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There is a salad already placed in front of me, and I don’t waste time digging in. I’m hopeful that if I busy myself with my food, I’ll get out of having to talk much.
Conversation starts up about a case Dad is working on. A professional football player got himself into some trouble with his wife, and Dad is trying to get him out of it. I try to not listen too closely because, frankly, it makes me sick that my father takes some of these cases and helps to free criminals whoclearlydeserve jail time.
But anytime I ever spoke a distasteful word about it, I got slammed with his go-to explanation. “Everyone deserves a right to fair representation,” and blah blah blah. I’m so over it these days that I barely ever contribute anything to those conversations.
As the wait staff clears the salad plates and we’re waiting for them to bring the next course, Christopher grabs my hand that’s resting on top of the table by my dinner fork. My knee jerk reaction is to pull it away, but he holds tight.
I look into his eyes and notice a smirk lining his lips. It’s brief before he turns away and continues to talk to Dad about how he should handle the case, with Andrew putting his two cents in as well.
Deciding I don’t want to fight in front of my family, I leave my hand where it is until our soup comes.
“Christopher, my boy! I heard the news earlier this week about that vote. It seems to be split on how it will go over for you.” My dad says.
“I’m not worried about it, in due time all this nonsense will settle.” Christopher sits back in his chair, dragging my hand higher on his thigh. Squeezing a little too tightly.
“Well, we know it was the right choice for you. You were meant for more than just a senate seat. You don’t become president without taking some risks.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Shaw.” A cocky grin on his face. My stomach churns at his expression. I know Christopher’s ultimate goal is the presidency but I’m starting to question all of it.
An inaudible sigh of relief escapes me when I’m finally able to dislodge my hand from his, firmly putting it in my lap for the rest of dinner.
When dinner is almost over, I make the mistake of thinking I’m in the clear of any unwanted attention or questions when my father finally turns his attention to me.
“Andrea, how isworkgoing?” He emphasizes the wordworkin a way that makes it sound almost dirty, like he doesn’t take it seriously. “When will you be done with that little hobby of yours and focus on planning your wedding?”
I gasp, feeling like I’ve been sucker punched. “That’s not fair, Daddy. You know I love my job. Besides, the wedding isn’t until later this year. There is plenty of time.”
His warm brown eyes turn towards me. “I know, but there must be so much to do. Don’t you want it to be perfect?”
Confusion etches my features. Why would I have to quit my job to make that happen? It makes no sense, and I decide to let him know I feel that way.
“Of course, I want it to be perfect, but why can’t I do both? Mom has helped quite a bit, and I think between the two of us, we can make something beautiful.”
He tilts his head thoughtfully and sighs. “Maybe you’re right, but I would still like you to find something more professional, more in line with the family you come from and the family you are marrying into.”
He speaks of our two families as if we’re from champion racehorse bloodlines. We must be bred well.
“What on earth are you rolling your eyes about, Andrea?” my mother asks with a huff.
I quickly realize I let my face show what my mind was thinking.Tsk tsk. One cannot do that!
“Nothing, Mother,” I reply flatly.
Instead of engaging further, my mother thankfully decides to say nothing. Knowing I got off easy, I decide to keep my mouth shut for the most part for the rest of dinner, only responding in short, clipped answers. No one seemed to notice or care, which isn’t shocking in the least since I’m no longer the focus.
I’m tired and ready to go home, but Christopher and Andrew went off somewhere. Deciding I’ve had just about as much fun as I can stand, I go off to find Christopher so we can leave.
I make my way down the long hallway, assuming they may have gone to Dad’s study for a nightcap. As I turn the corner—the study only one door away on the left—I stop in my tracks.
The light is on, and the door is ajar. Andrew and Christopher are in a heated discussion. Normally, I’d walk by, but I stop because Andrew hisses, “This is going to turn into a fucking media circus, and we need to be prepared!”
Christopher snorts. “It’s fine. Andrew. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s handled by the best.”
Oh, my god.
I want so badly to un-fucking-hear this conversation! This cannot be happening again! I even stomp my foot a little, which produces just enough sound for Andrew’s head to snap in my direction.
Shit!
