Bewitched.
Seamus is one of those rare men who has no clue how good looking he is, how intelligent he is, how kind he is, how good he is. He just is. And oddly enough, I found that incredibly attractive. It’s what drew me in. He’s idealistic, selfless, and genuinely believes in the good in humanity. I didn’t know men like him existed outside of the goddamn Hallmark channel. It made me want to be like him—to be good. He’s the only person I’d ever met who made me yearn for some light in my black soul.
Foolish, I know. That pipe dream was short lived.
Thank God.
I came to my senses and realized that idealism and goodness are a luxury afforded to few. And that kindness clashes with my life goals, every last one. You can’t claw your way to the top riding a wave of good intentions and hope for the best. Success is a science fueled by calculated action and hard work—it’s manufactured, everything part of a larger agenda. People are pawns. Morals only get in the way. Power isn’t granted to pussies.
But here’s the thing I’ve learned about having Seamus in my life.
I need him.
I need to keep him close.
He’s my get out of hell free card.
My good karma card.
My walking, talking goddamn repentance.
Being in a relationship with him is like living in a confessional booth. I sin, he absolves. It all evens out. I’m innocent by association. And goddamn, is he nice to look at.
I was raised by my grandmother. She didn’t have a lot of money; she was a lawyer who lived for pro bono work, passionately representing women who’d been wronged in some fashion or another. She shared her cases with me, and I learned early on that it’s a dog eat dog world, only the strong survive and thrive. She was vicious. My grandmother was the poster child for women’s rights and the original man-hater. She hammered into me at an early age that I could do anything a man could do…better. She was a brash, outspoken, unyielding, guiding force. The complete opposite of my doormat mother, a weak individual, compromised by vices and bad decisions that ended in her death when I was ten. She let others influence her and ultimately destroy her. I will not be my mother. I will be my grandmother. Nothing, and no one, will destroy me.
My grandmother was someone people didn’t simply cower from. They submitted, willingly or not, they submitted—it never failed to awe me. The fact that she could inflict power over others so effortlessly, and without remorse, made her a goddess in my book. She chewed them up and spit them out. I grew up trying to emulate her; she was my role model. She pushed me in school—nothing short of excellence and perfection was accepted—and instilled a work ethic second to none. Hard work was my ticket to everything I wanted. That and a little subtle manipulation when necessary; another handy trick she taught me. She was the only person I craved approval from because she’s the only person I admired. She died two days before I received my acceptance letter to UCLA. She never got to see our dream come true—attending a prestigious university and a coveted degree for me.
I took that as a big fuck you from the universe.
And ever since, I take every chance to give it the middle finger in return.
But for some reason Seamus is different.
He feels like another fuck you. A cruel twist the universe is throwing at me to test my tough-as-nails resolve, which makes me love him and hate him at the same time.
I want to cling to his soft heart, but I don’t want his softness to seep into my hard heart. Because softness will get me nowhere. And I have plans, big plans.
Everyone loves sheep
past
“I bet you were the kid growing up who always had his name butchered by the teacher when they called role the first day of school?” I ask.
He nods emphatically. “It still gets butchered, but yeah, let’s just say the ‘pronunciation of Seamus’ YouTube clip would’ve been helpful back then.”
I eye him suspiciously. “You’re lying. There’s a YouTube clip?”
He chuckles at my accusation. “Swear to God, search it. There’s a clip.”
I make a mental note to do an internet search when I get home. “Seamus McIntyre is an Irish name.” I’m probing for history, lineage, with that statement.
He smiles that smile of his. The one that’s effortlessly good-natured in intent. “It is.” The way he says it, I know he’s gone down this road of ancestral interrogation before, not unjustified because he’s a walking contradiction.