Page 19 of Craving Dahlia

“I won’t budge on this.” His voice is firm, and I find myself scrambling to think of some way to make this palatable.

“What about the Smithsonian?” I venture. “If I agreed to marry Jude, and came home, then would you consider helping me get a position at the National Portrait Gallery, maybe? Or one of the other art museums?—”

“That would be up to Jude. But I don’t imagine he’ll like the idea of his wife working.” My father chuckles, a good-old-boy sound deep in his throat that makes me momentarily hate him like I never have before. Like the thought of a politician’s wife working is a hilarious inside joke between men. “I certainly wouldn’t. And there’s plenty for you to do without a traditional job. Just ask your mother. Charity boards, special-interest groups you can work with?—”

Just like that, I know my answer. Whatever hardship comes from refusing my father, I can’t do this. I can’t throw away everything I love for a life of misery.

“I—”

He cuts me off before I can speak, and I wonder if he can see the mulish set of my jaw, the stubborn look in my eyes, and knows what I’m going to say before I can so much as barely open my mouth. “I didn’t plan to announce the proposal tonight, Dahlia. You’ll go to the party and talk to Jude. Get to know him again, after all these years. I planned to announce your engagement at the end of the weekend, at a more private dinner, with our families and a few select guests. You can have some time to think things over.”

The way he says it suggests that I’d be an idiot to do anything other than go along with what he’s telling me to do. And from his perspective, I can see how that’s true. What substitute is a life that I love, friends and the fulfillment of everything I’ve built, compared to money, status, and my family?

The potential loss of my family is the only thing that makes the instantnodie on my lips. That makes me nod instead, agreeing to go to the party tonight like I’m supposed to. Even as hurt as I am by them right now, the thought of losing my family forever, of being completely cut off from them, is difficult to reconcile. Even if it means giving up everything that makes me happy.

There has to be some other way out of this.The words keep circling through my head, over and over, as I reach for the glasspitcher of water and pour some into a crystal glass. As much as I want a drink, I don’t think I could stomach alcohol right now. My stomach is roiling again, nausea rushing through me in dizzying waves, and I take a slow breath in through my nose and out through my mouth to try and quell it. The last thing I need right now is to vomit on my mother’s expensive rug. The way my father is talking right now, he’d probably send me the bill.

“Alright,” I agree, taking a shaky sip of the water. After all, I reason to myself, I’m already dressed. There’s no harm in going to the party, if my father doesn’t plan to announce an engagement tonight. Maybe I can find some reason that my father will listen to as to why I can’t marry Jude. Maybe Jude will dislike being aroundmeso much thathe’llcall the marriage off. It’s all me rationalizing, I know that, but it’s the best I can do right now.

It’s just a party.Even as I tell myself that, though, I know it’s more than that. The rest of my life is going to pivot on the decision I make this weekend.

I thought I knew what I was going to do when I came home. But that was when I thought at least one parent would back me up, in the end.

Now I have no idea.

7

DAHLIA

The party is like every other dinner or gala I’ve ever attended here in D.C. with my parents. It’s elegant and stuffy, the guests comprised of important members of the political circle in the city, their wives and adult children, and some staffers who managed to score an invite, as well as donors. I sit stiffly at the table with my parents across from one of my father’s colleagues and his wife and daughter, making small talk and glancing around to see if Jude is headed this way. My stomach tightens every time I think I see someone who looks like him—which is constantly, considering he looks like a stock cut-out of every privileged, preppy politician’s son in this city.

Resentment coils in my stomach, sending another wave of nausea through me. Dinner is delicious—lamb chops with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted squash—but I can’t bring myself to do more than pick at it. Thankfully, no one really notices—or at least my father doesn’t, too caught up in talking shop with his colleague. My mother always approves of me eating less, so even if she did notice, she wouldn’t say anything.

“Dahlia.”

The sound of my name makes me turn around, and I see Jude standing there in a blue suit with a thin red tie, his dark hair swept back from his face and kept in place by a little too much gel. I force myself not to wince, curling my lips into a smile that I hope he can’t tell is forced.

“Jude.”

His smile is genuine, though the way his eyes drift over me makes my skin prickle uncomfortably. “Come grab a drink with me?” he asks, clearly expecting that I’ll be glad to escape the monotony of the table conversation. And I would be—if it weren’t with him.

I can feel both of my parents’ eyes on me, waiting to see if I’m going to cause a scene. Out of spite as much as anything else—because I know my mother at least is expecting me to refuse—I force the smile a little wider, and get up gracefully from the table.

“Sure.”

I don’t actually want to drink. My stomach is still flip-flopping, and I can’t imagine any form of alcohol will make it better. But when we reach the curved, gleaming mahogany bar, Jude turns to look at me, a clear question in his eyes.

“Gin and tonic with lime,” I tell him, as much to avoid the question of why I don’t want to drink as anything else. He nods, turning back to the bartender, and I hear him order a rum and coke for himself.

“How’s New York?” he asks as he hands me my drink, leaning against the bar casually. His eyes sweep over me again, and I feel that prickling, crawling sensation over my skin once more.

I hesitate. This is as good a chance as any to try and see how he feels about my career, and the life I’ve built in New York. But I’m hesitant to share those parts of my life with this man, who wouldn’t even be considering this marriage if he really caredabout me or my life. But all the same, I decide to give him a chance, just in case he’s as much of a pawn in this as I am.

“It’s good,” I tell him honestly. “I have great friends. My job at the Met is amazing. I love where I live—it’s all really good. I’m happy.”And a month and a half ago, I had the best one-night-stand of my entire life.I keep that part to myself, though.

“I never liked it,” he says flippantly, taking a sip of his drink. “The whole city is insane. They really mean it when they say it never sleeps. Noise at all hours of the nights, crime, filth—” Jude wrinkles his nose. “It’s probably my least favorite place that I’ve been.”

Instantly, any desire I might have had to give him a chance, or the benefit of the doubt, dies away.Who the hell does he think he is? I think irritably, lifting my glass to my lips and taking the smallest possible taste just to give myself a moment before I respond. Ijustsaid I loved my life there, and his response was to shit all over the city that I call home.

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