Page 7 of High Hopes

“Anyway,” I say, attempting to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “I’m really passionate about exploring the connection between the imperfections of nature and how we view art. These pieces reflect that—trying to keep them as raw and real as possible.”

David nods, disinterested. “Is this your first exhibition?”

“My first of this size,” I say quickly. “It’s been a goal of mine since I entered the program. The fellowship would allow me to focus entirely on my work next year. Hopefully, I can enter a few showcases and make some larger-scale pieces like the ones you have at the Oriel.”

The Oriel is a prestigious gallery with gleaming white walls and polished floors. A cavernous space with sculptures so massive they feel like they might swallow you whole. It’s the kind of place most artists only dream about.

“That’s good,” he says. “It’s important to have lofty goals. And your work certainly has a ...unique perspective. That’s something we look for.”

I resist the urge to wince or ask for clarification. Unique, I think, might be better than “different,” as his son so helpfully pointed out, but still not quite the validation I was hoping for. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

He gives a tight smile. “Well, good luck with the selection process, Miss Collins.”

He walks away before I can respond. Just like that. No further questions, no actual critique. But at least I didn’t have to endure a full deconstruction of my work.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I slump my shoulders and exhale sharply. I’m sufficiently rattled, thoroughly drained.

I glance at my collection one last time, trying to remind myself that unique doesn’t mean bad. It’s just not the glowing praise I’d hoped for.

But this is fine. Really. Totally fine.

Right?

I shiveras I push open the door to Lucky’s. It’s an off-campus bar frequented by athletes, a bit cramped and loud for my style. But it’s better than the stiff, overpolished atmosphere of donor events. There’s no soft classical music here—just top forties and the warm, worn-in smell of beer and cheap liquor.

“Birdie!” a voice calls out from one of the high tables, and I spot Sena waving me over. She’s sitting with a few other theater majors, her usual crowd, a half-empty glass in front of her.

I smile as I make my way over, already feeling the tension start to melt away.

“Hey,” I say, sliding into the booth beside her. “How was your night?”

“Great! And yours?” Sena raises an eyebrow, offering me a sympathetic look. “Let me guess—full of pretentious compliments and not-so-subtle critiques?”

I laugh and rub the back of my neck. “Pretty much. How’d you know?”

“Because that’s every arts event ever.” She lifts her glass in a mock salute. “The glamorous world of struggling creatives.”

I grab the drink that’s already waiting for me—a whiskey sour. Sena knows me well enough by now, and she must’ve guessed I’d need this tonight. “Here’s to the good life,” I say, clinking my glass against hers before taking a long sip.

Sena snorts. “Yeah, I’ve got lines I still haven’t memorized for next week’s performance. I’m running on fumes here.”

Sena will always say she’s falling behind but then kind of pull a miracle out of her ass at the last minute. It’s that effortless, easy-breezy confidence she has, the kind I could only dream of.

“Which is why it only makes sense that you’re out drinking at a bar.”

“Hey!” She swats me on the arm. “I needed a break from the stress.”

“Same,” I admit, pulling a stray piece of clay from under my nail and flicking it onto a napkin. “I think we both earned it. But, in my defense, at least you didn’t have the son of a major donor show up and pretend to care about your art.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, who are we talking about?”

I briefly relay the details about Liam—how he waltzed over to me, acting all aloof and clumsily charming, and how his famous dad showed up right afterward. I keep it short, brushing past the parts that don’t matter.

I don’t need to blabber on about Liam and his rich daddy. Not here, not now. Not when I’m surrounded by people whoactually care about art and expression, not status or money. It’s all Sena’s people here, theater majors, the kind who live for performance and lights.

So, instead, I ask her friends about their upcoming show, and they dive into animated chatter, bouncing off each other like a well-rehearsed scene. I like the way they feed off each other’s energy, their passion spilling out like a shared secret.

Hanging out with them has been easy lately. They’re self-involved in the best way—totally absorbed in their own worlds, their own stories. And I don’t need to explain myself or prove anything to them.

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