Page 10 of Hustle

Seamus always understands, when he tries. But his face is mottled with fury in a way that I’ve never seen before.

“What, by working at a fucking tattoo parlor? Damnit, Evelyn, I’m trying to do this, to figure out how to do this. For you, for me, for us….”

The word us catches, but it’s like that blinding anger in my brain can’t be tamped down. It gets too close to the surface and I just have to blow everything up.

“My name is Evi.”

The hurt just won’t stop until I burn it all down.

“Yeah, Seamus,” I choke out, between ragged breaths. “I’m going to drag my trash ass up from the gutter by working in a goddamn tattoo parlor because that’s what I want to fucking do. The only thing I’m good at is art. It’s the only time I feel alive. I’m not like you. I can’t be me trapped in a fucking classroom, studying shit I hate just so people think I’m smart and maybe forget my dad’s a gangster.”

His mouth forms a hard line, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that I’ve got him right there. That point. That leverage. I can hurt him as badly as he hurt me.

“You think you’re so fucking special, Seamus. But you’re so stuck up, so focused on becoming someone else, that you’re forgetting who you are and the good things you have in your life now.”

His whole face tightens and he slips a little further away.

Just forget it. Just forget this whole fucking thing. I jam my hands into my pockets hard and turn away before he sees the hot tears rolling down my face.

“Good luck with Harvard, Seamus. I hope you find whatever it is that you’re looking for. I guess I’ll see you around.” Heading straight for the bus station, even though it’ll take three buses for me to get home, I don’t turn around.

And when he calls after me, his voice going from angry to concerned to almost agonized, I just keep walking with my eyes focused straight ahead. I hold in the wracking sobs for the whole bus ride home.

And then I cry like I’ve never, ever cried – before or since.

* * *

Jesus,being eighteen sucks.

Not too long after that day at the beach, one of the neighborhood ladies my good Catholic mother told me to stay away from called me up into her apartment. She’d seen me moping around the stoop one too many times.

She did a Tarot reading for me, splaying colorful cards with frayed gilded edges in a fan across her little table. Clicking her tongue, her eyes dance between the cards and my face. I didn’t cough as she tapped her cigarette on the edge of the ancient ashtray. It was my first reading and when she pulled the card for my future, it was the Empress.

A beautiful blonde woman sits serenely in the forest, a peaceful aura surrounding her. That peace eludes me. She wears a crown of twelve stars, blending the natural and mystical worlds. Those worlds that seem to weave together when I make art, when I reinvent myself with body art, when I see tattoo artists at work transforming the ultimate human canvas. Her dress is covered in pomegranates, and she’s resting on plush cushions.

I dig her. She’s all creativity, femininity, love, beauty and grace. It’s the first time I felt really connected to someone, other than Seamus.

I don’t worry too much that she’s not real.

But seeing her in all her glory made me realize that I was enough on my own. There’s power in art, and in beauty, and eventually that inspires me to help turn people into works of art. To help them transform into the most powerful, most beautiful and best versions of themselves.

And now the Stacys are trying to take that away from me.

I don’t fucking think so.

Popping my lipstick into my bag, I tousle my hair. Looking over my shoulder, I call out to Hank, a fluffy, angry Himalayan cat I’d gotten from a shelter when no one else wanted him.

“How do I look, Hank?” I ask.

He meows indifferently from a pile of clothing on my bed. Definitely need to put that laundry away.

“Thanks for the support.” I go over and pet him, and he swipes lazily at me, purring the whole time. Leaving my loft, I jog down the stairs and the hard soles of my heels ring out sharply. The loft’s right above the shop.

Unlike most Bostonians, I have no complaints about my commute.

I wave at Joey, another artist who works at my shop, and head out to Seamus’ office.

Seamus fucking Doyle. God, I wish he hadn’t walked into my shop last night. He’s so uptight you could shove coal up his ass and he’d shit out diamonds. But he’s connected, and I’m willing to give him a chance before I go with the nuclear option.

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