Twenty-Three

EVERETT

“Everett, are you sure you don’t want anything else?” my father asks, glancing at the empty plate in front of me.

Well, correction: It’s not empty. The discarded lemon wedge from my water glass is there.

“I’m all set,” I reply, swallowing down a sigh.

“So healthy.” My father glances at my mother. “I wish I could feel full after a little side salad.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” my mother replies absently before she sips the vodka soda she always orders because it’s unseemly for a governor’s wife to drink straight spirits. Dad and I both know she’s on her third though.

Her slender, manicured hand drifts over the table to pat mine, and maybe she expected us to hold hands. I can’t remember the last time I held my mother’s hand, if ever.

My hand stays next to my uneaten bread roll and the flower-shaped pat of butter I didn’t touch.

My mother drums her fingernails on the table. Tap tap tap, they’re trimmed short and round at the tips, painted baby pink. She takes another sip. “Everett, you’re looking vibrant lately. You’ll have to tell me your secret.”

I’m tempted to tell my mother that the secret to my radiant glow is letting a camgirl come on my hand, but to be fair, I’m not sure if it was the fingering or the dick-sucking that did it. As a politician, I have to be careful about spreading misinformation, so I opt for the politically correct response of, “Thanks, Mom. That’s nice of you to say,” which turns out to be the correct politically correct response because my father nods his head in classic Warren E. Logan approval.

Yay.

My father picks up his own drink: straight whiskey like he’s shipping off to war tomorrow. “Well, now that the debate is over, and you did spectacular—” he begins.

“Spectacular,” my mother agrees.

“—such a Logan—”

“And so handsome.”

“—there’s something we’d like to tell you.”

I’m practically required to keep my spine ramrod straight around Warren E. and Vivienne Logan, which doesn’t afford me the opportunity to straighten my spine any further upon learning they have something to tell me. Cue the metaphorical spine straightening.

My brain has taken a direct flight straight to the worst-case scenarios—that they’re going to renew their vows in Montauk (again) or they’re going to rent a castle in Scotland where we’ll take our Christmas photos (again) or I’m going on a date with the Virginia Senator’s eldest daughter (again) or middle daughter (again)—and I’m already prepping my fake smile when my mother announces, “Your father officially filed today.”

“For divorce?” I ask before I can stop myself, which makes my mother gasp audibly—far louder than she gasped when the Dow plummeted at the beginning of the recession sixteen years ago.

“For Senate, Everett,” my father clarifies, pretending to laugh. He clasps his hand over my shoulder and his fingers dig into my skin.

I exhale through my nose, working through the pain while I stare directly into my father’s eyes. He stares right back, pressing even harder through the fabric of my suit jacket. Five seconds feel like decades until he releases me.

My shoulder tingles with the lingering ache, but I swallow the pain and say, “I thought you reconsidered running after last week.”

His face is alight with excitement. “Beverly got the numbers, and as it turns out, the incident—”

“Somebody tried to kill me.”

“Everett,” my mother hisses, quite literally clutching her pearls, “ lower your voice .”

I face my father again and say lowly , “I’m your only child, and someone tried to shoot me to send a message to you. How did that persuade you to run for a more public, more important political office?”

“It’s an opportunity, Everett—one that certainly benefits you long-term. The Logan political dynasty is about to embark on a zenith, and you’re here to witness it.” He raises his whiskey. “Cheers, son.”

The look on his face should make me sick to my stomach—sicker than I’ve felt in the presence of the half-eaten veal parmigiana on his plate. Thing is, I’ve seen this look before. Warren is thrilled.

He’s thrilled someone tried to kill me. He’s thrilled Cora took a bullet for me—my Cora.

…Is she my Cora now? I would know if I weren’t being held against my will at a tacky DC steakhouse.

“Cheers, Dad,” I reply, forcing a placid expression while I raise my water glass. “The people of Virginia continue to be in good hands under your unerring leadership.”

“Thank you, Everett,” my father replies, beaming.

“What a lovely thing to say, darling,” my mother agrees. She reaches to touch my hand again, but before she can, I grab the cloth napkin from my lap and drop it on the table.

“I should get going. I’m meeting Lander to debrief.”

My father bobs his head with approval. He knows I’m lying, but he’s fine with it. He wants me to lie.

He taught me how.

“Well, before you go, let me say again: You were exceptional tonight.” He beams at me. “You were everything I expected you to be.”

I push my chair back and rise before buttoning my jacket. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” he continues. “I’m unbelievably proud of you, son. You’re a real man now and you make this family so damn proud.”

A real man now.

I bob my chin. “Making this family proud is all I’ve ever wanted to do,” I reply, loathing the words—not just their sentiment, but how convincing they are. They’re bile and spite, but they sound like honey. “Thank you, Dad.”

Satisfied, he downs the last sip of his whiskey. “Tell the boys it was good to see them again. I’d love to host them at the mansion once the primary is over.”

“I’ll tell them,” I reply, even though Dalton would rather give up liquor for a month than spend a minute with my father, and last time we were at the Executive Mansion, Lander was so done with my father that he pretended he didn’t know who Ronald Reagan was for a solid half hour, and my father nearly had a conniption.

Warren nods, eyes crinkly and kind, smile straight and white and beaming. “I love you. Try to have a low-key night, please. People are paying attention now.”

And I stare back at my father, holding eye contact when I respond, “Of course I’ll be low-key.”