Always Choose Dare

Chapter 3 - Ridiculous

“This is ridiculous!” my father fumes. “You have known for how long now - months? - that we expected you to accompany your mother and me on this trip! And what? You’re not coming because of some silly book release?”

“This is my career, Father. This is my passion!” The words tumble from my lips. Any evidence of a filter is completely gone.

“These adult fairytales? Smutty romances with beasts? We raised you better, paid for your elite education. We put you in those schools to ensure a prosperous future for you, to ensure a career of which you could be proud, for which you could hold your head high!”

“Oh, my head is held high, Father. I am proud of my career, of how my imagination has been fleshed out in ink on paper, reaching the minds and hearts of thousands of people. I am proud that I can provide so many people who deal with stressful lives a safe place to escape to, where they can relax and enjoy their lives for just a few hours!” My voice rose an octave by the end of my tirade.

I didn’t want to sound like a petulant child pitching a fit, but I probably did to him. An undergrad in political science and a graduate degree in international relations, all to make my parents happy; yet here we are, in my home, arguing over my life as though I have thrown it away. Does he not realize that I am successful and loved by my readers? Has he not seen that I am internationally known for my writing skills? Or does he just not care, choosing instead to see me as a child disappointing him? My gut twists as anger rushes through my body.

“We will not discuss this any further. You will accompany us back to the capital this evening, and we will leave as a family three days from now. I will not allow your childish fantasy ‘career’ to threaten my real career, my life’s work in building relations between nations, Remila. We’ve confirmed you as coming with us to meet their son! I sent your credentials and headshot to the Jureaus yesterday to show them what a suitable match you would be. With your current lifestyle, you couldn’t possibly find a decent -”

“You’d better check your words before they leave your mouth, Father,” I fume quietly. My tone implies the rage I have brewing within. “This isn’t the dark ages where you peddle off a daughter as payment for some sick and twisted political gain.”

My eyes were burning, and I know that they're practically slicing through my father’s defenses as I glare at him.

My father stands abruptly and begins heading to the door, pausing before opening it.

Looking at me over his shoulder, he commands, “Pack your bags, Remila, and be at Havari’s by eight for dinner with your mother and I.”

“‘Me.’ The proper word is ‘me’, not ‘I’. It’s an objective case pronoun, Father,” I bite out.

Turning and leaving him at the door, I don’t want to hear anymore about how I am ruining his life. I storm through my house, heading for my bedroom. Slinging myself ass-first onto my bed, I proceed to stomp my heels and punch my fists into the mattress as tears of rage slip down my cheeks. Hell would freeze over before I’d let him see them, remembering the lectures from childhood that tears should be reserved for when you are alone. “Pain is best managed when tucked away from the public eye.” Some bulls!t along those lines.

My parents were always concerned about appearances, never really caring about what lies beneath the exterior. An involuntary half chuckle, half huff leaves my mouth when I think about it. I remember reading a passage from my ancient texts class that talked about whitewashed tombs. That’s exactly what my father wants the world to be made of: beautiful boxes with rotting corpses within them, out of sight.

The greatest lessons I ever learned were taught by my nanny. She was only in my life until I was ten years old - when my parents decided I could live with the cooking and security staff in our home while they were away. She taught me to be who I truly was, hiding nothing of myself from others. “You, Remi, have everything within you to change the worlds,” she’d say, always adding the “s” because of my obsession with the fairytales she would tell me of different realms. My nanny always spoke about integrity, and how being a good person and using my gifts to their fullest were far more important than financial gain or fulfilling others’ expectations of me. She encouraged my writing, even when my parents insisted upon my following in their footsteps, “creating a legacy”. When the kids at school would torment me, she would promise that if I had joy in who I was, then I would outshine them all one day.

It’s the confidence that I eventually grew from her words that led me to step away from my parents’ planned career for me and to start writing. I often dreamed about the different mythological creatures from those fairytales and would jot down the little bits I’d remember each morning. Eventually, full stories emerged from those brief glimpses into my mind’s eye, as well as from the notebooks I kept from childhood. Once I started typing, I couldn’t stop. Now, I am one of the top authors in the paranormal romance world. My books have provided me with more money in one year than my six years as a diplomat had amassed.

But as my father pointed out rather strenuously, money alone does not equate to success. In his eyes, my reputation as a “smut queen” was as damning as being a prostitute. Likewise, he would deem any career subpar if it were not one to shine the world’s great spotlight on him. After all, that's why my parents chose to have a child in the first place - for the attention it would draw, making them look like the perfect couple having the perfect family. Of course, that was cut short by my own imperfections. Now I'm supposed to play the part at dinner this evening. I puff out a haughty breath at the thought of it. I’ll go to their dinner, but my suitcase will remain empty.

***

“Well Remila, that is a lovely dress,” my mother states coolly as she approaches me, hands lifting.

I began lifting my own arms to hug her, but I was mistaken about her intent. Just as she reaches me, she uses her fingers to pinch my necklace and slide it approximately two millimeters to the right before dropping her hands and stepping back. She clasps her hands in front of her and asks, “Shall we sit?”

“Of course,” I mumble as I try to figure out which chair is meant for me in order to avoid being out of place.

