Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“The Box Day Committee?” I asked, trying not so successfully to hide my disgust. “Are you serious? That’s Mother’s committee.”
“So it is,” my mother approved. “And look, Tommy Strickland is manning the table. He’s on the town council,” she reminded my father unnecessarily. “And his brother-in-law—”
“Represents the teacher’s union,” they recited in perfect harmony, smiling at one another.
This time, I was the one scandalized. “No,” I said firmly. “Dad, you cannot take pictures with a man who tried to get his wife to organize a boycott of Alden’s salon simply because the man displayed a Safe Space sticker on the door—”
“That was not why,” my mother sniffed. “It was because he hired Oona Frank to sweep floors when she was underage—”
“Two weeks underage, and only because she needed the money to help her mom pay the electric bill,” I pointed out. “And since the boycott didn’t come up until months later, I highly doubt the two were related, no matter what Tommy claimed after the boycott failed.”
“Well. We’ll never really know, will we?” But my mother bit her lip in an uncharacteristic show of indecision.
I laid a hand on her arm. “Mother, you go to Alden’s salon religiously. You said he was one of the most gifted hairstylists you’ve ever come across. Surely you don’t need to be photographed with the person who tried to destroy his business for no other reason than because Alden wants to support gay youth. For heaven’s sake, your own beloved eldest son is—”
“Reagan, modulate your voice, please,” she interrupted. She adopted a pleasant smile and raised a hand in greeting to a woman passing by. “I believe I told you how many reporters there are here, dear. Some from national news organizations—”
“So what?” I demanded. “Is it a secret that JT is gay? Because if so, he probably shouldn’t be standing over by Willow with his hands in Flynn’s back pockets.” I tilted my head toward where my brother stood, gazing at his boyfriend with his heart in his eyes.
“Of course it’s not a secret! We love Jonathan… and Flynn,” she added, grudgingly but sincerely. “Your father and I are truly happy for them. But Reagan, there’s a difference between knowing a thing and… and screaming it out loud. They’re a part of our family, certainly, but they’re not what the Senator’s platform represents. Surely you understand the difference.”
I closed my eyes, which were suddenly scratchy and throbbing in rhythmic counterpoint to the pounding in my head.
The sad thing was, I did understand… sort of. Hadn’t I said something similar for years? That being pansexual was only one part of me and arguably the least interesting? That there was no need for me to “come out” to my parents or the public because I already was out to my friends and brother and sexual partners, and no one else needed to know?
It was true, damn it, and I stood by that—no one should feel like they had to come out, ever, if they didn’t want to. In fact, I’d always thought the whole notion of “coming out of the closet” implied that everyone on the LGBTQ spectrum was born into the world’s shittiest, darkest escape room and had to fight to free ourselves, using someone else’s rules, on someone else’s timeframe, if we ever wanted to be taken seriously. I rejected the whole fucking concept.
But…
In that moment, I also recalled two snippets of conversation I’d had that week. The first from that night in Colorado when McGee had recounted Thatcher’s words of wisdom to him. Maybe I needed to fight, and I was just picking the wrong fights. The second, words Thatcher himself had spoken. Living up to other people’s expectations is a losing game. You need to live up to your own.
The two thoughts fused together in my brain, and suddenly, the world came into a different sort of focus, much like pulling on tinted ski goggles after being snow-blind for hours.
What the hell was I doing?
Had I really just agreed to work for my father—unpaid—so I could prove myself to him? Was I agreeing to give up the life I’d been building in New York, my job at PennCo, the possibility of ever being with Thatcher in any capacity? And what about my own social media and the brand I’d been building? Would I give that up, too, if my father asked it of me?
What kind of endgame was that? Why had this ever been my goal?
If I’d hoped to affect political change from the inside, I’d been deluding myself. Deep down, I knew I didn’t have a hope in hell of changing my father’s views on political issues because the man tried as hard as he could not to have views on political issues. He chose his platform based on exit polls and donors. He wasn’t an evil man—he really wasn’t—and he’d even been a pretty decent dad for most of my life, but as a candidate… he sucked.