Chapter 2 #2
Jackson, whom I recognize from pictures online, smiles as I approach, but I won't make the same mistake I've made in the past of thinking that he's a kindred spirit. His smile is just as fake as the one I give him, just as fake as the one I’ve given to every person here tonight.
He may not want to be here.
He may not want to meet me.
He may be in the same situation with his parents that I'm in with my own parents, but that doesn't make him my friend.
It doesn't make him an ally in life.
Jackson's a man, one I know for a fact who has political aspirations of his own from online research.
I've learned through experience that men in the political world will step on anyone to see their goals realized.
As much as my father is using him and his family's money for political gain, this connection is a benefit to Jackson as well.
Jackson will use the connection with my father and his campaign to advance his own career. I have no doubt about that.
“Jackson,” my father says, angling a hand in my direction as I approach. “Have you met my beautiful daughter, Raya?”
Jackson reaches for my free hand, and as I've been trained, I hold it out for him in greeting.
The kiss he presses on the back of my hand should make me cringe. It should make me pull away from him. It should make me want to slap him in the face.
But it's customary. It's habit. It's expected.
I won't start a long tirade about how disgusting I find it, that upon meeting someone for the first time, it's okay for them to press their lips to a woman's skin.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Jackson says as he pulls his head up to look at me, his fingers still clasped in mine. “I'm honestly surprised this is the first time we've met.”
“Is that right?” I ask, playing coy as my father expects.
“It's my understanding that we run in the same circles.”
I don't have a circle. The people I associate with are usually at parties like the one I'm attending tonight. I don't have girlfriends that I call when I have good news. I don't have close relatives with shoulders to cry on when I'm upset.
I have events.
I have my schedule.
I have my expectations, and that's it.
“Jackson just got back from an overseas trip,” my mother interjects. “He probably has jet lag because he just flew in tonight.”
“Just in time to meet you,” Jackson says, his eyes glimmering under the chandeliers in the room.
Laying it on there a little thick, buddy.
“We’ll let you guys get to know each other better,” Mother says as she pats our joined hands.
It’s a sign of approval, and I have no doubt that it garnered the attention of others in the room. Everything is strategic, and tonight is no exception.
Within seconds, my parents disappear, walking a few feet away to greet another couple.
Jackson doesn't release my hand. Rather than sighing and leaning in conspiratorially to voice his opinion about these types of events, he looks down at me with the same fake-ass smile in place.
“How about we go somewhere a little more private so we can get to know each other better?”
Knowing I'm safe, knowing I don't have to worry about his intentions because of who his parents are, I allow him to escort me out of the room.
A real smile takes over my face when I realize his intentions. I love the beach. I'm excited every time the campaign brings me within even thirty minutes of the water. But the salty air wrapping itself around my skin doesn't hold the same appeal as it did earlier today.
Right now, the scent of salt is masked in the air by the putrid smells of sea life left behind after high tide.
It's not unusual for me to walk someplace in private with a guy. I’m not wearing a chastity belt or anything, so I don’t feel like I’m doing anything wrong, but it doesn’t keep my stomach from turning.
I don’t want to be here with him. I don’t want him to somehow manage to ruin the joy I feel while at the ocean.
Some level of privacy, or at least the false sense of it, is expected by my parents.
Unreal bonds with people are very difficult to maintain for long periods of time. The charade of acting like you know someone when you really don't is always questioned in the media. So it's not unusual for Jackson to be leading me out closer to the water.
The sound of the party floats on the breeze, fading to nothing the further we walk. Jackson still hasn't released my hand, but I also don't want to be seen as a shrew.
I don't pull my fingers from his grasp. I can do what's expected because I know what's coming.
Jackson and I will share a polite conversation. He’ll probably ask me out on a date, something official of course, something that can be tracked by those people that are always keeping an eye on my father.
“It's a nice night,” Jackson says as he pauses his long stride to give me time to pull off my high heels. “Do you get to the beach often?”
I want to scoff. I want to look at him and say really? Do you come here often? Is that a line that actually works with other women?
But I don't.
I can't. My breeding and my training assure that I won’t.
“Not as often as I’d like,” I respond, instead of saying what I really want to say. “I love the beach. I'd like nothing more than to live full time here.”
He hums as if in deep thought, as if he's considering that same type of future for himself.
“Senator Reed told me you majored in poli sci. Any aspirations of going to law school?”
There's a question behind his question. One, that his own breeding and training doesn't allow him to ask but his anticipation of my answer is still the same.
