Chapter 3
CAROLINE
It takes about ten seconds to recognize that Dad’s in damage-control mode. The video call’s intermittent, pixelated glitching does little to hide how red-faced and worked up he is.
“This is unacceptable timing, Caroline!” Dad booms. “This arrangement between you and Fletcher was supposed to last until the election! Now you’re caught on camera canoodling with random men?”
My jaw drops. “Canoodling? Dad, that’s unfair. And it wasn’t men, plural. Besides, we weren’t even…” I trail off, staring at the photo on the infamous local gossip blog, The Wash.
There I am, standing outside the gym with Miles yesterday morning, his hand hovering as it grazes my upper arm.
We’re standing close enough that, thanks in part to the angle, we could easily be mistaken for a couple.
Plus, the way I’m peering up at him looks almost intimate.
If I’m honest, those few seconds when he’d stepped closer had left my heart pounding and, even through my thick hoodie, the light touch of his fingers had sent a skittering sensation across my skin that lingered for long seconds after he pulled away.
“It doesn’t matter what you were or weren’t doing with this musclehead,” Dad presses, interrupting my thoughts.
“Musclehead? Dad! I—”
“What matters,” he continues over me, “is how it looks. I can’t have my daughter sleeping around town when she’s supposed to be happily engaged to my campaign manager!”
“Dad—” I try again, grasping for my usual mask of placating calm as hurt slices into my chest. For years, I’ve been supporting my father’s career, pouring every ounce of energy into what my family wants.
Showing up when and how they want me to.
Dressing how they want me to. Acting how they want me to.
Heck, dating who they want me to. And this is what I get back?
“Peter, I think that’s taking it a little too far,” Mom tries from beside him—unsuccessfully.
“What’s too far, Valerie,” Dad huffs, his bluster eclipsing her, as usual, “is my own daughter compromising my campaign. I don’t care how upset she is about her situation. We had an agreement!”
An agreement I’m regretting more and more with each passing minute.
“You’re making it sound like I did this on purpose!” I counter. “You know I would never knowingly jeopardize your career, Dad.”
After everything I’ve done for him, that’s the part that cuts deepest. Swallowing past the knot in my throat, I try to stomp the feelings down. I scroll down, skimming the article and willing myself to process just how bad this situation is.
Not-So-Sweet Caroline spotted with new mystery beau
The headline alone has me cringing in more ways than one, but I read on.
Caroline Brennan, daughter of Washington gubernatorial candidate Senator Pete Brennan, was caught in the early hours of Tuesday morning cozying up with her new mystery man in downtown Lennox Valley.
Sporting the latest line of organic bamboo fitness finery by Seattle designer Joon Bishop, Ms. Brennan’s looking sharp—but her ring finger is notably bare.
Could this have anything to do with her having kept a low profile most of the last year?
We smell drama! Sources speculate her engagement to Sen.
Brennan’s campaign manager, Fletcher Brady, has been called off.
Reportedly living in the small town to take care of family, Ms. Brennan seems to be getting “taken care of” plenty herself—by the friendly locals… or one friendly local in particular.
“Caroline,” Dad presses, pulling my attention back to the stern set of his jaw, “how do you intend to fix this?”
I have no idea how to fix this.
“Okay, I understand this doesn’t look good,” I say, stalling for time.
“But I swear to you, it was an innocent moment.” I scroll back up to the photo, arranging it on my screen beside the video stream of my father’s ruddy, exasperated face.
The contrast between the two images is striking, but I can’t dwell on that right now.
“Maybe we could put out a statement, or—?”
Dad’s phone rings and he answers the way he’s answered every phone call since I was a little girl. “Pete Brennan.” I quickly gather it’s Linda, his PR consultant. He excuses himself and, for a moment, I can breathe again.
Mom swivels the laptop to face her straight-on. “Your father will calm down. You know how he gets right before an election.”
“I know,” I say, shoving aside the memories of how he could get when I worked for him in Seattle. That side of him I never really saw growing up.
Maybe I’d just been sheltered from it, between my mother acting as a buffer and all the time I spent with my grandparents.
I was a teenager when I started helping out at Dad’s office, trying my damnedest to forge a connection with him by making myself useful.
