Page 90 of High Hopes

“This way,” the receptionist says, motioning us through a door that leads to a storage area.

The back room is dimly lit and packed with everything from towering canvases to delicate glass sculptures, all labeled and stacked neatly. Birdie scans the space, her expression softening when she spots her work.

“There they are,” she murmurs, stepping closer to a set of ceramic pieces arranged on a low shelf. Her fingers hover over one of the larger vases, brushing lightly against the glaze.

“They’re beautiful,” I say, and it’s not just a line. They are. The colors, the shapes, the way they catch the light—it’s all Birdie, through and through.

Her cheeks flush. “Thanks.”

I pick up one of the smaller bowls, running my fingers over the smooth, cool surface. It’s a deep, glossy blue, like staring into the heart of an ocean. The craftsmanship is undeniable—perfectly balanced, flawless in execution, and yet brimming with something deeply personal.

And yet, even as I admire it, there’s this nagging thought I can’t shake. I’ll never know if I’m the reason she didn’t get chosen. If my so-called “help” backfired. If my dad docked her points because he thought I gave her an unfair advantage.

Or worse—maybe she really wasn’t the best candidate, though I can’t bring myself to believe that. The idea that Birdie—who breathes life into clay in ways that feel like magic—wasn’t enough? That’s harder to swallow than any of the other possibilities.

“I still can’t believe they didn’t pick you,” I say, my voice low.

She glances at me, her brow pinching slightly. “Liam, don’t bother—”

“I’m not harping,” I say quickly, carefully setting the bowl back on the cart. “I’m just saying . . . my dad’s a loser. He should’ve chosen you.”

“He wasn’t the only deciding factor,” she says, grabbing a blanket from her bag and draping it over one of the larger pieces. “But Nick told me something interesting,” she adds lightly. “Apparently, your dad and his were fraternity brothers here at Dayton.”

I blink, then laugh—a dry, humorless sound. “Of course they were. Should’ve guessed.”

She cuts me a sharp look. “I’m not saying that’s why Nick won. Nepotism maybe gained him some points, but he’s a brilliant artist, too.”

I shrug, not in the mood to dissect my dad’s choices any longer. We’ll never know what really happened because that man is an enigma of business strategy and ego, and trying to understand his decisions is like trying to catch smoke.

“Maybe,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean you weren’t just as deserving. If not more.”

Her smile is small and doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, we focus on gathering her pieces, wrapping each one carefully in blankets and loading them onto a cart.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” I ask, watching her secure the last piece. “I can drive everything over to your place, then circle back and walk home with you.”

“No, it’s freezing.” She straightens, brushing her hands on her sweater, and nods. “And I trust you. Just . . . talk to me the whole way, okay? Distract me.”

“Done,” I say without hesitation. “You’re not gonna have a second to think about the car.”

She smiles, something soft and grateful. “Good.”

I close the trunk with a satisfying click and step over to open the passenger door for her. Her smile stays firmly in place, and I silently promise to do whatever it takes to keep it there for as long as she’ll let me.

Before I can shut her in, her fingers curl around the front of my shirt, tugging me in. She presses a soft kiss to my lips, her hand sneaking up to ruffle my hair before pulling back, leaving me dazed.

I blink, shaking off the haze, and catch sight of her fingers dropping back into her lap. That’s when I realize what’s missing. My hat. Damn it.

“Hold on,” I say, straightening. “I left my hat inside.”

Birdie leans back in her seat, giving me a teasing look. “Don’t take too long,” she murmurs, her voice carrying just the slightest edge of humor. “I don’t trust these drivers to not ding your bumper while we’re out here.”

I grin, closing the door gently. “Good to know you’re looking out for my precious car.”

She smirks but doesn’t say anything else as I jog back toward the gallery, retracing our steps to the storage room. My hat’s sitting right on the counter where I left it—typical—and as I grab it, the door behind me creaks open.

“Liam?”

I turn to see Claire Mahler stepping out from the back, her cropped auburn hair catching the light. She’s taller than I remember—or maybe it’s just the way she carries herself, with a self-assured ease that feels magnetic.

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