“No plans for law school,” I tell him. My answer is truthful. I'm not lying.
What I don't say is that I never even wanted to major in poli sci, and had I been given the freedom to choose on my own, I would have gone to school for veterinary science or social work.
Both of those degrees require longer than the requisite four years that are required to be considered “educated.”
“You're happy with just a four-year degree?” he asks.
“Of course,” I tell him. “My energy is best spent helping my dad. It's important that I'm on the road with him.”
I look up at him.
The man is classically handsome, and I can see the appeal. If this ends up in a situation that's a relationship sanctioned by my father, I guess it wouldn't be so bad to spend the rest of my life with a guy like him.
I can only hope that he's a decent enough human being.
I can hope that there may be a chance at love in all of this.
But if not, I just have to accept that too.
It's not like I grew up watching a loving relationship. My parents’ marriage was also arranged. I know mine will be as well. I’ve always known it.
“So, you're happy?”
I want to answer him honestly.
I want to tell him that there isn't really a time in my life that I could recall being genuinely happy despite all the smiles, despite the laughter, despite the laugh lines at the corners of my eyes and near my mouth that tell other people that I'm a happy person. But I can't tell this man the truth.
I can't open myself up for a situation where it gets back to my mother.
I can't be seen as an angry, upset, bitter woman.
Those women aren't marriage material.
Those women end up losing their minds.
They're the ones that make the headline news after spending decades at the beck and call of someone else, only for their final straw to come, in line at the coffee shop. When the last straw breaks, they end up on the evening news, ranting and raving about everything that's wrong in the world.
I don't want to be that person. I don't want to end up as that person.
“Yes,” I lie. “I'm very happy.”
His phone rings in his pocket, and rather than ignoring it or pulling it free and silencing it, he answers it, giving the person on the other end of the line a quick greeting before holding it to his chest.
“I've been waiting for this call for three days,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Give me just a minute?”
I nod as an answer to his question but it's not really a question, is it? It's not like he would hang up if I told him that I wasn't comfortable with him getting a phone call right now. The man wouldn’t care if I voiced my opinion about how rude it is.
I don't care that the man gets a phone call.
I don't care who's on the other end of the line.
I feel a sense of relief wash over me when he steps away.
Silence isn't something that I'm awarded very often.
I see this as an opportunity.
As Jackson walks in one direction, I turn around and walk in the other.
I don't consider this rebellious.
I'm doing what my father told me to do. I'm out here having a polite conversation with this man. It's not my fault that that conversation isn't important enough to Jackson.
These are the arguments I have in my own head.
These are the conversations I plan for.
It's always in defense of myself.
It's always I did this because of this. I did this because of someone else. It's never because I wanted to. Because I wanted to is not enough of a good reason for my father.
I wanted to give him privacy is what I would tell my mother if she asked me why we were walking in opposite directions of each other. He said it was important. I didn't want to make him think I'm a nosy woman. Nosy women don't make good wives.
All these thoughts run through my head as darkness shrouds me.
I don't know if I would be a perfect wife.
I don't even know if I want to get married.
Honestly, what I do know is that I have to be perceived as the perfect wife, as a woman willing to sacrifice everything for her husband, as a woman who is expected to turn a blind eye to the extramarital affairs, as a woman who supports her husband without blinking. That's what I'm expected to be.
Just thinking of the what-ifs, just considering how my life is going to end up, makes me want to run right into the ocean.
It makes me wish a wave would carry me to a deserted island where I could live in peace.
I want to convince myself that things will be better, that things will calm down once the presidential race is over, but I have too much experience with the day-to-day life of politicians to fully convince myself of that.
There's always another campaign. There's always another election. There's always another donor to meet with. There's always another person to smile at, always another person to convince to align with my father’s political ideals.
I hate it.
I'd never say that out loud, and it took me a very long time to admit that even in my own head, but some days I wish I was never born.
My toes dig into the sand, much like it did earlier today, but it's been hours since the sun went down, and the earth is no longer warm under my feet.
Just being here, just walking along with the sound of waves lapping at the shore, makes me think back to earlier.
It makes me want to be one of those other women that I saw.
Not specifically the women with their husbands or the women with their families, but the women who could laugh and flirt. The women who get to make their own decisions. The women who don't have to worry about what the next person is saying about them.
Just for a day.
Just for a day I'd like to be one of those women. I'd like to see what it's like to not have to care about anything but having a good time.
The sad truth of my reality is that I will never be one of those women, and even thinking about it is a waste of time.