s not the “right fit” for this fellowship.But he’s not the only judge, and if there’s any way to level the playing field, I’ll find it.

“She’s gonna be devastated,” I mutter, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You have no idea what this is going to do to her.”

“She’ll recover,” he says with that maddening calm. “This isn’t the end of the world.”

It feels like the end of something. The tension coils tighter in my chest, suffocating. “You don’t know her at all,” I say through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what this means to her.”

He doesn’t respond, just gives me that same detached look he always does when he thinks he’s won. And maybe he has. There’s no undoing what he’s already decided. He’s never going to see Birdie the way I do.

“Forget it,” I mutter, spinning on my heel and heading back toward the dining room.

My gut screams at me to walk out, to leave him to host this pretentious circus on his own. But I force myself to stay. If there’s even the slimmest chance I can learn something useful tonight, something that might help Birdie tomorrow, then I’ll suffer through it. For her.

The chatter at the table settles as my dad gestures for everyone to take their seats. I glance at the place cards lining the table, my name neatly written in calligraphy near the end of the table. I sit down, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest as conversation starts up around me.

It doesn’t take long for someone to catch my attention. A guy a few seats away leans in when my dad speaks, hanging on his every word. He’s polished—too polished—with a blazer that probably costs more than my car and a grin that screams smarmy overachiever.

“Nick,” my dad says, his tone dripping with approval. “I was just telling Margaret here about how your approach to marryingdesign with narrative is exactly the kind of forward-thinking perspective we need more of in the contemporary art world.”

Nick. The name clicks. Birdie mentioned him once before, in passing, when she was being self-deprecating about her chances.If you were hoping to see the work of a guaranteed fellowship winner, Nick just left.

I sit back, my jaw tightening as I watch the guy lap up my dad’s praise. He’s smooth, poised, and clearly used to being the center of attention. Everything Birdie isn’t—and it’s pissing me off.

As dinner is served, I wait for my moment. Nick’s talking about his artistic process now, something about how his work “challenges societal expectations” by merging industrial materials with organic forms. I can’t help myself.

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