I can give it eight more years. I've given it twenty-two already.
Women these days aren't getting married or having children or serious relationships until their thirties. I can be just like one of them. I still have time to have a life after my father’s political career comes to an end.
I refuse to think of some of his plans I overheard—how my husband will be selected for their own political trajectory. He envisions my husband also becoming president, and if he chooses right, he’ll have even more time in the White House.
Mother walks across the room, her fingers skating over the row of clothes brought in for tonight's event.
“I was thinking about the black one,” I tell her, trying to shift her attention away from the mistake she feels I made by spending a little time with my toes in the sand earlier today.
“The venue is open air to the beach. I'll wear that cute, lacy, black shawl on my shoulders and no one will be the wiser.”
Mother nods in acceptance.
“And by the time we're in Houston on Tuesday, the redness will be gone.”
“Don't forget,” she says as she crosses the room to the door that joins mine and my parents’ suite. “Jackson Smith will be there tonight to meet you.”
I drop my eyes to my feet, not wanting her to read the irritation in my eyes. It would only end with her complaining about my attitude once again.
“I look forward to meeting him,” I tell her, lifting my head and giving her the same practiced smile I give everyone.
She’s either tired or a little off her game tonight because normally, she would never miss an opportunity to chastise me for something else before walking away. It doesn’t mean she won’t, eventually. It just means I’ll get twice as much of a lecture at another time.
***
“I've already taken up too much of your time,” I say with a gentle smile as I touch Emily's arm. “I'll let you get to the rest of the party.”
I don't give her a chance to make an excuse. I don't give her the opportunity to tell me that it's fine that she’d like to continue talking to me. I don't have time.
I saw the look in my father's eyes and knew exactly what it meant.
Jackson Smith is my focus tonight. Jackson Smith's parents are rich, so wealthy, it’s beyond comprehension of many people.
His family is a prime donor for my father's political campaign, and despite having millions of dollars in donations already, there's no such thing as too much money.
I cross the room, full glass of champagne in hand, smiling and nodding as I pass others in attendance. I get stopped several times before I can close the distance between myself and my parents.
Jackson, whom I recognize from pictures online, smiles as I approach, but I won't make the same mistake I've made in the past of thinking that he's a kindred spirit. His smile is just as fake as the one I give him, just as fake as the one I’ve given to every person here tonight.
He may not want to be here.
He may not want to meet me.
He may be in the same situation with his parents that I'm in with my own parents, but that doesn't make him my friend.
It doesn't make him an ally in life.
Jackson's a man, one I know for a fact who has political aspirations of his own from online research.
I've learned through experience that men in the political world will step on anyone to see their goals realized.
As much as my father is using him and his family's money for political gain, this connection is a benefit to Jackson as well.
Jackson will use the connection with my father and his campaign to advance his own career. I have no doubt about that.
“Jackson,” my father says, angling a hand in my direction as I approach. “Have you met my beautiful daughter, Raya?”
Jackson reaches for my free hand, and as I've been trained, I hold it out for him in greeting.