Page 99 of High Hopes

34

BIRDIE

Claire calls backon a quiet winter’s afternoon. The sun is spilling through the windows like warm honey, and I’m trying not to bite my nails as I pace the living room. I answer so quickly it’s embarrassing, the phone almost slipping out of my clammy hands.

“Hello? This is Birdie—Bridget Collins.”Bridget, because we’re being professional today.

“Hi, Birdie. It’s Claire Mahler.”

Her voice is smooth, confident, a little raspy—like someone who’s spent years laughing too loud and working with clay dust in her lungs. I stop pacing and grip the back of the couch for balance. “Hi, Claire. Thanks for calling me back.”

“Of course.” I hear the faint clinking of tools in the background—she’s probably at her studio, mid-project. “I wanted to talk about that proposition I mentioned.”

“Yeah?” I sound too eager, so I clear my throat. “I mean, yes. I’d love to hear more.”

“I’ve been following your work since we met at the Montrose, and I think you have real potential. The fellowship winner will be working with me during the second half of the summer, butI’d like to offer you the opportunity to intern with me during the first half.”

My heart leaps into my throat. Claire freaking Mahler wants me to intern with her. This is huge. This is what I wanted from the beginning. Not David, not a random name on some committee, but someone who truly inspires me to create.

But.

But I need money. Not inspiration, not exposure, but actual, practical, survival-level money.

My stomach twists. “Claire, I—I can’t tell you how grateful I am. That sounds incredible, really, but . . . I need to focus on a paid position this summer. My tuition and, well, everything else—it’s kind of nonnegotiable.”

There’s a pause on the other end. For a split second, I’m sure she’s about to tell me never mind—that I’ve blown it, turned down the opportunity of a lifetime.

“Well,” Claire says finally, “I happen to have a spot open at my studio.”

I blink, not sure I heard her right. “What kind of spot?”

“Receptionist. It doesn’t pay much—minimum wage, plus a little commission for any pieces you sell in the shop—but you’d get to work alongside me and see the day-to-day. You’d help with the shop, assist in classes, and have full access to the studio to work on your own projects.”

My breath catches. A paid position and an internship with Claire Mahler? The tears prickle at the edges of my vision before I can stop them.

“That—” I swallow hard, my voice coming out wobbly. “That would be amazing. More than amazing. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Good,” she says, warm and sure. “I’ll send over the details this week, and we’ll get everything lined up. I look forward to working with you, Birdie.”

When I hang up, I just stand there, phone clutched in my hand like it might evaporate if I let go. Claire Mahler is going to be my boss. My mentor. Holy shit.

And then I’m crying, because of course I’m crying. Big, happy, overwhelmed tears that I wipe away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt as I stumble into my room. For the first time in a long time, I feel like the pieces are clicking into place. Like the universe is holding out a hand, saying,Here. Keep going.

It’s late when I finally pad out of my room to find Sena. The apartment is glowing with the warm flicker of candles and incense. She’s in one of her witchy moods—an oversized black sweater, a messy braid draped over her shoulder, and some kind of ritual bowl clutched in her hands as she moves around the room.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching her light yet another candle and mutter something under her breath.

“Cord cutting,” she says matter-of-factly, setting the bowl on the coffee table. “Symbolic release of all the lingering negativity. Bad vibes, fair-weather exes, imposter syndrome—you name it.”

I snort, sinking onto the couch with my phone. “Sounds ambitious.”

“Let me live,” she says, flashing me a grin. “Speaking of—” She gestures at the notebook and phone spread out in front of me. “Did I hear you on the phone in there earlier?”

I bite back a smile. “Yeah. Claire Mahler called me back.”

Sena freezes mid-candle placement, then straightens, turning to me with wide eyes. “Claire Mahler as inClaire Mahler?”

“Yes,” I say, grinning like a fool. “She offered me a paid summer position at her studio. Receptionist slash artist intern, basically. I’ll get to help with classes, work in the shop, and have full studio access. Plus, I get a commission for anything I sell.”

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