Page 6 of High Hopes

Her eyes narrow, but I catch the slightest twitch of amusement in the corner of her mouth. Before my dad can get any closer, I scurry off, slipping through the crowd like I’ve got somewhere to be. The last thing I need is him cornering me for oversharing with the president earlier.

As I head out of her line of sight, I glance back for a second. She’s already in full-on charm mode, that same forced smile in place. A mask I know all too well. And my dad? He’s stuck listening to her pitch now.

It’s a weird thing, watching someone else play the same game I’ve been stuck in my whole life. It’s unnecessary pomp and circumstance. A performance for a man who’s likely already made up his mind.

Right now, I guess I should just be thankful it’s not me standing there, putting on another show for his approval.

3

BIRDIE

The room is too bright.Not in the literal sense—the lights are dim, the kind meant to flatter the artwork and the people milling around—but it feels like all eyes are burning straight through me. I adjust my posture, standing a little straighter, the polite smile on my face feeling more forced by the second.

I’ve done this before. Plenty of times, actually. Talking up my work to donors, explaining my artistic process like it’s some magical thing instead of hours spent covered in clay, cursing under my breath when the wheel gets away from me.

But tonight’s different. This time, it actually matters. It’s not just about making a good impression—it’s about landing the fellowship. Without it, my next year at Dayton will be rough. The tuition, the art supplies, the cost of living—it’s all riding on this. Without the fellowship, I’d be scrambling for commissions just to stay afloat.

Or worse, picking up more shifts at the bookstore, which would eat up the time I need to work on my pottery. Less time for pottery means fewer pieces to sell, and fewer sales mean more shifts. It’s a vicious cycle I can’t afford.

Which is why it’s a terrifying honor that David Donovan is gracing me with his presence now. I don’t have time to overthinkor panic. The man is one of the biggest names in contemporary sculpture, with installations in galleries all over the world.

He’s a Dayton legend. The real fucking deal.

But he’s not just a famous (albeit out of touch) artist—he’s also a big part of the selection committee for the fellowship. And right now, he’s staring intently at my work.

My gaze drifts over to the collection of vases and bowls I’ve set up—delicate, earthy pieces that are supposed to show my growth as an artist. They feel so me. Raw, unpolished, and unapologetically honest. Pieces of me that tell a story I’m still learning how to articulate.

But standing here, surrounded by people dressed in clothes that cost more than my entire art studio’s supply budget, it seems like maybe “unpolished” isn’t what anyone wants tonight.

And if the slightly detached look on David Donovan’s face is any indication, I might already be losing him. “Mr. Donovan,” I say, “Thank you for giving me your time tonight.”

He glances up, giving me a polite nod. “This is your work?”

I nod quickly, my palms suddenly clammy. This is it. The moment I’ve been preparing for, and somehow, it still feels like I’m standing on shaky ground.

“Yes, they’re mine. Bridget Collins,” I tell him, extending a hand for him to shake. “I’ve been working on pieces that explore organic texture and form, keeping them raw and tactile. I want them to feel almost like something you could find in nature.”

He studies the vases for a too-long moment, and I try not to fidget, even though everything inside me is screaming to do something. Say more. Do more.

Be impressive, Birdie. This is the only thing you have going for you.

He narrows his eyes. “So, how do you know my son?”

I rear back. “Your ... son?”

“Yes,” he says, a touch of amusement in his voice. “The young man who ran out of here as soon as he saw me coming.”

I freeze and awkwardly clear my throat. “Liamis your son?”

David chuckles. “Yes. Did he not mention that?”

No. Definitely not. The same Liam who waltzed into the ceramics studio, informed me about a broken window, and then flashed me that ridiculous grin of his? For whatever reason, he didn’t think it was worth mentioning that his father was a world-renowned artist and the head of the committee deciding my future.

I laugh nervously. “No, we er, we just recently met. He .. . well, he was chasing a rogue soccer ball into the ceramics studio.”

“That sounds a lot like my son,” David says with an amused smile. “Always a bit too energetic for his own good.”

My stomach twists. I’ve just thrown Liam under the bus, and now I’m scrambling to figure out how much worse I’ve made things.

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