Page 67 of High Hopes

“Is this about the turtle or something else?” he asks, warm, teasing, gentle.

“It’s everything,” I say, laughing weakly through the tears. “It’s nothing. It’s you and me and this damned turtle. And I just . . . I wish I could keep staring at this fountain. That I didn’t have to wake up tomorrow and face the music.”

He shifts closer, his hand brushing against mine. “We can face it together.”

I glance up at him, his face lit faintly by the nearby lamppost. His expression is steady, unwavering.

“Okay,” I whisper.

For a long moment, we sit in silence, the faint gurgle of the fountain and the soft splashes from the turtle filling the quiet. Liam’s hand slips into mine, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles.

When he finally speaks again, it’s barely above a murmur. “You know, I think this turtle’s got it all figured out. He doesn’t care about where he’s supposed to be or what anyone thinks. He’s just here, doing his thing.”

I let out a soft laugh, leaning my head against his shoulder. “Very profound.”

“Extremely,” he agrees, chuckling.

And we stay like that, watching the turtle glide through the water, until the cold starts to creep in too deeply. Liam stands, tugging me gently to my feet, and we head back the way we came, hand in hand, the little fountain and its solitary resident fading behind us.

Monday comes,and it’s all cold and gray, the kind of morning where even the sun can’t be bothered to show up. My stomach’s in knots as I sip my too-strong coffee, scrolling through my inbox and waiting for the email I already know is coming.

It lands at 10:07 a.m. The subject line might as well be in neon:Dayton Fellowship Results. I hover over the trackpad for a moment before I click it open, dread twisting low in my stomach. This is it. The moment I’ve been bracing for.

The words blur together at first, but I force myself to focus.

Dear Miss Bridget Collins,

Thank you for your application to the Dayton Fellowship in the Arts. The selection committee was impressed by the exceptional quality of your work and the passion evident in your presentation. Choosing a recipient from such a talented pool of finalists was not an easy task.

After much deliberation, we have selected Nicholas Riordan as this year’s fellowship recipient.

We encourage you to continue pursuing your artistic vision and to consider reapplying for future opportunities. Your talent and dedication are evident, and we have no doubt you will go on to achieve great success.

Sincerely,

Margaret Ellis

Director, Dayton Fellowship in the Arts

Dayton University

Nick Riordan won, and I lost.

I read the letter over again until it loses all meaning. Just letters on a blurry screen. My throat tightens, and a hot ache settles deep in my chest. It’s not a surprise—not really. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I worked so hard. I poured everything I had into this. And now, what do I have to show for it?

On autopilot, I pull up my bank account next. My stomach drops when I see the numbers. Between medical bills, the money I donated to Emily’s family, and the rising cost of living, there’s almost nothing left.

Next term is covered, but after that? I’m tapped out. My dad makes just enough that financial aid doesn’t cover my full tuition, and I’ve been supplementing the rest on my own. But I can’t stretch it any further.

Without the fellowship, I can’t afford to stay at Dayton. It’s over.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing the tears away. I knew this was coming. After not being invited to that dinner, the writing was on the wall. Still, hope’s a stubborn thing. It clung to me like a second skin, refusing to let go, whispering that maybe I could still pull it off.

But now, it’s official. I’m out.

Sena’s already left for the break, and I’m alone in the apartment, surrounded by the echoes of my failure. I tuck my knees up into my chest on the couch, letting the weight of it all crash into me.

---