I guess my truly magical thinking over the years wasn’t hoping Dad would one day tell me how proud he is of me. It was hoping Stella would finally start respecting me and loving me in a healthy and non-transactional way.
Because I believe Dad when he tells me he loves me, even if he doesn’t say it as much as I wish he would.
To be honest, I’ve never believed Stella the few times she’s ever muttered those words to me, even now, or in the past, usually after being scolded by our parents or when in front of an audience she’s looking to impress. I damn sure never believe her half-assed apologies.
Not even this one.
At this point in her life I’m honestly not certain if my sister is truly capable of loving anyone except herself. Perhaps I’m the last person in the world who should be pointing fingers at someone about having emotional issues but at least I’m honest with myself that I have them, and I’m slowly making progress toward healthy growth.
I don’t know what really makes my sister happy, or if she’s ever known what happiness feels like. At least I can look at my life and, despite my emotional issues, I can honestly say I’ve experienced moments of peace and clarity and happiness. That I value the people I love.
That Ihavepeople I know who love me and have my back.
That I am surrounded by people who validate my faith in them with nearly every interaction we have.
Even from deep within my closet, I still don’t feel…alone.
I know I have loyalty and love.
I might carry a weighty load of self-loathing but it’s because of my past actions—and myinactions—and not because of who I intrinsically am as a person.
I don’t spend every moment of my waking hours scheming how best to manipulate people into stroking my ego and doing my bidding, or worrying about what I can squeeze from them like life is a zero-sum game.
One step at a time, I’m working my way toward acceptance and introspection.
Unfortunately, that includes walking away from the toxic swamp that is my little sister. She’s a whole, grown-ass adult.
If she refuses to act like one, I can’t torpedo my life trying to change or rescue her.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
After endingmy last call and wrapping up a few minor tasks, I stalk back toward the residence while I’m still stewing over my earlier call with Stella. The fact that my mind is elsewhere is truly driven home when I pull up short as I spot Leo and Jordan strolling toward me.
Of course Jordan, as my personal aide, would have left orders with the switchboard to be notified as soon as I finished my last phone call.
I can’t believe I forgot their order to remain in my study.
The nearly identical concern in their expressions almost undoes me right there even though I’m surrounded by my detail and the few White House employees on-site tonight able to witness it. My men walk up and Leo’s obviously deferring to Jordan in this instance, because my Sir sadly sighs as he stops in front of me and takes a moment to stare into my eyes.
“Let’s go up to the residence, Mister President,” Jordan says. “You look exhausted.”
That’s not a suggestion—that’s an order. I can tell from his tone.
I nod and both he and Leo step aside to let me go first, as protocol dictates.
A protocol I’m quickly coming to hate, since I’d rather follow them.
When we return to the residence it’s Jordan who orders the detail back for privacy before we disappear behind a safely locked door in my private living room, where I wearily drop onto the sofa.
“What happened?” Jordan asks. “What’d that miserable fucking bitch say to you?”
This means the switchboard has been reading him into my calls, as I suspected.
Meaning he also knows Stella called me and not the other way around.
Leo pours me two fingers of bourbon, neat, and hands it to me before settling next to me on the sofa so I can snuggle against him.
While I tell them about my call with Stella—and about finally finding my balls—Jordan remains standing and looks absolutely homicidal by the time I finish my fortunately brief tale.
