Page 84 of Feel Free to Scream

I’m not disappointed.

Keller puts his book down. “Bloody amazing. You just did that in the time it took me to read a page? Why thehellare you studying accounting?”

“Because accountants get paid.”

“Sure, but your art is going to make you rich. A lot richer than any accountant will end up. Review your schedule, seriously. Do what you love.”

I chew on my lip. I mean, if we’d had this conversation three days ago, it would be another story. Back then, my art had no prospects. Today someone—someone important—might be willing to do something with it. Maybe I could end up being an illustrator. If I worked hard. If I kept making what people like Arlo might want to publish. Maybe he’d want me full-time, in house.

“It’s not that easy for me,” I say after a second. “I don’t have something to fall back on or a security blanket, you know. If I study art, and then the market keeps collapsing and no one is hiring, I’ll be flipping burgers for a paycheck despite years of work on a fancy degree.”

Keller’s staring at me in a way that makes me want to look down, fidget, dosomething. So I keep talking. “Take my grandmother. She was a housewife most of her life. No job. Then, when her husband died, she suddenly had to work, and it wasn’t enough. She’s always struggled. She’s old, and she had to wait for your generosity to afford the basic care she needed. My actual mother got an education. She has a nice job. She can afford pretty clothes, sends me lovely presents and the occasional cash transfer, because she can. I know which future I want.”

The unblinking staring only gets darker, but he finally breaks his silence. “Your mother shouldn’t send you the occasional cash transfer. She should have supported you, your whole life, so you never struggled.”

I start to disagree, but he speaks before I can find the words. “As for a security blanket, you have one, Claire.Me.”

My mouth opens, and then closes.

“If the market is suddenly disastrous, and you can’t get a job after graduation, you’ll be fine, because you’ll live with me, with my credit card in your wallet. Just like you do now.”

“That’s…we’re talking years in the future.”

“We are,” he agrees easily.

“You don’t know if you’ll like me in a month, let alone four years.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well,Idon’t,” I snap. “I’m not relying on any man for my entire future. Even you.”

My voice rose of its own volition. This almost feels like it could devolve into an argument, but I am right, dammit. We’ve known each other a week. We’ve been together for half that. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. I enjoy what I’ve seen so far, no matter how crazy that sounds.

He stalked me. He coerced me. He basically offered me a deal that can be defined as prostitution. And despite all that, I like him. Who he is. How he’s treating me. God, I like him more than I should if I was entirely sane. But we don’t know if this isn’t a phase, if we’ll burn away our chemistry by Christmas.

The very thought causes anxiety because I am currently relying on him for everything, including the roof over my head.

“Let’s table this conversation for a while, all right?” Keller says. “You’re a freshman. You can change direction in a year, or two, or three. You can get your bachelor’s, and then start all over again with something else entirely. It’s unimportant. I just wanted to say, I believe you’re talented enough to succeed. I believe that you don’t need a safety net. I said you had one in me, and I meant it, but I get that you’re not there yet. It’s unimportant.”

He returns to his book, writing more Latin-ish words.

I stare at him for a full minute, confused without even knowing why, until it hits me.

We had an argument, of sorts. It’s not the first time we don’t agree, but I started practically shouting, and opposed him. And not only did he keep his cool, not getting angry or defensive, but he defused the conversation, peeling away at the issues until there were none.

And he praised me.

I believe that you don’t need a safety net. You’re talented enough to succeed.

I’m shaken because this is not how people behave. Not in my experience.

I put down the tablet I borrowed from him to draw, and cross the sofa until I’m right against him. When he drops his book again, I climb onto his lap, bringing my arms around his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

I don’t know how to say it. I’m not sure saying another word won’t end up making me cry. So I just put my head against his chest and breathe, taking in the regular heartbeats.

He lets me hug him forever. Or at least, until his phone rings.

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