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Jocelyn
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Michael shouts, slamming his fist on the desk as he goes to his feet. “Going out by yourself… Don’t you have anything inside that head of yours?”
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I should have been expecting this. Somehow, I naively thought my husband would have a comforting word for me after finding out that I almost got raped. Of course, I couldn’t be more mistaken about that.
“You’re supposed to be helping me with this goddamn campaign, not being a liability, you stupid bitch!” Michael yells.
I have the urge to take the glass vase and hit him over the head with it. The frustration is immense just being in the same room as this man. This isn’t a marriage. This is torture. Every day.
But whatever he has on my father - whatever could destroy a storied career and get him to come to me with fear in his eyes makes me stay. Because Michael scares me. Every day. With his cold demeanor. His calculating strategy.
Michael got home at the same time the NYPD officers were leaving; they got here an hour after the incident to get a statement, and he immediately asked me what was going on. We went to his office, and he listened to me without interrupting once, but I could see a vein pulsing in his temple, rage building up inside of him.
“It wasn’t my fault…” I try and tell him, but he won’t have any of it.
“It wasn’t your fault? You left the house without your security detail! You never take them anywhere! Of course it was your fault! Walking along in tight clothes…” he says, shaking his head. “Of course you’d be jumped on. You’re still a stupid little girl. We’re not in Kansas, anymore,” he sneers.
I can hardly believe that he’s laying all the blame at my feet. You’d think that a high-society man like Michael Anders would be more forward thinking, but no… Like many other men, he just prefers to blame women for everything. But unlike other men, he won’t ever touch me. How does he know my clothes are too tight and I’m flaunting myself if he feels nothing for me?
“What’s going on?” I turn on my heels as I hear Lance’s voice. He has opened the door to Michael’s office and has stepped inside, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.
“What’s going on is that you two are idiots, that’s what’s going on!” Michael continues, the tone of his voice growing more furious by the second. “It wasn’t enough that Jocelyn got attacked, you had to go and give a beating to the guy! Do you have any idea on how that might play out in the media?”
Lance simply looks at his father, an expression of bewilderment taking over his face.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he starts in a low tone. “Your wife almost got raped, and you’re wondering about how that will affect your election? Are you fucking kidding? What kind of man are you?”
“I’m the kind of man who has fought for everything that he has. This house, the job I got you at the White House… Everything came from my hard work. From my sacrifices. That’s the kind of man I am. Not that you can see it, Lance… You know nothing about hard work or sacrifice.”
“This is your wife, Dad,” Lance says with sarcasm in his voice. “You might want to take care of her.”
“Don’t tell me who to take care of,” Michael shoots back. “If I had any sense, I should have let the state keep you after your Mom died. You’re nothing but an embarrassment to me now. This campaign is your one chance to redeem yourself.”
I feel Lance tensing up, and as he opens up his mouth to speak, I grab his arm, stopping him. When he looks at me, I simply shake my head. Escalating this won’t help matters.
“I’m going back to my office,” Michael says curtly, walking between Lance and I without glancing at us. We stay there in silence, hearing the click of Michael’s shoes across the hallway, and then the door opening and slamming shut.
“That fucking bastard…” Lance whispers to no one in particular, heading out of the office as if he were in a trance. He’s seething; even though he won’t show it, I know that his father's words have gotten to him. I follow him to the living room, trying to forget Michael’s words as I get out of his office. They hurt, sure, but I’m used to his coldness by now.
Lance is sitting on the couch in the family room, staring blankly at the TV. There’s some old movie from the early 00s going, a romantic movie of sorts, but I doubt he’s actually seeing any of it.
After a few minutes I hear Michael walking down the hall and opening the front door. He slams the door and I hear his motorcade start up and drive away.
I have no idea what to say to Lance, but I sit down next to him all the same, placing one leg up on the couch as I turn to face him.
“Thank you,” I say, looking him in the eyes and trying to steer the conversation away from his father. “I don’t know what would have happened if you didn’t show up when you did…” I shudder, the memories of what just happened flooding me again.
“Hey, don’t worry… It’s over, that’s all that matters.” His expression softens as he speaks, a smile dawning on his lips. God, I could kiss him right now… I could just lean in, take his hand in mine and press my mouth against his. It would be so easy. Too easy.
I turn to face the TV, my heart beating fast. Breathing in, I try to calm myself and watch the movie on TV, but much like Lance, all I can do is stare absently at the moving pictures, unable to focus on whatever’s happening.
We sit in silence for a long while, simply staring at the TV—there, a half-naked young Keanu Reeves is kissing Charlize Theron. Even though I’ve already watched it when I was younger, the name of the movie simply alludes. Then, suddenly remembering it, I squeal like a young girl, grabbing Lance’s arm.
“Oh, I love this movie… Sweet November!” I lay down on the couch, placing both my legs across Lance’s lap.
“Never saw it,” he responds, smiling as he sets his forearms across my legs. A shiver goes up my spine as I feel his skin on mine, but I try and push forbidden thoughts to the back of my mind, tucking them away. It’s harder than it seems, though.
