Lovely Pink

They didn’t want the embarrassment attached to them. It was bad enough they had to acknowledge my illegitimacy at all. If there was a way they could’ve turned back time and forced my parents to marry, I know they would have done it. Separating my parents was their one true regret. They couldn’t even forge documents to show a secret marriage had taken place, because my mom married her first husband when she turned eighteen, right before I was born. At the time, I’m sure my grandparents were relieved to have my mother out of the way, and married to someone else who could claim the inconvenient kid.
Who was only a mere girl anyway.
They also assumed my father would have years to live, with plenty of time to give them at least a son or two who could carry on the sacred Pinkarver name. The obsession over babies born with penises in my family is a thing. And in case you didn’t already know, Pinkarver penises always trump Pinkarver vaginas. This was the running theme woven throughout all relationships between my grandparents and the rest of us. I also believe that if they could’ve arranged a sex change for me, they would’ve done that too. Instead of Reese I could’ve been Reid. Good thing it’s not so easy to grow a penis on a female.
It just wouldn’t do, having the news of their illegitimate granddaughter being dumped by her fiancé mere days before the wedding Tweeted, Facebooked, and Instagrammed all over social media. I remember my grandmother repeating the same sentiment at the time, “Thank God, he didn’t stand you up at the altar. We could never hold our heads up in this town again.”
Well, lucky for you, Grandmother, you don’t live in this town anymore, so you don’t have to worry yourself into a dramatic frenzy over it.
Two years ago they made the Boston house their permanent year-round residence, so I didn’t see them much unless I was summoned. Whenever a summons did come, I went to Boston to see what they wanted.
I didn’t question the why’s or the what-for’s anymore. I’d learned my place in the order of things. I was an extension of their political empire, tied by virtue of my bloodline to the one person they had ever truly valued—my father. That’s how the purpose of my life worked in their frame of reference. I understood, but it sure would’ve been nice to be loved just because I was their grandchild and not because of what I represented.
Ahh, but these were merely useless thoughts taking up space in my busy brain.
Just like the notion of having any kind of true freedom to do whatever I wanted in life, was equally useless.
Which is how I ended up with the bright idea to recycle my cursed wedding dress into a Halloween costume and wear it on the metro.
I felt the train slow down as the ticker flashed CAPITOL SOUTH on the digital display in tandem with the recorded announcement.
Go time, Reese.

Chapter Two REESE
I made my decision in the time it took for me to exit the metro.
This life-altering decision also served the additional purpose of preventing me from stressing over the attention (gaping stares) people were giving as I came out of the tunnel in my Galina gown.
I supposed it would be pushing it to grab a coffee from one of the cart stands, but I considered it. My caffeine levels for the day were dangerously low. I reminded myself to take care of that little problem as soon as I got to the party.
But back to my big decision. Tonight, this whole wedding disaster with Tim was out of my life for good. This dress would not be returning to my closet. It was well past the time for me to move on. Tim was gone and he wasn’t coming back. I was still alive and kicking, and honestly, no longer emotionally devastated over his departure, either. It was more a feeling of indirection I felt at the moment. Where was I going? What was my final destination supposed to be? Who would be there with me? I had some vague ideas about my future, but it involved another person whose motivations were not completely clear to me just yet. I needed more from him but just wasn’t totally sure what more meant on my end.
I suppose, wearing my once-beloved wedding dress to a fun party tonight was a symbolic gesture I was ready to let the past go and move forward.
Relationships, men, weddings—were off the menu as well. Despite one particular person’s opinions on the matter, I needed a break from the whole shebang. There were other more important things for me to focus on at the moment.
As I walked the short block down New Jersey Avenue to the address where the party was being held, I got the most unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach—as if I were standing on the precipice of some great shift about to happen in my life.
That same feeling returned just a few minutes later when I lifted the heavy Victorian knocker on the door to Lance Oakley’s house, letting it fall three times in quick succession. Lance is a friend I met when I started working at SIA. He’s also the son of our sitting Vice President, so we totally “get” each other. He feels just as trapped by his father’s role in government, as I do within the confines of my family. For an Army veteran who lost his left leg below the knee in Afghanistan, Lance is remarkably positive in his outlook on life. If you don’t count all those tats he has. He is literally covered from the neck down. I think he gets them as a form of therapy for the PTSD, but tattoos are better than drugs if it’s your addiction.
The front door to Lance’s house opened before me with a creaking groan, the tired iron