Chapter 14 #2
“Thank you,” I reply again, not really wanting to be the center of our parents’ attention. Dropping my gaze to the menu in front of me, I tap the seafood section. “I’m thinking, the shrimp risotto.”
My father clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “We’ll start with wine or . . .” He glances at Gregory. “Or should we order champagne?”
As if I don’t even exist in the space beside him, his eyes stay forward on my father. “That’s a good idea.”
“That’s settled,” my father replies as he signals for the server.
Out-of-body experiences usually happen because of something life-threatening, but my hypervigilance has kicked in at one of the nicest restaurants in Manhattan, where I’m being offered champagne like I’m about to be gutted.
It’s safe to assume I’m not in physical danger, but I’m not so convinced that I won’t be harmed in other ways.
While my dad orders, I overhear my mom say, “I was telling her how darling that shade of blond would look on her.”
Mrs. Lafoon raves quietly, “It does. It’s her color.”
My mom’s smile is genuine and filled with pride as if she constructed her own Bride of Frankenstein by piecing me together just for Gregory.
The pieces come together like a puzzle as I stare at the two of them.
As disbelief scrapes at my stomach, I remember how my mom had the stylist change the color when they stepped away.
When my hair was dry, it was at least three shades lighter than what I had chosen.
Fisting my napkin, I slowly turn my head to the side to look at Gregory.
I know he doesn’t care about my hair. Why would he?
If he did, he would have made it known long before now.
I’ve had all colors, including streaks running through it, and he never said anything.
So before I jump to conclusions that he's colluding with my mother, I take a beat.
He looks at me, and his smile reaches his eyes. “I really do like your hair. It’s the perfect color on you.”
“Because that’s your type?” My stomach churns. I feel sicker by the second. “What I want doesn’t matter because I’m your type. How was I this blind?” I push back in the chair, tossing my napkin on the table, and stand.
“What are you doing, Sosie?” he asks, standing as well.
I cup the base of my neck as I stagger to inhale another breath. “I can’t breathe in here. With you or them. God, I need to leave.”
“For air?”
“Yes. And you.” I slide my hand lower, flattening my palm, feeling my heart thunder in my chest. “I can’t perform this charade of a relationship anymore or live like this.”
He’s shaking his head. “What are you talking about, Sosie?” I see the way he glances nervously at others as if I’m revealing some great secret.
Maybe I am. Do they really not see how miserable I am?
Can they not tell this isn’t real between Gregory and me?
Is everybody that blind to reality, or are we just too good of actors for them to see the truth? “You can’t leave.”
My head jerks back. “What do you mean I can’t?” I slip out from the chair that had trapped my legs and wedge around the back into an opening to escape. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Sosie.” The deep voice is dark in the undertones of my name and demanding that I stop.
Tears fill my eyes as I realize how many years I’ve lost playing the role of somebody else—first a girl and then the woman they always wanted me to be. I lost everything that mattered to me. Photography. A career of my choosing. Keats.
I lower my head in shame that I dragged other people into my nightmare. Is this what having money and power means? I traded my soul in exchange for the privilege of access, and where did that lead me? Purgatory.
I suck in a jagged breath and turn back to look at my father once more.
It’s been a long time since we had a fight.
I remember the day and time, and the subject matter.
Keats Matthews. We don’t generally speak unless there’s business to discuss, or we chat over dinner sometimes.
He doesn’t know me. Neither does my mom.
Though they would tell anyone that we’re close.
When our eyes connect, a wave of fear rolls through me like I’m that little girl still scared of monsters. The only difference now is that my monster wears a three-piece suit.
He remains seated across the table from me, and asks, “Would you like to talk outside?”
No, but I can’t seem to voice the response.
I know that look in his eyes, the unforgiving tone, the control he has not only over me but also anything and anyone I care about.
Or did. Keats couldn’t save me, even if he wanted to back then, but he saved himself.
I’ve always found peace in that knowledge.
He looked good last time I saw him, healthy, and I can only hope he’s living the life he always dreamed.
I never want to be responsible for ruining his life or my father taking that away from him.
It’s only me left. I must save myself, and leaving is my only way out. I’ll go silently in the night, sneaking out like I used to in high school, but this time, come dawn, I’ll be long gone. He’ll never have another say in my life if I can get the resources together to get out first.
I breathe easier with a plan. It’s something I should have done years ago, but fear has kept me paralyzed. No longer. I’ll play along tonight and escape by morning. “No,” I reply, finding my voice again, and I sit down, which is expected of me.