"Riley would love … " Trent jumped in, answering for me when I opened my mouth to speak. But his thoughtless assumption of control shattered the resolve I had made to at all costs remain civil at what should have been just another Washington dinner. In one fleeting moment, my father's clenched jaw and red face, and my mother' look of glittering concern, made me realize that they would stand behind me regardless of the consequences.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Dexter," I said, standing to face him, my voice solid and clear, "but Trent will not be 'bringing me around' next week, nor will I be accompanying you and your family to the lake." I was aware that other conversations around us were quieting, and while I had no intention of making a scene, I also had no intention of letting any kind of charade Trent was maintaining continue at my expense. "In fact, I will never again allow a man who thinks hitting a woman in the face is acceptable behavior to date me, or have anything to do with me, even if his last name is Dexter."
There was a brief pause as the admission sunk in, and then a number of things happened at once. The buzz in the room started up again, gossip no doubt spreading like wildfire. Mr. Dexter looked at me askance, broadcasting disbelief as his eyes darted surreptitiously around the room as if tallying up 'aye' or 'nay' votes in his head. Both Mom and Ryan had stood up to join Dad, who had drawn himself up with his eyes glaring, but knowing me well enough to wait and see what would play out before stepping in. Mom laid a hand on Dad's arm, her gesture at once both restraining and supportive. And Ryan stood between them all and me, despite the shock on his face-I'd told him about Isaac but not about Trent hitting me. But he was still my big brother, giving me the chance to pull Trent aside and hiss my now unbridled accusations at him.
"You had Isaac fired because you knew he cared about me." I said, my voice pitched for Trent's ears alone, even though he looked ready to spontaneously combust. "He's a good man but you just couldn't stand it, could you? Him in the company of something you wanted? You saw him walking me home that night after you hit me. You saw him kiss my hand, didn't you? It must have made you livid, knowing that he was more of a gentleman than you'll ever be."
But with that I had pushed him too far. A man who hit a woman may be using bad judgment, but he was still a man, might even get a few sympathy votes from the other mover and shakers in power. But a man who not only loses his woman, especially to someone like Isaac, and then has to listen to her taunt him about it? That could not be borne, and Trent lashed out with all the fury of his trampled privilege and scorned pride, careless of how his words rang out around us.
"You think that makes you special, running off with someone like that? I'm a fucking Yale graduate, Riley. My father is on the President's staff, and you chase after some colored idiot who mops the floors in a library? You choose him over me when you know I'm the better man?"
You could have heard a pin drop.
"No," I said, throwing the napkin that had been bunched in my hand all this time down on my plate. "You're not the better man, Trent. You're not even a tenth of the man Isaac is. You can't touch him." And before anyone could say anything else, before the hum of voices started back up again, before my brother could catch me or my parents catch my eye, I walked out of that room, straight backed, head held high, feeling like my chest was going to explode. And feeling free.
"Stop fidgeting."
"I ain't."
"You are. Just … oh, my God, he's broken out the bourbon."
"Riley tells me you're working on your entrance essay to Lincoln." My father handed Isaac the glass, and he took it, standing when my mother entered the room to sit next to Dad on the sofa.
Isaac lowered himself into the chair next to me with his back straight and his grip on the sweating glass vice tight. "Yes, sir. Riley's helped me sound like I might not be so thick-headed." He smiled when Dad laughed and I felt something warm heat my chest.
But that calm didn't last long. It was an awkward mess, this whole meeting. But Isaac had insisted as soon as he'd heard about the confrontation at the Matheson dinner, it just was a question of when and under what circumstances. We had spent weeks arguing over how to handle that first meeting, and my father had been frustrated with constantly asking to meet Isaac. But now, after a single conversation, we had decided that the 'where' and the 'how' were not nearly as important as the 'now'.