“People may be more apt to vote for Independents simply due to the corruption rotting through both of the primary parties,” I state. “Which means we shouldn’t count out conservative-leaning Independents in our endorsements.”
Mr. Loveless offers a gentle smile, though I know underneath it he is wishing I would go to the fiery place under my feet. He’s part of the corruption, after all. The past hour has gone like this: Richard Loveless has taken shots at Independents claiming that people can never be sure if the party members adhere to more liberal or conservative beliefs, and I have countered that the Republican Party is just as politically corrupt as the Democratic Party.
Senator Pellenson has taken my side, being an Independent himself. Mr. Weatherby has bounced back and forth on varying issues. Ren and Mr. Sato have quietly chatted with Hayden in Japanese, and by the way her wide, excited eyes are animated and her hands flaring as she speaks, I can tell she is loving getting to practice the language. Maybe I should let her in on the fact that I know Japanese as well, thanks to Ren. Then, I could have those lively conversations with her.
No, there’s no point. Our conversations get heated enough in English. Though, it’s always on the side of pique instead of passion.
The wives of the politicians and donors gathered around the long table have joined in occasionally on the battle between Mr. Loveless and myself, but mostly, they have whispered amongst each other. The food seems to be endless, covering every inch of the table, which one would think would prevent much talking considering how great it all tastes. But no. These are natural-bred politicians. Nothing can make them shut their mouths for two seconds.
Priscilla, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen. Though I was prepared to encounter her tonight, I didn’t realize the relief I felt until I settled in for dinner and she was still absent from the gathering.
I take a bite of the steak and chew on the rare meat while I contemplate why Mr. Loveless was invited to this party. Mr. Weatherby is an Independent, the Senator is an Independent, Mr. Sato, though a diplomat, has been nothing short of wonderful for the Independent party and a close friend of many of us. The fewother guests are well-known Independent Party political action committee donors.
So why is Mr. Loveless, an establishment Republican and presidential ticket holder for the party, at this dinner?
“When will Marcus arrive?” Mr. Weatherby asks.
“He should be here in,” Mr. Loveless checks his watch, “about five minutes.”
“Will Priscilla be with him?” Mr. Weatherby glances my way as he asks the question. Why would Priscilla be with—
It takes every ounce of concentration to not let the fake smile slip from my face.
“Yes, they were meeting with a client. It ran a little late,” Mr. Loveless says. Right on cue, Mr. Loveless’s son walks into the dining room hand-in-hand with my ex-fiancée and childhood friend.
And there’s a ring on her finger.
A deadly silence blankets the room. Glances bounce between Marcus, Priscilla, and me. No one dares to move or make a sound, and the uncomfortableness of the situation sits heavily on my chest. I twist my hands together under the table, eventually wiping them down my pant leg as sweat continues to accumulate on my palms.
The mask slips. I can’t bear to smile anymore. Anger boils in my blood, and I wish I would have hopped in my Mustang and driven home when I had the chance.
“Mr. Marshall, it’s nice to meet you. I’m a huge fan of yours, as I'm in the tech industry.” I look up to find Marcus standing beside me with an outstretched hand. It’s almost as if I’m looking into a mirror that reveals my younger self—Marcus Lovelessand I could be siblings with our similar builds, blond waves, and blue eyes. My face displays a light scruff while he has a clean shave. I search for Priscilla who has already sat down at the other end of the table, for which I am grateful for. Looks like she has a type.
I stand up and take Marcus’s hand with a firm shake. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Loveless.”
“Please, call me Marcus. Mr. Loveless is my father’s name.” He grins. I don’t understand this situation, but I can certainly understand not wanting to be completely associated with one’s father. I try to find the masked smile to place on my face, but it’s buried deep inside. The best I can do is offer a slight nod before I take my seat.
Marcus makes his rounds offering greetings and then sits down next to Priscilla. The look that passes between the two tells me all I needed to know: she was seeing him while she was engaged to me.
By the flush and sweat on Mr. Weatherby’s wrinkly face, he knew as well.
Why in the world am I here tonight?
A hand rests on my thigh, and I instinctively scoot my leg away. But when I look to my left, Hayden is smiling at me while she reinforces her hand with a grip that has her fingers digging into the skin beneath my pants.
The only words my brain conjures are that Hayden Bennett’s hand is casually gripping my thigh. It’s a song played on repeat, clashing with a thousand emotions already plaguing my thoughts.
“Are you okay?” she whispers in my ear. I swallow as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Her hand is a hot flame sitting above my knee.
I loosen the tie around my neck and let out a breath. “Of course.”
She smiles sweetly, her face lingering in my space. I back away, but her fingernails dig into my leg.
“Don’t lean away,” she hisses through her smile. The confusion must be plain as day in my eyes because she leans toward my ear again. “Smile like I’m whispering sweet nothings in your ear.”
I choke on my saliva at the phrase “sweet nothings” and reach for my glass of water as Hayden backs away with a satisfied smirk. Everyone, once preoccupied with entertaining Marcus and Priscilla, congratulating them on their engagement, now has their eyes trained on me for the second time tonight.
Hayden finally moves her hand, but instead of placing it back in her lap where it belongs, she rests it on my shoulder and smiles at me like I’m her favorite person in the whole world. Like sheseesme.
