Page 48 of Beyond the Lines
“My grandmother was an incredible artist,” I admit, “but she was also incredibly lucky. And she had connections. And she lived in a different time.”
On the ice, Declan makes a beautiful pass to Mike, who shoots and—misses. I can see my brother’s frustration even from here, the way his body language screams disappointment. I haven’t watched many of his games, but his body language is all off, and again I find myself wondering what’s wrong with him.
“That’s rough,” Em says softly. “For both of you.”
“It’s fine,” I insist, suddenly embarrassed by how much I’ve revealed. “They’re good people. They just worry. They want us to have secure futures.”
Em looks unconvinced. “Still, it’s got to hurt.”
“Look who’s suddenly the psychologist,” I tease, desperate to lighten the mood.
“I’ve got a minor in Calling Out Bullshit,” Em corrects with a grin. “And what I’m seeing is two very accomplished parents trying to force their kids into boxes that don’t fit, rather than letting them flourish at what they love doing and are good at!”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But at least they care enough to want what’s best for us, even if they’re wrong about what that is.”
“Fair enough.” Em bumps my shoulder with hers. “Though for what it’s worth, I think your art has plenty of soul.”
I turn to her, surprised. “You haven’t even seen my art.”
“I saw your sketchbook on your desk the other day.” She has the grace to look slightly guilty. “I might have peeked.”
“You snooped?” I ask, but there’s no real anger in my voice.
“I prefer ‘conducted reconnaissance,’” she says primly. “And my findings confirm that Declan the Dick is full of shit.”
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.
“Anytime.” Em raises her soda cup. “To our parents’ disappointment, and to doing what we love anyway.”
I clink my hot chocolate against her cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
As we turn our attention back to the game, I catch sight of Declan looking up into the stands—looking directly at me. From the look on his face, he’s surprised I’m at the game at all, and as our eyes lock, something passes between us.
Fury and anger and hurt.
Well, fuck him.
I don’t look away, and keep my face as hard as granite, until Mike calls to him. Declan turns away, and I’m left wondering why my heart is suddenly racing in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.
“What about your parents?” I turn to Em,desperatefor conversation. “You’ve barely mentioned them…”
“Not much to tell.” She shrugs. “Mom’s a tailor, my Dad writes books. They love me. They support me. The end.”
“Must be nice,” I laugh, struggling tototallyhide the bitterness.
“I mean, they weren’t thrilled with me taking some time off after high school, but I needed a year because of some… personal stuff… and they eventually got with the program.
“I can’t imagine growing up like that,” I admit. “Having parents who respect your choices.”
“And I can’t imagine parents who make you second-guess everything.” Em’s voice softens. “No wonder you’re always apologizing for having emotions.”
I blink at her, stunned. “What do you mean?”
“Every time you get upset or excited about something, you backtrack, like you’re afraid of feeling too much.” She shrugs. “I noticed it the first day we met.”
The truth of her observation hits me. “They treat me like I’m made of glass because I like art. Like being creative means I’m extra sensitive or something.”
“That sucks,” Em says simply.
