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 motheris 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 theMatrix. The thought of Tristanassassinatingsomeone 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. Howcome? 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 piñata. I know my Dad’s not a kind person. You can’t be kindandbe 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 billthrough? 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?
