Page 92 of High Hopes

Still, I did it. I calledClaire freaking Mahler’spersonal number and left a voicemail. And now? Now I’m pacing around the apartment with entirely too much nervous energy and a stomach that feels like it’s been taken hostage by a swarm of anxious bees.

To distract myself, I’ve taken all my fellowship pieces out of their blankets and set them up around the living room. It’s ridiculous—like I’m hosting a miniature art exhibit for an audience of two, and one of them just dragged herself out of bed wearing mismatched socks.

“Wow,” Sena says, her voice laced with awe as she studies the collection. She’s holding a coffee mug shaped like a cat, and her bun of curls is threatening to collapse under the weight of all her hair. “They’re even better out here. Like, in the wild.”

“You make it sound like they’re endangered.”

“Well, they kind of are,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. “Rare, valuable, beautiful. You’re lucky I don’t try to steal one for my room.”

I laugh, but her words hit somewhere deep.Rare. Valuable. Beautiful. I haven’t let myself think of my work like that since the rejection, even with Liam’s insistence. But maybe I should. Maybe I’m allowed to.

“Thanks,” I say softly, stepping back to take it all in.

The vases, the bowls, the little sculptural pieces. Each one feels like a piece of me—my anxieties and hopes, my late-night breakthroughs, the stubborn globs of clay that refused to cooperate until they suddenly did.

“You know,” Sena says, settling onto the couch, “I was half expecting you to bury these in your closet forever. But this?” She gestures to the display. “This is cool. It’s like you’re reclaiming them.”

I glance at her, surprised by how much her words mean. Sena has this way of saying the right thing without making a big deal about it. It’s one of the reasons I like her so much.

“Yeah,” I admit, sitting down next to her. “I guess I am.”

She leans back, her gaze still on the pieces. “So, any updates from Claire and her mysterious proposition?”

“Not yet,” I say, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “I left her a voicemail this morning, so now I’m just . . . waiting.”

“Well, obviously, she’s going to offer you something great,” she says confidently. “I mean, you’re amazing. And she knows it. Otherwise, why would she give you her number?”

I nod, fiddling with a loose thread on my sweater. “So, how’s your directing class going?” I ask, shifting gears. “Has Maxxine still been giving you a hard time?”

She groans dramatically, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Don’t remind me. We’re doing scene workshops right now, andit’s not just Max. My whole group has zero chemistry. Like, imagine trying to direct a romantic scene between two bricks.”

I snort. “That bad?”

“Worse,” she says, lifting her arm just enough to give me a pointed look. “If one of them forgets their blocking one more time, I might actually combust.”

“Sounds like a great learning opportunity,” I tease, and she throws a pillow at me.

Sena mutters something about “creative differences” while I stare at one of my bowls—the deep blue one Liam loves. Just thinking about the way he looked at it yesterday makes my chest warm, a quiet flutter settling beneath my ribs.

“Hey, do you want to come watch Liam’s scrimmage with me? It’s at three.”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then she makes a face. Not a bad face, exactly—more like someone just offered her a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal.

“Oh God,” I say, cringing. “Am I not supposed to invite you to my boyfriend’s games? Is that, like, against roommate code or something?”

She bursts out laughing, nearly spilling her coffee. “No, no, that’s not it. It’s just . . . sports.”

“Sports,” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “You hate sports?”

“With the fire of a thousand suns,” she says dramatically. “And it’s freezing outside. Like, I’ll go if you really want me to, but I’ll be miserable and probably complain the whole time.”

I laugh, feeling a little ridiculous for not knowing this about her already. “Okay, no worries. I can go by myself.”

“No, no, wait. Scratch that. I’ll go with you,” she says, quieter now. “I like spending time with you.”

The words hit right in the softest parts of me. Sena’s always been the one dragging me into things—bars with her friends,movie nights, random trips to the farmers’ market for overpriced candles. She’s the reason I have any kind of social life at all.

But this? Her offering to step out of her comfort zone for me? It makes me feel unexpectedly seen, like maybe I’m just as important to her as she is to me.

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