“Since I have you all here,” Daddy says, ignoring my outburst, “there’s something we need to discuss.”
It’s downright democratic of him to pretend like any conversation we have as a family is a discussion. “Your mother’s headstone came, and we need to go see it as a family.”
“Of course, Angus,” Ginny murmurs, placing a hand over Malcolm’s. His gaze turns down as he studies his empty plate.
“Why do we have to go together?” I ask.
“It will be a good thing for us to be seen together as a united front,” he says, dropping his napkin on the table as though declaring this last bit is final.
“Oh my God,” I say, horrified, as I realize what he is up to. “You want it to be a photo op.”
“It’s important that the public sees how much her death is affecting our family.”
“Why?” I ask quietly. How can he cry for her one minute and use her like this in the next?
“You know why,” he says. “Our grief is a private affair.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” I mutter.
He ignores me. “We owe it to the citizens of Tennessee to share our lives with them, but we have to be selective as to the moments that we share.”
“You just want them to see you as a grieving widower,” I accuse. Our eyes meet, neither of us flinches at the hatred glaring back from the other.
“I am a grieving widower, but I’m also a politician.”
I have a few other words to describe him. I consider hurling them like darts at him now.
Alcoholic. Con man. Murderer.
“You will be there,” he says. It’s as much an order as a threat. “They will see this family united in their grief.”
I get to my feet. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. They bear down until I’m sure I’ll be crushed. “You own the papers. Just tell them what you want them to print. But don’t make us lie.”
“Where’s the lie?”
“We’re not a family,” I say. “We’re liars. All of us—and you made us that way.”
I don’t wait for him to respond, although he yells at me as I flee the room. It doesn’t matter. I’ll go to my mother’s grave. I’ll suffer through another stolen moment. I’ll pretend that anything about the situation is normal. I’ll pretend that her death was an accident. I don’t have another choice. Not while I’m under this roof. Not while my father controls me.
And he controls all of us.
I head to the kitchen, ready to cry on Felix’s shoulders, before I remember that he’s gone out for the night. There’s a plate of cookies sitting out for me with a note to eat as many as I like. He’d known how dinner was going to go down. I grab them and shove them in a bag. I need to get out of here. Daddy isn’t going to let me leave Valmont. Everyone thinks having money is liberating. I know the truth. I live in a gilded cage. I don’t have money of my own. I don’t have resources of my own. Nothing here is mine. Not even my free will.
I take Mom’s Roadster, because it’s my favorite and because it pisses my dad off every time he discovers I’ve taken it out of the garage. Sometimes I tell myself the pretty lie that I’m running away, but the truth is, I know I’m on a leash. I know exactly how far I can go. There’s nothing for me in Nashville. All my friends are at school. Poppy will let me crash at her place.
But Poppy doesn’t understand. She tries, and I love her for it, but I don’t want to be cheered up. I want to wallow. I want to feel this. I want it to be okay that I’m mad—that I’m furious. I want to feel every bit of this pain without someone trying to take it from me, because it’s the only thing I have left that’s mine.
And I can only think of one person who will let me do that.
23
Adair
Present Day
It’s been a long time since I made it downtown. Back when I was a teenager, I would lie and tell my parents I was going to Valmont Gallery shopping center with Poppy. Then we’d drive into Nashville, meet up with the others, and flirt our way into the various clubs before crashing in the pool house of whoever’s parents were out of town that weekend. We’d pick up Hennie’s hot chicken on the way home and stay up all night gossiping about our fellow classmates and our plans for the future—the lives we thought were ahead of us. None of those plans worked out the way we thought they would. And Nashville? As much as things come and go—new restaurants, new honky-tonks, new street artists—for the most part it hasn’t changed, either. It’s still a town of rebels and whiskey, music and dancing, and dreams dashed by reality. These days as many people come to Nashville to try to make it as New York or Los Angeles. The city’s cemented itself in the music scene, but there’s a lot more going on than just country singers and karaoke bars. Although there’s a fair bit of that, too. The memories pull me in the direction of the Barrelhouse. I drive past, noticing a sign declaring it to be under new management. Nothing is sacred.
I park the Roadster in front of it, trying to catch a glimpse through the dark windows. It’s too early for them to be open for the day. I wonder how much has changed, but before I can look it up on my phone, Shelby from the animal rescue calls. She probably wants me to pick up a shift
