I turn my head to look at dad. At first there’s a momentary flash of annoyance and concern on his face. Then that changes to annoyance.
But apparently my own father thinks I’m not worth the fucking effort required to lie.
“You…you fucked the Governor to marry his daughter?” I ask, turning around to face dad. What kind of fucking man is my father? For maybe the millionth time, I’m so fucking relieved that I’m not related to him by blood. That I’m really just his stepson.
Dad, yeah I know, but I’m used to calling him that by now—he just shrugs. “I didn’t do anything to marry Jocelyn, son,” he says to me, raising his head to look at me.
“That’s right,” Kenneth says coming over to stand by dad’s side. “That woman was just a fringe benefit. An afterthought to the real goodies that the Governor helped him get.”
I’m still trying to fucking comprehend. Dad, blackmailing the Governor. Getting God knows what from him. Favors? Power? But Jocelyn Carter, probably the single most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking met ending up as just a fucking afterthought.
Holy fucking Christ.
My world is in a state of complete numbness. Shock.
Just fucking kill me now. A forced marriage that was just icing on a much larger cake.
This is too fucking much. I can’t believe the callousness. The fucking waste. I get up from my chair.
“Close the door on your way out, will you please?” Kenneth says to me as I stalk to the door. I turn around to look at him. His hands are on my dad’s shoulders, a lascivious smile playing on his lips as he brings out his tongue to lick them. “We’re going to be a little…busy…in here.”
I don’t have the fucking strength to argue.
I do as Kenneth asks, close the door, and go toward the front door.
I need fresh air.
I need to find Jocelyn.
Jocelyn
I've never considered myself a great cook, but looking at the dinner spread on our dining room table, I'm proud. I went all out, planning four courses for the evening—an asparagus, green onion, cucumber, and herb salad, a mushroom and leek soup with thyme cream, grilled lamb chops with a sweet chutney sauce, and to top it all off, I even prepared a rich and decadent chocolate lava cake. You know, the kind of warm cake that oozes in the middle.
I'll admit that I had some help from the housekeeper, Rosa, but I still feel like I pulled off a miracle. I've been harboring guilt, and I needed something to re-direct my attention to, and today that something happened to be a four-course meal. Michael doesn't seem impressed though. He's limply picking at his plate of salad, his fork pushing the vegetables from one side to the other, but Lance is devouring it all. "You outdid yourself," he says to me. "This is impressive."
His hands are dancing from the soup, to the salad, and back again, but he also seems to be holding something back. He's lifting his eyes to me in cursory glances. What I wouldn't give to be inside of his brain right now.
Then he looks up, clearing his throat. "I wanted to say something," he begins, and a momentary wave of panic washes over my chest. What is he going to say? "I've decided—" he pauses and I can almost feel myself holding my breath. "—I've decided to go to Europe for the summer."
Europe? For the entire summer? Why is he doing this? I don't respond and I work hard to stifle my surprise. I casually continue to take small and calculating sips of the creamy soup, allowing the earthy flavors to dance around my tongue. Michael merely shrugs his shoulders and wipes his mouth with his napkin, "That's nice Lance."
I can detect the disappointment in Lance's face. He was expecting something more out of his father. That much is clear. But as quickly as that disappointment appears, he replaces it with an air of indifference. He's trying not to let his father get to him. "I've decided to take a direct flight to Heathrow airport next week."
I look over at Michael to see if he's going to say anything else. Perhaps he'll ask Lance what his plans are? Why London, of all places? But no, he doesn't say another word. It seems like he's refusing to engage in any kind of conversation with his son. Maybe he doesn't care at all why he's leaving. Instead, he continues to take uninterested bites of his food, his eyes cast down on his plate. I watch as a small sliver of cucumber gets stuck on his bottom lip. Maybe this is what Michael wanted. I'm too shocked to say anything. I never anticipated this happening. So instead, I simply nod at Lance when he glances in my direction. And really, what can I say? There a lot of things that I'd let spill from my mouth, but not in front of my husband.
Michael takes a few more bites of dinner and then excuses himself from the table, his chair squeaking against the hardwood floor. Lance takes his cue and leaves as well. I watch them both walk off, and with everyone leaving I start to clear the table. As I'm carrying dishes to the kitchen, Michael re-appears. He is slipping his arms into a coat, and seems to be in a hurry.