Page 14 of Sweet Caroline
Dad’s phone rings and he answers the way he’s answered every phone call since I was a little girl. “Pete Brennan.” I quickly gather it’s Linda, his PR consultant. He excuses himself and, for a moment, I can breathe again.
Mom swivels the laptop to face her straight-on. “Your father will calm down. You know how he gets right before an election.”
“I know,” I say, shoving aside the memories of how he couldgetwhen I worked for him in Seattle. That side of him I never really saw growing up.
Maybe I’d just been sheltered from it, between my motheracting as a buffer and all the time I spent with my grandparents. I was a teenager when I started helping out at Dad’s office, trying my damnedest to forge a connection with him by making myself useful. But, by the time I was out of college, those rare crumbs of praise I craved from my father had only dwindled and his expectations of me had only grown. I was working my butt off for him and it was never enough.
Deep down, I know he wants the best for me and for us as a family. He’s always said so. Mom’s right; the election stress is amplifying everything right now.
Mom puts on her brave face. “We’ll find a way to spin this, sweetheart.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say with a small grimace.
“Sweetie, we have the best PR team in the state; they’ll come up with a way to dispel this nasty little rumor.”
Nasty?
A sickly sensation twists through me. How is the idea of me being involved with Miles—even if untrue—somehowworsethan the reality of my relationship with Fletcher?
Still, I can’t shake the feeling I’ve done something wrong.
“I’m so sorry I messed this up. I shouldn’t have…” I trail off, not really knowing what I’m apologizing for but feeling that familiar pang of guilt all the same. Trying to look at things rationally, I push aside the way it felt—the way it always feels—to know I’ve disappointed my dad. Because there was no way I could have anticipated this. Sure, I’d known there was a possibility of photographers lurking around Lennox, but what was I supposed to do? Maintain a solid four-foot radius of space around me at all times, never letting a single human enter my bubble?
“You simply need to be more careful,” Mom says. “You never know who’s watching. How things might look.”
“Right,” I say, masking the way my stomach sinks hearing her confirm I should have done something different. Somethingmore. I know she means well—know she’s simply trying to keep the peace between me and Dad—but it also feels like putting this on me is giving him a pass. Enabling him to continue with his unreasonable expectations. I catch myself fiddling with my gold dragonfly pendant and consciously stop my fidgeting before Mom gives me grief about it.
Human-repelling force field it is.
And the only one allowed in is Fletcher. The last man I want anywhere near me. Sudden, aching dread washes over me at the thought.
Just a few more weeks,I remind myself, wishing I had a time machine to fast-forward my way out of this.
“Mom, I should go,” I lie, avoiding looking directly at the screen. “I’ve got some work to catch up on. Let me know what Dad thinks we should do about the story.” Straightening in my chair, I paste on my best mask of people-pleasing optimism—the one I’ve honed and perfected over a lifetime in the public eye. “I’m up for whatever he thinks is best.”
After all, I’ve spent my whole life doing exactly that—whatever my father thinks is best. Always putting Team Brennan first.Do it for the family,Dad would always say.Be a team player.And I was. For years, I’d worked for Dad’s various political campaigns, doing everything from fetching coffees to organizing fundraisers.
But that all ended last year. Grandpa’s fall was minor and he’s fully recovered, but it had been a wake-up call: living alone was no longer wise at his age. While he didn’t need constant supervision or hands-on care, he did need someone around regularly. Grandpa’s sudden need for a roommate had finally given me the perfect excuse to put some space between me and my father’s controlling ways. It was long overdue—but I knew Dad would talk me out of it if I tried to quit on him for simplywantinga change. Helping Grandpa was not only something I genuinely wanted to do, but it made for a firmer leg to stand on in the face ofmy father’s objections. It gave me the courage to finally break free.
With another forced smile, I end the call and close my laptop, sagging into the kitchen chair. I head to put the kettle on, determined not to fixate on my father’s disappointment.
As I flick on the cold water, realization hits me.
That feeling of freedom I’ve always associated with Lennox Valley—summers with my grandparents, running around their backyard and roaming the riverside with my cousins—has been elusive since I moved in with Grandpa. I may be here, but I’m notfree. Physical distance hasn’t put a dent in my father’s control; I’m still bending to his whims—still bound to what he wants, obediently shelving whatIwant.
WhatdoI want? Do I even know? And does anybody care?
A wave of loneliness hits me. I try to let the feeling take root so I can feel it in my body—like my therapist taught me—but old habits being what they are, my mind quickly searches for a way to disprove it. In practical terms, the idea is ridiculous. I’ve got my job at the art gallery with Julian and Sunny. I dutifully attend every fundraiser and campaign event with my parents. I have Grandpa and his care aide, Sadie, who I see here at home. Adrian and I talk all the time. I’m not alone.
On paper, at least.
But below the cheerful surface? There’s a profound emptiness, like the inky blackness of outer space—and it’s been there for longer than I care to admit. I’ve been floating, untethered, unable to bump up against anything tangible to ground me.
My thoughts drift back to the image of me peering up at Miles, then to the light brush of his fingers on my arm. It had felt so different with him compared to Fletcher. Even in the beginning, Fletcher had never given me that warm, buzzy feeling. He’d fit into my world. Or my parents’ world, at least. But Miles…
Water overflows from the kettle, splashing into thesink. I gasp, snapping back to the present. Shaking my head, I pour out the excess and dry everything off with a dish towel.
No. I’m imagining things. There was nothing between me and Miles yesterday. I’m grasping at straws—flustered by his flirty attention and the thigh tattoo peeking out from under his gym shorts. Okay, so he’s incredibly sexy. But he’s not my usual type. I tend to go for buttoned-up prep-school guys—the ones who’ve always been in my orbit. Men who keep their dress shoes polished and know how to order expensive wine.
