Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Some level of privacy, or at least the false sense of it, is expected by my parents.
Unreal bonds with people are very difficult to maintain for long periods of time. The charade of acting like you know someone when you really don't is always questioned in the media. So it's not unusual for Jackson to be leading me out closer to the water.
The sound of the party floats on the breeze, fading to nothing the further we walk. Jackson still hasn't released my hand, but I also don't want to be seen as a shrew.
I don't pull my fingers from his grasp. I can do what's expected because I know what's coming.
Jackson and I will share a polite conversation. He’ll probably ask me out on a date, something official of course, something that can be tracked by those people that are always keeping an eye on my father.
“It's a nice night,” Jackson says as he pauses his long stride to give me time to pull off my high heels. “Do you get to the beach often?”
I want to scoff. I want to look at him and say really? Do you come here often? Is that a line that actually works with other women?
But I don't.
I can't. My breeding and my training assure that I won’t.
“Not as often as I’d like,” I respond, instead of saying what I really want to say. “I love the beach. I'd like nothing more than to live full time here.”
He hums as if in deep thought, as if he's considering that same type of future for himself.
“Senator Reed told me you majored in poli sci. Any aspirations of going to law school?”
There's a question behind his question. One, that his own breeding and training doesn't allow him to ask but his anticipation of my answer is still the same.
“No plans for law school,” I tell him. My answer is truthful. I'm not lying.
What I don't say is that I never even wanted to major in poli sci, and had I been given the freedom to choose on my own, I would have gone to school for veterinary science or social work. Both of those degrees require longer than the requisite four years that are required to be considered “educated.”
“You're happy with just a four-year degree?” he asks.
“Of course,” I tell him. “My energy is best spent helping my dad. It's important that I'm on the road with him.”
I look up at him.
The man is classically handsome, and I can see the appeal. If this ends up in a situation that's a relationship sanctioned by my father, I guess it wouldn't be so bad to spend the rest of my life with a guy like him.
I can only hope that he's a decent enough human being.
I can hope that there may be a chance at love in all of this.
But if not, I just have to accept that too.
It's not like I grew up watching a loving relationship. My parents’ marriage was also arranged. I know mine will be as well. I’ve always known it.
“So, you're happy?”
I want to answer him honestly.
I want to tell him that there isn't really a time in my life that I could recall being genuinely happy despite all the smiles, despite the laughter, despite the laugh lines at the corners of my eyes and near my mouth that tell other people that I'm a happy person. But I can't tell this man the truth.
I can't open myself up for a situation where it gets back to my mother.
I can't be seen as an angry, upset, bitter woman.
Those women aren't marriage material.
Those women end up losing their minds.
They're the ones that make the headline news after spending decades at the beck and call of someone else, only for their final straw to come, in line at the coffee shop. When the last straw breaks, they end up on the evening news, ranting and raving about everything that's wrong in the world.
I don't want to be that person. I don't want to end up as that person.
“Yes,” I lie. “I'm very happy.”
His phone rings in his pocket, and rather than ignoring it or pulling it free and silencing it, he answers it, giving the person on the other end of the line a quick greeting before holding it to his chest.
“I've been waiting for this call for three days,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Give me just a minute?”
I nod as an answer to his question but it's not really a question, is it? It's not like he would hang up if I told him that I wasn't comfortable with him getting a phone call right now. The man wouldn’t care if I voiced my opinion about how rude it is.
I don't care that the man gets a phone call.
I don't care who's on the other end of the line.