In Love and Diplomacy

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Interrogate and Obliterate

"Don't let them in, don't let them see
Be the good girl you always have to be
Conceal, don't feel, put on a show
Make one wrong move and everyone will know"

- Frozen, "For the First Time in Forever" (I have little sisters, so embrace the Frozen!)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

We were only a state away. A lot of our driving had been precautionary circling, avoiding going near any of the regions a safehouse could be found.

During our return, we drove almost nonstop.

And when the tall trees slowly shortened and became stubbly brush, and the hills rose again in the distance, we were almost there. When the wide valleys opened up, and the Santa Ana winds battled our car as it raced home, we were close. When I couldn't breathe anymore, and grief weighed down my limbs, we were almost home.

Nothing about the desert was smooth like a forest. Nothing was sleek or dense. Sunlight didn't filter or trickle, it came down hard and unbroken. In the desert everything was rough and unkempt. I felt the same.

My time in the forest was over. I was back in the desert, forceful and harsh. The scene changed, and so did I.

I took off the invisible cloak of vulnerability and instead donned the hard hat of purpose. I put back on the layers I'd shed during my time with Reed. There was no time now for anything but who I was before. It was time to return to my long lived-in state of hard ambition, unfailing determination, and no hesitation. There was no room for anything that could be perceived as weakness—not for me. Not for someone about to face the harsh music I would soon be audience to.

I knew who the Cawtons were. I knew the type of men they were. Any chinks in my armor would be mercilessly stabbed and exploited. There could be no vulnerabilities, no emotions, no reasons to be labeled hysterical. Any quiver in my expression, any raise in my voice, and I would be deemed unfit. While not everyone shared these outdated and punishing ideals, and the men supporting me at Greystone certainly did not, too many still did. Too often it wasn't a question of if a woman's reactionary emotions were warranted, but if she was overly emotional or blinded by feelings. No matter how upset a woman was, how justified the response was, it was often deemed too much. It was determined to be unreasonably emotional. It shouldn't be something I had to think about, I shouldn't have to bury my reactions, but I would. Because I knew Warren was a slimy, greedy man. And his brother, wherever he was, was an arrogant politician who thought he was an ultimate authority. There would be no room for faltering as I faced the music.

A new thought irked me. How upsetting that it went the other way too, where men were chastised and ridiculed for emotion, too. How horrifying and strange that emotion wasn't welcomed at all for anyone. Were emotions not meant to be felt? Were tears not meant to be shed?

It made me think of Reed, though I didn't think Reed's hesitation concerning vulnerability stemmed from an unstable sense of masculinity. I believed it came from an entirely different internal burden, one of expectations and a fierce desire to save everyone. Some melancholy thought process that in order to do so he had to be constantly guarded and wary, never stopping for or being led by emotion. It'd served him well, and many were protected because of it, but it ate him up inside.

Regardless of why, it was disconcerting that there were too many reasons why emotion often wasn't addressed.

For either of us.

But there would be no reason for anyone to label me a paranoid victim. I wouldn't give them one. There would be no room for fingers to be pointed, no room for Warren to brush me off. No way for anyone to say I wasn't thinking clearly when I went after him. No way for Warren's defense to paint me as a fallible, overwrought witness.