Page 34 of Dead Set on You
I never ask for help, least of all from Rafael. The last time he “helped,” it left me with low-key PTSD—and a deep mistrust of all things male, dimpled, and Vela. How do I convince him to help when I haven’t convinced myself?
“I know this is a little—a lot—surreal, but you’re the only one who can see me. As you might imagine, it makes my options very limited.” I attempt to keep my voice level and detached, even as I’m feeling walls crumple around me. Feeling bits of Evie Pope become exposed to the one person I’ve built them to keep out.
“And you wantmyhelp?” He sounds surprised and unsure, and we might be feeling the same things.
“Uh-huh.” I barely hear myself.
I feel Rafael’s eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. He’ll see right through me.
“You don’t want my help,” he says.
Don’t I know it.
The truck rolls through the city. The sun’s bright against a clear-blue summer sky. Buildings stretch tall above the city. People buzz past, their cell phones plastered to their ears. Tourists huddle around a busking duo. The world is so achingly alive, and the desire to stay in it is crushing. Rafael’s silence more so.
“I reallyneedit.” Needs trump wants.
Another stretch of silence—and it’s enough to get me to look. His features reveal nothing. No stretching of his toned muscles or smiling into dimple territory. Not even a sign of the tic in his cheek.
“I mean it,” I add, feeling like I need to try harder. Still nothing.
Okay, he’s playing tough ball. I’ve played tough ball since the day my mother disappeared for a week, leaving Annie and me to fend for ourselves. We were nine and seven years old. Annie took care of the both of us, even though she was the one who needed taking care of—already getting sick more often, already carrying more than any kid should. Somehow we didn’t fall apart or starve. We danced and sang and wished on shooting stars. We would move to the big city—Chicago, because Great-Aunt Julia brought us here once—and buy the prettiest dresses. Annie would become a singer, and I would be a dancer. We’d make our biggest dreams possible.
I need to do whatever I can to keep that dream alive. I owe it to Annie to fight.
I have one bargaining chip left, and it’s the most important, the one I’ve been busting my ass for years to earn and then protect from Rafael. And if I hesitate—remotely give the decision a second thought—I’ll talk myself out of it, backtrack to ground zero, where there aren’t other answers or options.
Taking a steadying breath, I say, “If you help me get back into my body, I’ll drop out of the running for the director role. I won’t fight you for it. I’ll tell Dana it’s all yours.” I swallow. “Well deserved, even.” Even though the words burn my throat, my voice is clear and firm. Everything I’ve worked for in exchange for another chance at life.
But these are the types of deals you make when you’re in hell and dealing with the devil.
CHAPTER NINESEVEN DAYS AFTER (YES, STILL)
I offered to drop out of the race, and he hasn’t said anything.
That’s how it typically goes. I trick myself into thinking I know him—that little he does can shock me—yet here I am, baffled. It makes me wonder if I miscalculated by offering him the promotion, the job I’ve raced like hell toward. Scraping and clawing for more accounts. Working more hours. Taking more meetings. Focusing on little else. Because racing forward meant never having to go back. This job—the promotions along the way—meant freedom from the constant shadow of poverty, hunger, and desperation and a guarantee that I could feel secure enough to get to my other goals.
And now I’m pulling myself out of the race.
The accident pulled me out of it,I remind myself.
No matter how long I’ve fought to move forward—checking off lists and keeping my eye on the next promotion—I’ve been whipped backward so hard my soul’s popped out of my body. Literally.
My chest is about to combust as I marinate in the loaded silence, waiting for him to give mesomething. I pick at my nails, tempted to chew on them. The glossy polish doesn’t budge. The best shellac manicure and pedicure this side of Chicago. I go every two weeks, like clockwork. Part of the Evie Pope package. Look where that’s got me.
“We’re here,” Rafael says at last. His response isn’t the answer I expected. It’s not an answer at all. Which means he doesn’t want the deal. Which means I’m on my own.
And I’m fine with this.Completelyfine. So fine I can’t even meet his gaze, so I stare straight ahead and nod.
He shifts in his seat, the leather squealing beneath him. “Evie.”
Rafael.If I speak, he’ll know he’s affected me. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Beside me, he sighs, opens the door, and slips out of the truck—and I deflate like a popped tire.
I shouldn’t be so affected by his lack of a response, but if Rafael doesn’t help, how do I fix myself? What if I can never go back?
I’m on the verge of dry heaving, but the door opens. I grit my teeth together and suck in a pocket of air, ignoring Rafael as he leans into the truck. Keeping my gaze fixed on the dashboard, I look inward for a ghostly power to take me far,faraway. Not heaven or hell far, but somewhere I can come up with another plan, one that doesn’t require his help. Because who needs him anyway?
