Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
DAPHNE
It’s Wednesday, which means Dad’s favorite dinner—ribs with Kraft mac and cheese.
It’s one of those ‘I’m another average American’ gimmicks that Dad has employed since he started his political career.
I was only a kid when he gave a speech that cemented his spot in the Senate—a speech that made him sound like a good ole’ Southern boy whose mama raised him on fried chicken, collard greens, and “pee-can” pie.
Mee-maw couldn’t cook anything that didn’t come from a can, bless her heart.
Dad hates collard greens and thinks any pie except apple is an abomination—not that anyone outside the White House knows that.
He might lose the Bible Belt if they discover their favorite homegrown Georgia boy hated “pee-can” pie.
Dad’s face is buried in a rib when I walk into the family dining room. Mom glances up from her plate, her eyes scanning me with disapproval.
“I asked Malcolm to make you grilled chicken instead of ribs. The barbecue sauce adds too many calories,” she says.
Well, nice to see you too, Mother.
“Thanks.” For nothing.
My stomach growls as I settle in for the dinner I was summoned to this morning.
Dad
Please attend dinner tonight. We have important matters to discuss.
Me
I had plans with some of the aids. Can we postpone?
Dad
No, this is urgent. You can go out with your friends another night.
Go out with my “friends” another night? Suddenly, I’m thirteen again, and my parents are dictating my schedule down to the minute.
Maybe once the election ends, I’ll have the freedom to find another job. With any luck, it’ll be far away from Dad and D.C. and the political circus I’ve been part of since puberty.
I sit at one of the two seats with a plate—one with grilled chicken and vegetables, the other empty.
Paige’s seat. That honorary chair for my ghost big sister, who still haunts me to this day.
How can you compete with a ghost? In our parents’ eyes, Paige was everything I could never be. So, I gave up on being a perfect daughter years ago. I help my parents when I’m told to, and my secret book reviewer accounts keep me occupied and happy.
But it would be nice to get a nod of approval occasionally, or dare I say, a we’re proud of you, Daphne. Nope, those were all reserved for Paige. When she died, any niceties died with her.
A semi-trailer driver had a stroke at the wheel and crashed into Paige’s car, killing her and two friends.
For days, photos splashed the front page of every Georgia newspaper.
I never reckoned with the conflicting feelings of grief and relief and hope and gut-wrenching despair at losing my older sister—even if we never got along.
Therapy was out of the question. My parents wouldn’t risk me saying something that could end up in a therapist’s file and be used against them.
So, I navigated that loss alone, just like everything else that’s happened to me. With no friends, loveless parents, and a bitter sister, I forged through every dark time on my own.
Mom’s dainty cough tugs me away from the empty chair in front of me.
“You know, there’s that old trick I told you about,” Mom says.
“If you chew your food twenty times, you’ll feel fuller and eat less.
I don’t know if you’re using that Weight Watchers subscription I bought for your birthday, but my assistant can set it up for you.
” Mom stabs a broccoli floret with her fork.
“Mom—”
“There’s an app, so it’s easy to track your food.”
“You do know that’s how people develop eating disorders, right? Obsessively counting points instead of calories. It’s practically the same thing.”
Mom straightens up like I personally offended her. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to watch what you put in your mouth.”
I’d point out that the average woman in the US is a size sixteen, and I’m only a fourteen, but talking to my mother is like talking to a Sephora-painted brick wall.
I cut into a piece of grilled chicken and chew it a few times before swallowing.
Definitely not twenty times. Mom can shove her fat-shaming game up her size-four ass.
It’s a game I’ll never win. Even if I slimmed down, she’d still disapprove of my looks. Paige was the willowy rose-gold-haired goddess. I was the short, frumpy sister with acne and an antisocial attitude.
Books were better company than the kids they forced us to interact with anyway. They were friendlier than Paige—a mini-Mom in the making. I wish I had one of my audiobooks right now, but I don’t want to listen to a librarian getting railed in a sundress while my parents are a few feet away.
Tearing my thoughts off books, I clear my throat.
“Dad, I wanted to ask you a question about the Bradshaw Bill.” My stomach tenses, like I’m bracing for impact.
Dad’s eyes darken. “What about it? Has Furt said anything?”
I shake my head. “No, one of the news outlets let it slip that the bill was found at Congressman McArthur’s house last week when he was killed.”
“Assassinated,” Dad emphasizes. Words are powerful. Dad would know—he’s manipulated and twisted them into weapons strong enough to get him elected to the most powerful position in the country.
