Page 60 of Insincerely Yours
He looks to be in his forties, with a touch of gray around the temples in his otherwise brown hair. It has that “politician” side part, and he’s wearing a suit Blythe immediately recognizes from some designer’s recent collection. Everything about him screams excessive wealth…which is curious, since he’s living off a congressional salary and supposedly got elected because of his “blue collar” roots.
I’m not sure if politics are played differently in other parts of the country, but around here, it’s nothing more than theater. You can find purported “sworn enemies” on the Senate floor yucking it up together with a bucket of balls on the golf course come Sunday morning. No matter what side of the aisle they’re on, all the lawmakers I’ve had the displeasure of meeting have proven themselves to be career politicians with the sole interest of lining their pockets.
And Senator Walker here is no different.
I can understand why people would think he’s a nice guy. Jase’s warning is the only reason I’m paying close enough attention to see the slip-ups, the micro-expressions he can’t quite hide.
Walker finds Blythe to be quite amusing…just not in the way she’d like. Apparently, her so-called political clout isn’t up to snuff, because he repeatedly buries his smirk into his wine glass every time she mentions it.
He takes her about as seriously as he would a small child.
My dad, on the other hand, seems to have earned his attention, because the senator keeps eyeing him with a look I can only classify as predatory. Seriously, it’s the kind of appraising look I’d imagine a serial killer giving an intended victim, scoping out what body parts he might want to save to eat later. He sees someone he can use, to either manipulate or turn into an ally.
What the hell did his wife ever see in him?
From what I can tell, she seems genuinely nice, complimenting Blythe on everything from the meal to the house’s design to her choice of music.
That last one tests my gag reflex.
Ever since Dad married her, Blythe has insisted on playing music during dinner—something about a scientific study that says it encourages conversation.
I have no problem with that, except all she ever plays is classical music of her favorite ballets, giving her the perfect excuse to start talking about herself or Vanessa whenever a guest acknowledges it.
Sure enough, Blythe goes on about how “there’s nothing quite like performing this” at whatever theater, earning a curious look from Mrs. Walker.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware you still danced,” she says, the remark coming out more like a question.
Can’t blame the woman, because that’sexactlywhat Blythe makes it sound like, opening the door to exactly what my stepmom hoped for.
“I did,” Blythe explains with a begrudging sigh, going on about how she had suffered from a “career-ending” injury and that her priorities shifted to “raising the children.”
To those unaware of the circumstance, you might find that admirable.
I, on the other hand, want to projectile vomit.
For someone accusingmeof victim-playing, she sure as shit has this art down to a T.
Because noooo, surely that “career-ending” injury wasn’t a stress fracture that healed in six weeks. And retiring hadnothingto do with Blythe’s frustration that she never became a principal dancer or soloist by the time she was thirty.
If you’d asked me yesterday why she lied, I may have been more inclined to believe it came from a place of insecurity.“My mother never fostered my talent,”she had said on more than one occasion. I assumed that’s why she dotes on Vanessa’s passion.
But this isn’t a simple lie you tell to sweep the subject under the rug.
She deliberately sets the scene—time and time again—all done just so the subjectcanbe brought up.
Blythe’s words get cut off mid-sentence as the music abruptly changes, the volume dialing up loud enough that it’s the only thing anyone can hear.
The song of choice?
“Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing” by Set It Off.
For a moment, I’m just as confused and taken aback as everybody else at the table…until I listen to the lyrics.
Blythe mouths (or maybe yells) an apology and fiddles with her phone. The speaker system has a central console but can also be controlled via Bluetooth. The latter doesn’t appear to be working, because the punk rock number keeps blaring.
My stepmother’s eyes lock on me just as the oh-so-perfect chorus calls out a liar who hides beneath a mask of innocence, revealing her true—and veryugly—colors.
Yeah, this isn’t a simple electronic malfunction, and we both know it.
