“Why am I here, Dad?” I’m dreading this conversation, but if it shifts the attention away from the bill, I’m happy to change the subject.
Until Dad asks, “Have you spoken to Brent lately?”
That one piece of chicken threatens to come back up again. Mom would approve.
“No, I’m not speaking to Brent. Ever again.” I say the last two words with some finality before I take a sip of water.
Dad’s beefy fingers, slick with barbecue sauce, take a couple of tries before he gets a solid grip on his beer glass. “Guess again,” he says above the rim.
Nope. Not happening. “Dad, I’m not talking to Brent.”
Dad rolls his eyes as he sips his beer. And who says men can’t multitask?
As he sets his glass back down, he pauses. “I think it’s time you let bygones be bygones.”
“After what he did?”
“I’m sure that was a misunderstanding. You’d been drinking, remember?”
“Dad, I’d had two drinks. I wasn’t drunk.”
“But alcohol impairs your judgment.”
I wave my hand toward his glass. “So, then what’s this?”
He ignores me and barrels on. “You didn’t remember the details clearly. You didn’t even go to the cops.”
“I didn’t remember the details because he drugged me. And I didn’t go to the cops because you told me I couldn’t, or you’d cut me off.” Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. No, my parents don’t get to see myweaknesses. The people who were supposed to protect me were the ones who protected my rapist.
And even if I forgive them, I will never, ever forget what they did. Forgiveness was for me, not them. I forgave them to protect my peace and find some closure.
Dad shakes his head at me in that ‘I’m disappointed in you’ way, a look that has spanned all the way back to my childhood. That little girl who wanted to see her dad smile but was instead met with that disappointed look time and time again. “I couldn’t let you ruin a man’s political career over a drunken night.”
“I. Wasn’t. Drunk.”
Dad’s lips pout beneath his perfectly trimmed goatee. “Just because you changed your mind doesn’t permit you to ruin a man’s life, Daphne.”
“He never had my consent. For any of it.” Damnit, a wet spot trickles down my cheek. Fuck. I rub it away, but they can see my tears.
Mom’s squeak of a voice chimes in. “You chose to let him into your house that night. You chose to drink. That’s an invitation, Daphne. I raised you to be a lady. Not lead men on like a hussy.”
Dad raises his hand to calm her. “Now, Grace, no need for name-calling. Daphne’s not a hussy, but there are consequences for our actions. And Daphne, those were the consequences of your actions that night.”
My stomach rolls, and I drop my fork onto my plate with a piercing clatter.
“Talk to Brent yourself. Leave me out of it.”
Dad shakes his head. “You know I can’t meet with a senator from the opposing party this close to the election. You can tell people you were meeting with an ex-boyfriend who?—”
“No.”
The air shifts as Dad’s eyes darken in anger. His greasy hands ball into fists as he pounds so hard on the table that his silverware jumps and falls with a cartoon-like clunk.
“Daphne Eleanor Fox. I am your father. I brought you into this world. I put organic food in your belly. Designer clothes on your back. Sent you to the best private girls’ school in Atlanta. I paid for college. Youwilldo this, and you willnotcomplain.”
I feel five again. But instead of breaking a lamp or sneaking a Lunchable before dinner, Dad’s directing his disappointment at me for protecting myself against my abuser.
“We raised you to be grateful, Daphne,” Mom adds. “We gave you everything. We don’t ask for much—help your father. He needs this bill to pass. Some powerful people could influence this election. He might still win once it passes.”