“Right.” I mentally dodge the word like a bullet in the Matrix. The thought of Tristan assassinating someone makes me want to puke. Sure, he killed someone. But assassinating has a heavier ring to it—especially on the Hill.
I mentally tiptoe through this conversation, which is loaded with potential landmines. “Well, I know you’re trying to get this bill passed before re-election. How come? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you push for a bill so fast.”
Dad wipes his hand on the napkin over his lap before he rests his forearms on the edge of the table. His sleeves are rolled up below the elbows, and his wedding ring glints as he goes for his beer glass.
“Daphne, you’re a smart girl.”
Mom scoffs, but Dad ignores her. And damnit, part of me isn’t supposed to perk up at his words, but there’s little-girl Daphne who’s sitting up straighter from the compliment.
Dad takes a sip of his drink before he continues. “The polls are tight. We still have a few months, but in case I don’t get re-elected, I promised some people this bill would pass.”
“Which people?” I ask. “I read the bill, Dad. It’s not going to win you votes. People will be pissed once they find out you want to take away coverage for pre-existing conditions.”
“Not those people,” he waves his hand in the air, dismissing millions of Americans. “People who matter.”
My stomach aches like he’s wrapped it in barbed wire and batted it like a pinata. I know my Dad’s not a kind person. You can’t be kind and be President. But that’s cold, even for him.
He continues. “I have shares in select companies. It’s in their best interest and ours that this bill passes.”
“Stocks?” I ask. “You’re doing this for stocks?”
Dad nods as he picks up another rib. “I’m doing this for our future.”
I can’t stomach his bullshit diplomatic answers much longer.
Does Tristan know why Dad’s pushing this bill through? Why Dad’s pulled every string and called in every favor in his back pocket to get the bill on his desk before the election—in case he loses?
“Why am I here, Dad?” I’m dreading this conversation, but if it shifts the attention away from the bill, I’m happy to change the subject.
Until Dad asks, “Have you spoken to Brent lately?”
That one piece of chicken threatens to come back up again. Mom would approve.
“No, I’m not speaking to Brent. Ever again.” I say the last two words with some finality before I take a sip of water.
Dad’s beefy fingers, slick with barbecue sauce, take a couple of tries before he gets a solid grip on his beer glass. “Guess again,” he says above the rim.
Nope. Not happening. “Dad, I’m not talking to Brent.”
Dad rolls his eyes as he sips his beer. And who says men can’t multitask?
As he sets his glass back down, he pauses. “I think it’s time you let bygones be bygones.”
“After what he did?”
“I’m sure that was a misunderstanding. You’d been drinking, remember?”
“Dad, I’d had two drinks. I wasn’t drunk.”
“But alcohol impairs your judgment.”
I wave my hand toward his glass. “So, then what’s this?”
He ignores me and barrels on. “You didn’t remember the details clearly. You didn’t even go to the cops.”
“I didn’t remember the details because he drugged me.
And I didn’t go to the cops because you told me I couldn’t, or you’d cut me off.
” Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away.
No, my parents don’t get to see my weaknesses.
The people who were supposed to protect me were the ones who protected my rapist.
And even if I forgive them, I will never, ever forget what they did. Forgiveness was for me, not them. I forgave them to protect my peace and find some closure.
Dad shakes his head at me in that ‘I’m disappointed in you’ way, a look that has spanned all the way back to my childhood.
That little girl who wanted to see her dad smile but was instead met with that disappointed look time and time again.
“I couldn’t let you ruin a man’s political career over a drunken night. ”
“I. Wasn’t. Drunk.”
Dad’s lips pout beneath his perfectly trimmed goatee. “Just because you changed your mind doesn’t permit you to ruin a man’s life, Daphne.”
“He never had my consent. For any of it.” Damnit, a wet spot trickles down my cheek. Fuck. I rub it away, but they can see my tears.
Mom’s squeak of a voice chimes in. “You chose to let him into your house that night. You chose to drink. That’s an invitation, Daphne. I raised you to be a lady. Not lead men on like a hussy.”
Dad raises his hand to calm her. “Now, Grace, no need for name-calling. Daphne’s not a hussy, but there are consequences for our actions. And Daphne, those were the consequences of your actions that night.”
My stomach rolls, and I drop my fork onto my plate with a piercing clatter.
“Talk to Brent yourself. Leave me out of it.”