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“I’ve been seeing him for a year now,” I reply. Defending what? I don’t even know.
“You were with Clinton.” Oh yes, Clinton. The one they approved of.
“No. We met after Clinton.”
“You think we should just buy into this? That for some reason you want to get married. You’ve clammed up every time I brought up marriage to you. And what? Now you want it? And this soon? You expect your mother and me to just accept this?”
He’s blackmailing me! I want to scream it as loudly as I can, but I know it’s useless. If I want my father’s reputation saved, I have to suck this up.
“This is what I want. I simply wanted the power to choose the man of my dreams.”
My father nods his head. “Well, at least you picked someone with a good head.”
Ah-huh, now come the compliments.
My father’s face changes, and I know instantly he’s seeing the business side of this, instead of what it should be, a marriage of his daughter to a man who’s not that good.
Father’s cruel in that regard. I see it the minute Father realizes what it will do for his standing and career. Let’s face it, there’s never any regard for what might be best for me.
“What do you need from me?” my father asks, then eyes Whiskey. “We will talk more about this wedding at a later date, congrats are in order.” My father turns to my mother, and she hands him a glass of champagne. We all take one, but I make no move to drink mine.
Whiskey’s hand drops from my side, his comfort, or what I thought was comfort, vanishes, and I almost feel the loss.
Almost.
Whiskey’s quiet as he drives me back to my place. We left my parents’ home after the celebratory drink and lunch. They all drank and ate while I sat there trying to work out if I’m having a nightmare or if this really is real.
It can’t be real.
But for some reason, I can’t seem to wake up.
“You aren’t close with your parents, are you? I presumed you were.”
“Well, you presumed wrong,” I say, not even bothering to turn and look at him.
“So why do you care so much about their reputation?”
“Because he is my father, and reputation to him is everything, it means more than his own blood.”
“Do you want to go to your apartment or see your new home?” he asks, changing the subject.
I have no idea if he lives still in the same place, nor do I care. I guess it would be smart to see, but right now I’m not in the mood. At all.
“Home,” I say.
“You’ll have to see it soon, Bunny.”
“Not right now,” I argue back.
The driver slows down, and I watch as my apartment comes into view. My hand is on the handle, ready to leave as soon as he pulls to the curb, and that’s when I hear the click of the lock.
“Why are you in a rush, Bunny?”
“I just need to get out of this car.”
“Away from me?” he asks.
“Yes, you are so devious,” I say, not even bothering to lie.
