behind. She donned a floor-length charmeuse dress. Her hair was styled up in a neat chignon. Her makeup was effortless and flawless, showing off her fine features in a perfect way. Hugging me tightly, she asked, “Why didn’t you sit with us?” She cupped my face in her hands while wearing a small pout. “We were in the orchestra section.”
“Mom, you remember Reese,” I introduced them with a palpable sardonic tone. They’d met several times before, but she always had a pension for behaving as though he didn’t exist when I brought him around. Or worse yet, she pretended to forget major details about him—not because she couldn’t remember, but because she wanted to make him feel insignificant. I knew she didn’t purposely mean to; there wasn’t an evil bone in the woman’s body. She was just awful at hiding her true emotions when they fell in the area of strong distaste, even if she hurt the other’s feelings with her behavior.
“Don’t be silly.” She gave me a plastic grin. When her gaze cast onto Reese, she stared beyond him and to the bronze head Kennedy statue behind us. “Keaton”—she clasped my hand—“there is someone I want you to reacquaint yourself with.”
“See,” Reese mouthed at me and rolled his eyes.
Pouting and fluttering my eyelashes, I invited him to come along by gesturing with my hand as my mother led me through the crowd.
He shook his head, disappointment written all over his face, and pointed to the entrance doors.
Dejected, I turned around, wondering where my mother intended to lead me. When I became faced with the man my mother wanted me to chat with, I froze in place.
“Keaton, it’s been a long time.” His smile reached his devilish brown eyes as he palmed his jet-black hair back, unnecessarily. Not a piece was out of place from the modern tapered pompadour hairstyle. He would’ve been considered attractive, but behind the exterior lay a very disturbed man.
“Keaton”—my mother clutched her collarbone, smiling at me wistfully—”you look like you don’t remember him. He took you to your Cotillion, remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” I plastered on a smile just as plastic as hers and spoke through my teeth. We dated for several years after my Cotillion. We broke up the night of my high school graduation.
“He’s done well for himself.” She nodded in appreciation. “He went to the…what was that military academy?”
Gregory responded—stating the name of the prestigious military school he attended in New York—while never taking his eyes off me. He ogled my body with a mischievous smirk, making me more uncomfortable than I already was.
“Right,” my mother giggled like a schoolgirl in love. She knew very well where he went. She saw fit to tell me how she kept tabs on him throughout the years, wondering why and where we went wrong. Thanks to her, I knew that Gregory was being groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. To my mother, his status made him a goldmine—a way to climb the political social ladder. While she was happy running F.A.C.E., she held to dreams of obtaining a political career. Her act was one that she’d taught me many times; when in the company of a man you’re interested in, never outrank him in intellect.
What she didn’t know is that Gregory Mitchum had been corresponding with me for years. He’d never let me forget, and he would never leave me alone. His letters, texts, and calls became relentless throughout the years. When changing my phone number and address didn’t work, I learned to ignore and silence his attempts to correspond with me. Going to the authorities about his psychotic behavior was not a viable option. The elites had a special way of doing things. Disrupting their distorted concept of justice—throwing money at the issue—brought about dire social and financial consequences to the accuser and everyone he or she knew. I’d tried to take out a restraining order using a different
“Mom, you remember Reese,” I introduced them with a palpable sardonic tone. They’d met several times before, but she always had a pension for behaving as though he didn’t exist when I brought him around. Or worse yet, she pretended to forget major details about him—not because she couldn’t remember, but because she wanted to make him feel insignificant. I knew she didn’t purposely mean to; there wasn’t an evil bone in the woman’s body. She was just awful at hiding her true emotions when they fell in the area of strong distaste, even if she hurt the other’s feelings with her behavior.
“Don’t be silly.” She gave me a plastic grin. When her gaze cast onto Reese, she stared beyond him and to the bronze head Kennedy statue behind us. “Keaton”—she clasped my hand—“there is someone I want you to reacquaint yourself with.”
“See,” Reese mouthed at me and rolled his eyes.
Pouting and fluttering my eyelashes, I invited him to come along by gesturing with my hand as my mother led me through the crowd.
He shook his head, disappointment written all over his face, and pointed to the entrance doors.
Dejected, I turned around, wondering where my mother intended to lead me. When I became faced with the man my mother wanted me to chat with, I froze in place.
“Keaton, it’s been a long time.” His smile reached his devilish brown eyes as he palmed his jet-black hair back, unnecessarily. Not a piece was out of place from the modern tapered pompadour hairstyle. He would’ve been considered attractive, but behind the exterior lay a very disturbed man.
“Keaton”—my mother clutched her collarbone, smiling at me wistfully—”you look like you don’t remember him. He took you to your Cotillion, remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” I plastered on a smile just as plastic as hers and spoke through my teeth. We dated for several years after my Cotillion. We broke up the night of my high school graduation.
“He’s done well for himself.” She nodded in appreciation. “He went to the…what was that military academy?”
Gregory responded—stating the name of the prestigious military school he attended in New York—while never taking his eyes off me. He ogled my body with a mischievous smirk, making me more uncomfortable than I already was.
“Right,” my mother giggled like a schoolgirl in love. She knew very well where he went. She saw fit to tell me how she kept tabs on him throughout the years, wondering why and where we went wrong. Thanks to her, I knew that Gregory was being groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. To my mother, his status made him a goldmine—a way to climb the political social ladder. While she was happy running F.A.C.E., she held to dreams of obtaining a political career. Her act was one that she’d taught me many times; when in the company of a man you’re interested in, never outrank him in intellect.
What she didn’t know is that Gregory Mitchum had been corresponding with me for years. He’d never let me forget, and he would never leave me alone. His letters, texts, and calls became relentless throughout the years. When changing my phone number and address didn’t work, I learned to ignore and silence his attempts to correspond with me. Going to the authorities about his psychotic behavior was not a viable option. The elites had a special way of doing things. Disrupting their distorted concept of justice—throwing money at the issue—brought about dire social and financial consequences to the accuser and everyone he or she knew. I’d tried to take out a restraining order using a different
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