Page 9 of Hustle

“Evelyn, I couldn’t have done this without you,” he takes a step in my direction. Standing close, so close. The heat from his body on a cold day is a strange, but welcome sensation.

I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck, rocketing my body into his. There’s a long pause and my heart’s pounding as my mind’s on the precipice of horror.

Don’t fucking reject me. Don’t do it. My heart can’t take it, I silently plead. My eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that my forehead aches.

But then his arms close around me, and for one short second I feel at peace. Calm. Like the world’s not spiraling uncontrollably. Like I won’t explode any second. Like Seamus is here, mine.

Like maybe he finally sees me. Like maybe everything might finally be okay.

Long seconds pass, the emotional response beginning to slide toward something else, a dangerous edge of desire. It’s not like Seamus’ body is doing a great job hiding his reaction to our proximity.

Instinctively, I push against him just a little and feel his whole body go rock hard.

Impossibly gentle, he puts me down. Steps back, clears his throat, looks at me, looks away. It takes a minute, but the cool and polished Seamus that’s been his default more and more lately slides into place.

“Evelyn, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Hope, joy, anticipation, fear. It slams into me so hard I can hardly breathe. The past, the present, the future all seem to meld together, leading to and streaming from this moment.

“About your plans, Evelyn,” his jams a hand into his hair. It’s just a little too long, and he can’t stop it from cascading down over those eyes. Intense blue orbs bore into mine.

The moment’s already slipping away. Fury and an aching I don’t want to name war for dominance.

“Today’s about your future, Seamus,” I try for diplomatic, clawing to keep the magic of that embrace here, even as I watch it rolling out on the tide.

“Damn it, Evelyn. This is important.”

It is important. But it’s not a fucking piece of paper, a pedigree, a golden path to fame and riches. Seamus sees a path into his future. A chain of actions and reactions that are all measured out, all lined up, and lead to some amazing place that only he can see.

You can fucking see it when he’s thinking about it and know with every fiber of your being that he’s going to get there. No question.

Even when you have no fucking clue where you’re headed. Or what you want. Or if you even have a shot at anything, no matter how hard you fight.

“Listen, I talked to my dad,” he says, moving forward again with that fucking ‘I’m going to plan my way out of this’ look on his face. “I know academics aren’t your things, but your art skills are beyond compare. My father’s willing to pay for you to go to community college; of course, we’ll pay him back, but all you need is a year of good grades and then you can transfer…”

I cut him off. “What, Seamus? You think they’re going to let some gutter rat that that barely finished high school into fucking Harvard?”

Frustration lines mar his handsome face and it makes my heart hurt that he’s dragged us back here. Fucking again.

“It doesn’t have to be Harvard, Evi,” his voice is detached, eminently reasonable as he weighs a thousand variables and it makes me hate him. I want to scream. I’m not a number, not a domino, not a pawn. “I’ve been looking into art schools and honestly, portfolios matter more than grades….”

And that’s when it hits me. As much as Seamus likes me or whatever this is, he’s strategizing to make me fit. Shoving me into some box that fits with his plans and keeps me on his level.

The worst part? He’s probably fucking right. But I don’t want Murphy Doyle’s fucking charity and I don’t want Seamus figuring out a way to make me respectable enough that he doesn’t need to leave me behind.

Fuck that. Fuck him.

“I’m not doing this again, Seamus,” I channel every ounce of fury I can muster into those words. Blinking my eyes rapidly, I curse the wind. It’s the wind stinging my eyes and not fucking tears.

“Evelyn, I don’t get it. Don’t you want to get out of here, move on…” He shrugs, like he’s at a loss for what to say.

That chasm, that break, that tear – it’s just widening second by second and I can’t suppress the anger that rips its way from my core.

“Of course I want fucking out,” I scream. It’s all hitting me. The winter nights with no fuel when I was so cold I thought I’d never get warm again. Being so hungry that I ate an entire bag of dollar store potato chips because I didn’t know when I’d get a decent meal. The fury I felt when people around us t knew, that knew how bad it was, shrugged and went about their lives when the smallest kindness would have made a fucking difference.

When the entire world thought I was trash and nobody fucking cared if I lived or died. Nobody except Seamus, that is. But even he thought that I needed a little reshaping apparently.

“But I’m getting out on my own terms, Seamus. I’m doing this my way.” Maybe he can just hear me out and maybe he’ll understand.

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