wearing whatever I want.”
“Daphne, you won’t fit in,” Mom argues, turning to face me. “The rest of us will be dressed like civilized people and you’ll be wearing jeans with holes in them and one of your socialist T-shirts.”
“Oh, I just bought a new one that says ‘Carry Yourself With The Confidence of A Mediocre White Man.’ How about that one?”
“This is no time for joking,” my mother snaps.
“Who’s joking? It’s in the box over on that chair,” I say, pointing to the ridiculous velvet-upholstered wingback in the corner of the room.
My mom puts her fingertips on her temples, her lips pressed into a terse line.
“Our family is in the national spotlight,” she says tightly. “Just this once, this one time, can you think about your father and just be reasonable? Appropriate?”
I push back the covers and get out of bed. “There’s nothing unreasonable or inappropriate about advocating for the marginalized,” I say, annoyed. “If Dad’s embarrassed about what I stand for, that says a lot about him.”
“He’s not embarrassed by you, Daphne.”
“But you are,” I remind her. “You never fail to point out what a disappointment I am.”
“I just think you could do so much more with your life.” She sighs, exasperated.
“My work saves lives. It’s not that you want me to do more; it’s that you want me to want what you did. And I never will, Mom. I’m never marrying some rich man and planning his dinner parties while he’s out making more money. That’s not who I am.”
“It is, actually,” she says with a humorless laugh. “Your last name is Barrington.”
I take in a breath and let it back out, reminding myself what my therapist says about circular conversations. If having them accomplishes nothing and makes me feel bad, I should see the writing on the wall and walk away.
“I’ll go to dinner tonight and meet Olivier Durand,” I tell my mother. “But I have two conditions.”
“Heaven help me,” she mutters. “What do you want?”
“I’m moving back to my apartment tomorrow morning, and I’m going back to work. Once the reporters get some photos of me, the attention will die down.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “And?”
“And I want one of the news photographers let inside tonight to take a few pictures.”
“That won’t be necessary. Your father’s staff photographer will take photos and release them.”
I shake my head. “I want a news photographer, from an accredited news organization.”
“Daphne, I’m not letting one of those people into our home,” she balks.
“Why not? I’m not asking you to give them a private tour. They can take pictures of us meeting in the entryway if you want.”
“No. Your father’s staff photographer will do a better job.”
“No one wants those bullshit photos of Dad shaking this guy’s hand with a tear in his eye, Mom. Again, I know this is hard for you to understand, but not everything is about you and Dad.”
“How did I raise such an ungrateful brat?” She scowls at me. “After all I’ve done for you, this is—”
“I’m getting in the shower,” I say, cutting her off. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“Fine.” She throws up her hands. “I’ll have your father’s communications manager approve one photographer. But only one.”
“Good.”
I turn to walk into the bathroom.
“So you’ll do the hair and makeup,” she says.
“No.” I don’t turn around to look at her.
“That wasn’t one of the conditions.”
“That was never up for debate. I’ll go to dinner, but I’m doing it dressed in my own clothes.”
“You’re thirty-one years old, Daphne. Not exactly a spring chicken. And since you don’t intend to give Aiden another chance, why not put your best foot forward with the man who saved your life and also happens to be a great catch? Would it be so awful to look beautiful for once?”
Her words sting. Even after all the years of being on the receiving end of her bitter comments and attempts at matchmaking, it still hurts. I don’t let it show, though.
“I don’t wear designer clothes, Mom. You know that.”
She waves a hand as she walks toward the door, like I’m a lost cause. “Fine, Daphne. Embarrass your father after he’s spent thirty-five years building a career he’s proud of. You’d probably enjoy that.”
I sigh softly, reminding myself that she’s a master manipulator. Queen of passive aggressive jabs. Just another reason I have to move back to my apartment. She and I are like oil and water and always have been.
Just one more night. One dinner. And then I can