A whoosh of relief crackles on the other end of my speaker. “Thank you, Daphne.”
“You’re welcome. Tristan.” I like the way his name tastes as I say it aloud again.
“So, how’s the cake?” He rushes the question like he’s eager to change the subject.
“I haven’t tried it yet.” I pour myself a large glass of rosé. Tucking my phone in my bra for a moment, I carry my wine and cake upstairs and settle them on my tub tray.
Tristan’s muffled voice erupts between my tits. “Let me know how it is.”
I remove the phone and set it on the bathroom counter. “I’m going to soak in the tub and read.”
Tristan groans like he’s in pain. “Do you want company?”
As I laugh, I hang up on him to enjoy my well-earned, stress-free evening. God, it’s good making him suffer.
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, awe’re proud of you, Daphne.Nope, thosewere 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.