The server pulls out a chair for me and I slide in, thankful that if it ends up being the wrong seat, it wasn’t my choice. My father then nods to the server to dismiss him.

“Remila,” I involuntarily tense up at her tone, “your father has conveyed your wishes to me regarding the upcoming excursion we will be taking as a family. While I understand that you feel a need to be at your,” pause, “book release, I do feel it more pertinent to accompany us as you had confirmed with us months ago. You can either miss the release or find a way to change the date.”

I mimic my mother’s tone as I reply, “While I appreciate your views, mother, I must decline. First, I would like to point out the fact that I never, at any point in time, committed to this trip nor confirmed that I would be going with you. You or father, or maybe both of you, assumed that commitment. Nevertheless, I will not be going.” I raise my menu and change the subject. “The salmon looks divine this evening.”

“Remila,” my father’s gravelly, growl of a voice elicits a small shudder from me, “we have prepared the tickets, the lodging, and have given the chancellor and his wife your information for them to assess regarding your meeting their son. Do you know how it will make us look for you to not be in attendance?”

“I believe it would make you look like the sort of parents who would treat their adult daughter, whom they truly do not know, as though she were still only six years old and as an object being offered for trade,” I reply frolicsomely, though the words themselves reveal the bitter truth of our relationship.

I hear my father’s phone ping with a message, so I use this moment to steal a glance at my parents, both of whom look vexed at my unwillingness to give in to their wishes. What I had not expected was for my father’s expression to go from vexed to utterly enraged as he reads the message on his phone.

“Unbelievable!” He shouts.

My mother and I flinch in unison. My father may have many faults, but causing a scene by yelling in public out of anger is not something he would normally do. Appearances mean far too much to him to allow that lack of discipline.

“What is it, dearest?” My mother asks in a sweet, low voice, placing her hand on his forearm.

“The Jureaus have canceled our rendezvous!” His voice has lowered to just short of a shout, but he is fuming.

I have to suppress a giggle, envisioning him with steam bursting out from his ears like a cartoon.

“Why would they do such a thing?”

My mother is far more concerned about this than I would have assumed she should be. Did they have a lot riding on this trip? Or was this introduction of me to their son more important than just finding me an “appropriate” beau?

“We’ll discuss this later, Janet,” my father says quietly, flicking his eyes up to my face briefly.

I notice the obvious disappointment in those eyes first, then I notice the last thing I want to see in them - pity.

Instantly, my blood boils with anger. “What!? Is that look of pity because you think I have lost my only chance of finding an approved significant other, or is it something else? Something you are afraid of saying in front of me?” My voice is harsh, causing my father to push aside the pity just long enough to slip up.

“The Jureaus have declined our meeting, citing a lack of full disclosure on our part. They view it as an insult that we would suggest that you were eligible for their son considering your birth defect,” my father stated, making eye contact with me.

For a brief moment, I remember the first day of school after my summer spent healing a broken arm and facial surgery.

My lower lip is quivering, but I refuse to let them see my tears. Instead, I step closer to the curb with my head held high, arms crossed in front of my chest. Soon enough, I see our family’s driver pull around the front of the school grounds and stop in front of me. Once the driver rounds the rear of the car, he opens the back door for me. My nanny quickly buckles me into my seat. I avoid looking at her face and sit tall, looking straight forward, being sure to cry on the inside like my father taught me.

“I would ask how it went today, but I can see that it wasn’t as cheerful a day as you’d hoped. Tell me about it, sweet girl,” my nanny’s voice is soft, but firm.

Knowing that I will have to tell her eventually, I start, “There is a new group of kids this year. They are already popular. I tried to make friends with them, but they pointed at my lip and made fun of my lisp when I spoke.”

“My dear, I want you to hear my words and hold them in your heart. Okay?”

I nod.

“No one is perfect, no matter how hard one tries to be. You were born with a small defect, one that is gradually being corrected surgically. People can see your scar; but, the defects of the heart, those are what are truly ugly about a person. Someone who cannot love another just because of a little scar is truly not a lovable person themselves and to be honest, you do not need people like that in your life. True friends, Remi, will not just love you anyway, they will love you because that wee scar represents your strength. You are strong enough to overcome, and your heart is pretty enough for true love. They will only see your beauty.”

My mother’s fingertips fluttered to her lips. Is it because she wants to defend her daughter, or is she insulted that they have accused my parents of trying to ensnare them in a dirty deal? Or maybe, she is surprised that all the plastic surgeries were still not enough to hide my scar. It doesn’t matter though. Even if she actually felt bad for me, this dinner is now over.

“Well, f*ck them! Last I checked, I don’t need a pompous, judgmental prick of a want-to-be man in my life! They can take their sh!tty opinions and shove them so far up their -”

“Remila!” My father stands quickly, throwing his napkin down on the table. “We are in a public venue!”

“I see.” I pause, quickly collecting my keys and clutch. “As always, your love for the approval of others far outweighs the ‘love’ for your daughter. Good evening,” I say coolly, placing my napkin on the table.

I stand and leave without looking back. I am strong enough to overcome, and my heart is pretty enough for true love. Closing my right hand around my treasured wolf ring, I remember Dora’s words. As the cool early evening air hits my face, my ring seems to glow.