Page 63 of High Hopes

“Form and function?” I cut in, raising an eyebrow. “So, like . . . IKEA?”

Nick glances at me. “It’s about more than that. It’s about redefining how we engage with functionality. When we consider traditional boundaries, we—”

“Or is it more like art you can sit on but not actually use?” I add, tilting my head innocently.

A few guests chuckle outright this time, and Nick’s composure slips for a fraction of a second. My dad clears his throat, his eyes narrowing at me from across the table. “Liam.”

“What?” I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “I’m just trying to understand thegeniusof it all.”

Nick tries to redirect the conversation, but the tone’s already shifted. A few of the other guests are smiling, and even my mom looks like she’s fighting not to smirk. My dad, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to explode.

“Liam,” my mom says suddenly, her voice tight. “Would you mind helping me with something in the kitchen?”

I know what this is, but I stand anyway, following her into the other room. As soon as we’re out of earshot, she spins on me. “Are you being a bug on purpose, or are you just that thoughtless?”

A bug. She used to call me that when I was a kid. When I said, or did, or looked at something the wrong way. It made sense to me then. I’m a bug—small, annoying, easy to swat away. But now, it stings in a different way.

I lean against the counter. “What do you mean? I’m just having a conversation.”

“You’re embarrassing your father in front of his colleagues!”

I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “This whole dinner is a charade. It’s not about the fellowship—it’s about him showing off. And we both know he’s just going to pick the most hoity-toity loser with a piss-poor artistic vision anyway.”

“Liam!” she snaps.

I push off the counter, my jaw tight. “You know what? I’m done. If I have to hold my tongue at my own dinner table, then I might as well not be here at all.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t walk out of here. You always do this, Liam. Leave when you don’t like what’s happening. It’s not what adults do.”

But I’m already heading back toward the dining room. I stop just long enough to step into the doorway, catching my dad’s eye. Then I salute him, a sharp, sarcastic motion that makes a few heads turn.

“David Donovan, everyone. Dayton’s own patron saint of posturing. Long may he reign.”

And with that, I’m gone.

22

BIRDIE

I leavethe Ellsworth feeling strangely light and cautiously hopeful. Sure, I fumbled a little during my presentation—who doesn’t when they’re nervous?—but overall, I know I did well.

My pieces looked exactly the way I’d envisioned, shining under the gallery lights, every fine detail pulling its weight. From where I stood, the judges seemed engaged, leaning forward as if they wanted to hear more.

Liam’s dad asked thoughtful questions about my choice of materials and process—curious, reverent, and not the least bit pretentious. And Claire Mahler? She didn’t seem at all fazed that I’d bolted the last time we met. She even smiled when she called my work “brave,” which, coming from her, might as well be a standing ovation.

The thought of them deliberating tonight, weighing my presentation against the others, makes my chest flutter with something I haven’t felt in a while: faith. I gave it everything I had, poured my heart into this, and for once, it feels like it just might be enough.

As I walk across campus, my phone buzzes with messages from Dad and Sena congratulating me. I promised them I’d calllater, but right now, there’s only one person I want to talk to. Liam.

He promised to cook dinner tonight—something just for the two of us at his place. A quiet celebration of his conference championship win and my finishing the application process.

Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and after that, Liam will be taking early finals before heading off to the NCAA tournament. We won’t have much time together for a while, so tonight feels even more important.

Still, I can’t shake the weird feeling from our texts last night. He was hounding me about something.

It seemed odd. Not just odd—pointed. Like he wanted to ask me something but thought better of it. When I pressed for context, he backpedaled:just wanted to wish you luck tomorrow. you’re gonna kill it.

Flattery will get you everywhere, I’d replied.

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