But, by the time I was out of college, those rare crumbs of praise I craved from my father had only dwindled and his expectations of me had only grown.
I was working my butt off for him and it was never enough.
Deep down, I know he wants the best for me and for us as a family. He’s always said so. Mom’s right; the election stress is amplifying everything right now.
Mom puts on her brave face. “We’ll find a way to spin this, sweetheart.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say with a small grimace.
“Sweetie, we have the best PR team in the state; they’ll come up with a way to dispel this nasty little rumor.”
Nasty?
A sickly sensation twists through me. How is the idea of me being involved with Miles—even if untrue—somehow worse than the reality of my relationship with Fletcher?
Still, I can’t shake the feeling I’ve done something wrong.
“I’m so sorry I messed this up. I shouldn’t have…
” I trail off, not really knowing what I’m apologizing for but feeling that familiar pang of guilt all the same.
Trying to look at things rationally, I push aside the way it felt—the way it always feels—to know I’ve disappointed my dad.
Because there was no way I could have anticipated this.
Sure, I’d known there was a possibility of photographers lurking around Lennox, but what was I supposed to do?
Maintain a solid four-foot radius of space around me at all times, never letting a single human enter my bubble?
“You simply need to be more careful,” Mom says. “You never know who’s watching. How things might look.”
“Right,” I say, masking the way my stomach sinks hearing her confirm I should have done something different.
Something more. I know she means well—know she’s simply trying to keep the peace between me and Dad—but it also feels like putting this on me is giving him a pass.
Enabling him to continue with his unreasonable expectations.
I catch myself fiddling with my gold dragonfly pendant and consciously stop my fidgeting before Mom gives me grief about it.
Human-repelling force field it is.
And the only one allowed in is Fletcher. The last man I want anywhere near me. Sudden, aching dread washes over me at the thought.
Just a few more weeks, I remind myself, wishing I had a time machine to fast-forward my way out of this.
“Mom, I should go,” I lie, avoiding looking directly at the screen.
“I’ve got some work to catch up on. Let me know what Dad thinks we should do about the story.
” Straightening in my chair, I paste on my best mask of people-pleasing optimism—the one I’ve honed and perfected over a lifetime in the public eye.
“I’m up for whatever he thinks is best.”
After all, I’ve spent my whole life doing exactly that—whatever my father thinks is best. Always putting Team Brennan first. Do it for the family, Dad would always say.
Be a team player. And I was. For years, I’d worked for Dad’s various political campaigns, doing everything from fetching coffees to organizing fundraisers.
But that all ended last year. Grandpa’s fall was minor and he’s fully recovered, but it had been a wake-up call: living alone was no longer wise at his age.
While he didn’t need constant supervision or hands-on care, he did need someone around regularly.
Grandpa’s sudden need for a roommate had finally given me the perfect excuse to put some space between me and my father’s controlling ways.
It was long overdue—but I knew Dad would talk me out of it if I tried to quit on him for simply wanting a change.
Helping Grandpa was not only something I genuinely wanted to do, but it made for a firmer leg to stand on in the face of my father’s objections.
It gave me the courage to finally break free.
With another forced smile, I end the call and close my laptop, sagging into the kitchen chair. I head to put the kettle on, determined not to fixate on my father’s disappointment.
As I flick on the cold water, realization hits me.
That feeling of freedom I’ve always associated with Lennox Valley—summers with my grandparents, running around their backyard and roaming the riverside with my cousins—has been elusive since I moved in with Grandpa.
I may be here, but I’m not free. Physical distance hasn’t put a dent in my father’s control; I’m still bending to his whims—still bound to what he wants, obediently shelving what I want.
What do I want? Do I even know? And does anybody care?
A wave of loneliness hits me. I try to let the feeling take root so I can feel it in my body—like my therapist taught me—but old habits being what they are, my mind quickly searches for a way to disprove it.
In practical terms, the idea is ridiculous.
I’ve got my job at the art gallery with Julian and Sunny.
I dutifully attend every fundraiser and campaign event with my parents.
I have Grandpa and his care aide, Sadie, who I see here at home.
Adrian and I talk all the time. I’m not alone.
On paper, at least.