Page 65 of High Hopes

“I’m going to tell you something now,” he says carefully. “Something about my dad and the fellowship finalists. And I don’t want you to freak out.”

Naturally, I freak out.

This is it. I didn’t get it. Oh God, I didn’t get it.

He already knows. Of course he already knows—it’s his dad’s committee. And he probably told Liam to break it to me gently, like that would somehow soften the blow. But it doesn’t. It just makes it worse because now the guy I’m crushing on has a front-row seat to my failure.

How am I supposed to look him in the eye after this? How am I supposed to act normal, knowing the thing I’ve poured every ounce of myself into isn’t enough?

He’s watching me carefully, waiting for some kind of response, but I can’t get my breathing under control. My chest tightens, and I press my palms into my knees, trying to steady myself.

“Birdie,” he says softly. “It’s not—it’s not that.”

That? I force myself to glance up at him. His expression is tight, his jaw clenched like he’s bracing for impact. Whatever it is, it’s bad.

“Then what is it?” I whisper, my throat tight. “What did your dad do?”

“Last night, the dinner with my parents . . . it was a fellowship dinner.”

I tilt my head, confused. “A fellowship dinner?”

“For the finalists,” he says slowly. “Except you weren’t invited.”

It takes a second for his words to sink in, and when they do, it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room.

“What?”

“My dad didn’t invite you. He said it was to keep things fair because I’ve been helping you. That you already had enough of an advantage. He wanted to ‘level the playing field.’”

“Enough of an advantage,” I repeat, the words foreign and jagged in my mouth. “He didn’t think I deserved to be there.”

“That’s not true,” Liam says quickly, urgently. “He’s just—he’s like that. He thinks he knows what’s best, and he’s obsessed with appearances. It doesn’t mean anything about you, Birdie.”

But it does. It absolutely does.

I stare at the floor, my thoughts spinning. All I can see is the gallery earlier today—my pieces under the lights, the judges’ questions, Claire Mahler’s smile. For once, I let myself believe I belonged in a room like that. That maybe I’d finally done something right.

And now? Now, it just feels like a cruel joke.

“I should’ve told you last night,” Liam says, his voice breaking through the fog in my head. “I know I should’ve. I just didn’t want to mess you up before today. I didn’t want you to feel psyched out or like you had to prove anything to him. You’ve already done enough.”

He’s right about one thing: if he’d told me last night, I probably wouldn’t have made it through today. I would’ve fallen apart before I even set foot in that gallery.

“I get it,” I say quietly. “You were right not to tell me. I just . . .” My voice cracks, and I force a swallow. “It sucks. It really, really sucks. I worked so hard, Liam. I thought maybe for once, it would be enough.”

“It is enough.Youare enough,” he says fiercely, leaning forward. “What he did has nothing to do with you or your work. It’s about him. You’re incredible, Birdie. You blew them away today, and you can still win this thing. He’s not the only one making the decisions.”

The conviction in his voice almost makes me believe him. Almost.

But if I wasn’t invited to a dinner the night before the application cycle ends, that means I’m probably already out of the running. David Donovan might not make the sole decision, but he’s the largest donor. His voice carries the most weight.

And even if by some slim chance I did win . . . how could I work alongside him, knowing what he really thinks of me? That I took advantage of his son? It would be awful. Wrong.

I nod stiffly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He studies me for a long moment, then stands, holding out his hand. “Come on.”

“What?” I blink up at him, quiet and uncertain.

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