"No, thank you, I'll be staying for a while. Can you please see that Ms. Monroe gets home safely?"
I slide my arm from around her waist and watch her teeter on her heels. Her black hair is a mess, her dress wrinkled and clinging haphazardly to her body. She's starting to nod off, and I'm embarrassed for her. The daughter of Miles Monroe, she should know better than to publicly embarrass her family. It's the political Golden Rule, a rule that's simply not broken without severe consequences.
I slide a hundred dollar bill into the valet's palm. "Please get her out of here immediately."
"No problem, sir. I have a car waiting. Anything else?"
"That'll be all."
I turn on my heel to see my father across the hall. He winks, running one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and excuses himself from the conversation that's taking place around him.
He falls in step beside me as I make my way into the banquet. I spy my mother, Vivian Landry, in conversation with a judge on the Georgia Supreme Court.
"Nice move, son," Dad drawls, patting me on the shoulder as we walk. "We're going to need Monroe’s support. Your numbers are solid, but Monroe's endorsement would make sure you win. That precinct—"
"I know, Dad."
He shakes his head. "I know you know. I'm just saying I know he'll be appreciative of you getting her out of here. What in the hell was she thinking?”
I shrug, scanning the activity in the room. "I don't know what she was thinking, but I also don't know who let her drink that much," I say, turning my back to my father. It never ceases to amaze me how callous he can be about this entire process.
"Whoever it was just did you a favor, son.”
"Well, I could use a few more favors. Hobbs is doing more damage with his accusations than I dreamed. Did you see the interview today?"
My father cringes. "Yes."
"He pulled up those pics from Atlanta. Again.”
"It's just politics, Barrett. Propaganda."
"Fuck propaganda," I bite out.
Wrapping my hand over the back of my neck, I try to work out some of the tension. The last bit of an election is always tough—mentally and physically. Everyone warned me as I went up the ranks that it would just get harder, more vicious. I thought I was prepared. I thought wrong.
I wake up every day wondering what will be said about me in the media. I have to watch what I say, what I do, rethink every breath that comes out of my mouth because the wrong word to the wrong person can all be twisted. And you can trust essentially no one.
It’s a constant state of defense and it’s starting to wear on me a bit. Or a lot. Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it.
This is my dream. I keep reminding myself of that.
“Don’t look like that, Barrett.”
“Like what, Dad? Like I’m tired of the bullshit? Like I just want to be able to speak freely, grab a cup of coffee, crack some jokes without worrying about who will spin it a hundred ways from Sunday?”
“You’re in the big leagues now. This isn’t a local election. There isn’t a whole hell of a lot I can do for you like I can down here. You have to play the game.”
"I’m trying to play the game, Dad, but I’m playing with people who have no rules. How could he support Hobbs anyway?" I ask, declining a glass of champagne.
"He'll support Hobbs if he's going to win.” Dad takes a sip of his drink. “And Hobbs has already said he’ll vote against the Land Bill.”
I stop in my tracks and turn to face my father. The bill in question is one of the hottest areas of contention in this election. It would take a large swath of property near Savannah and convert it into a commercial zone. It would trigger construction, create jobs, create affordable housing, increase revenue. All in all, it’s a win . . . except for the landholders who just so happen to be old money families, like mine and Monroe’s.
And apparently I’m the only person that thinks the rich, like me, getting richer at the expense of the poor is a bad idea.
“I’m not ready to commit one way or the other on that,” I say to my dad, not wanting to go into it again.
“I’m just telling you—if you’d just throw your weight against it, it would make this Monroe matter much simpler.”
“So you think I should support it because our family stands to make more money if it doesn’t pass? Funny, Dad, that’s not what I thought I was being elected to do.”
He chuckles, the gravel in his tone letting me know he’s not pleased. He’s also not about to cause a scene. “You won’t be elected at all if you don’t play your cards right. Remember that.”
I give him a look that says all the things my genteel Southern upbringing forbids me to say out loud to my father.