The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  He let out a low whistle. “I wasn’t serving. I was just winning.”

  His voice was full of bitterness, his hands scraping against each other, picking themselves apart, a battle of nails and skin. I reached out and held them.

  “You’ve done a lot of good for a lot of people,” I said. “I’ve seen it. You care—you actually do—and that’s not something a lot of people can say.”

  There was something so pained about the way he peered across our linked hands at me, like he was allowing himself to hope, to feel for the first time in a long time.

  “I had trouble with you, Kate,” he said, and I started to lean away, but he held on. “Not because of you. You were perfect. Are perfect. You’re considerate, moral, brave. But you reminded me . . .” He couldn’t finish.

  I swallowed through a dry throat. “Of her.”

  “No.” He blinked. “Of me. Who I used to be. Somebody who would stick up for his friends, even if it was risky. Somebody who put other people first. Somebody who . . .” He let out a helpless laugh. “Somebody who screwed up a lot.”

  I blushed, but a smile fought its way through. “That sounds a little like me.”

  “And a lot like me. I wasn’t ready to look hard at myself, but I think I am now. And I want you to know that.”

  I considered for a moment. There was something else I needed to ask.

  “In the interview with Shawna Wells . . .” I pressed my lips together, suddenly shy, confessing that I’d watched it. He nodded encouragement. “Meg said that, right before that first campaign, you were trying to have a child?”

  I didn’t finish the story, but remembered it vividly. In the interview, they’d said that they couldn’t conceive. They believed the timing was wrong then because I was the child that was supposed to be born. It was one of many parts of that interview that I’d found myself replaying over and over again, partly to make sense of it all, and partly just to spend more time with the Coopers, even if it was only over a TV screen.

  “That’s all true.” The senator’s expression made it clear that he was answering the question I hadn’t asked. “We’ve talked about that a lot. And, you know, I wish your mom were still here. It’s not fair that she isn’t. But Meg and I both feel that you were meant to be our daughter too. Even after having Grace and Gabriel—in a sense, we were always waiting for you. And then there you were. Now—” He drew in a breath. “It took us a few weeks to see it that way. We needed to get past the shock. When we first found out about you, neither of us was able to think clearly. Well. I wasn’t, anyway.”

  I could tell from the intensity in his eyes that he was apologizing. Nancy was right, then. He’d wanted to hush me up. And he was ashamed of it now.

  So maybe he’d panicked that day in June. Maybe it was too much for him to process, so he’d reverted to political strategy, until Nancy talked sense into him. Honestly, I myself had expected him to disavow me. I’d been shocked when he invited me to DC.

  Now I knew. The senator’s heart wasn’t in the right place then. But so what? I could see it today, beating, right here in front of me.

  My fingers were shaking, so I slid them under my knees. “In the interview, you also said that being a parent is a more important job than being president.”

  I hoped I didn’t sound too reproachful. That wasn’t how I felt. Not now.

  “I meant that too,” he said. “But—I understand it a lot better now. I hope I can find a way to apologize in the way you deserve. I hope you give me that chance.”

  “Well . . .” I raised my eyebrows. “I can think of a good place to start.”

  He saw the humor in my eyes and smiled. “I’m sorry, Kate.”

  Then he peered at me, sad and nervous, and so hopeful.

  “You’re right, you know,” I finally said.

  He cocked his head, confused. I drew a breath.

  “Whatever happens? We’re going to be okay.”

  He beamed, gave my hands another squeeze, and stood, offering me a hand up.

  “I’m heading to the airport in twenty minutes. Everybody’s waiting for you on the plane—Gabe, Gracie, Meg. Will you come with me?” He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked on his heels, a nervous dance. “I want you with us for election night, Kate. I need my family with me. My whole family.”

  My mind whirred with images of past election nights on the news. They tended to be swanky affairs, no matter the outcome, so I’d need something formal to wear. My heart started to beat faster just thinking about it.

  “What should I pack?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Everything.”

  37

  Tuesday, November 4

  Election Day

  When I woke up in the Coopers’—no—our farmhouse in Massachusetts, it took me a few bleary seconds to realize where I was, how I’d gotten here, what day it was, and why, exactly Gracie was sitting cross-legged at the end of my bed.

  “Good morning,” she said, then launched herself over the mattress to tackle me in a power-hug.

  I glanced over her shoulder to check on my hanging garment bag. The gown was intact.

  She murmured hot into my shoulder, “You’re still here.”

  I leaned away, peering into her worried eyes. “Of course I am.”

  Gracie’s expression clouded and I felt guilt pulse through me. She was making sure I’d stayed the night. The last time we’d been under the same roof when she went to bed, I wasn’t there in the morning. How could I have put her through that?

  “I have bad dreams sometimes,” she said, picking at a loose thread in my quilt. “Like, the same dream, a lot? That Daddy goes to work, and I’m watching him, and sometimes he’s walking but sometimes he’s driving, and then he disappears and none of us can find him. And we look and look, but . . .”

  “That’s kind of what happened with me, huh?”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t nice to you all the time, so I thought maybe you didn’t want to be my sister anymore.”

  I felt my eyes stinging, and then Gracie, seeing me crying, started to tear up too. “No, Gracie.” I grabbed her hands. “It was never about you. You’re the best.”

  She looked dubious.

  “Look.” I dug into the neck of my pajamas and pulled out the little star necklace she’d given me for my birthday. Her eyes widened to see it. “I wore this almost every day while I was away. It reminded me of my sister. Kept me from feeling so lonely.”

  “But you’re not going away anymore.”

  “No.” I grabbed her pinkie in a promise. “I’m not.”

  We all got ready together, eating breakfast in private before the campaign machine started up for one last day. As Gracie ran from the kitchen to give the senator a fresh mug of coffee, I caught a glimpse of her face—the eagerness in it, the need. And like that, all of my sister’s bizarre actions from the past few months suddenly made perfect sense. She was just like me—terrified of losing her family, of not knowing her place within it, of having it all slip away.

  • • •

  As we waited outside the polling place in Boston where the senator and Meg were casting their votes, I held Gracie’s and Gabe’s hands tightly. A cameraman swiveled toward us and I

  • • •

  raised their arms high and led them in a cheer that the gathered crowd caught and amplified. The day was sunny and crisp, the sky a deep, autumn blue. I couldn’t help but feel optimistic.

  The campaign had taken out a few suites in a swanky Boston hotel. In a few hours’ time, its ballroom would be full of supporters, ready to cheer the next President of the United States or to mourn together their candidate’s loss. I tried not to think too hard about either scenario as I changed into my last official campaign dress. It was BCBG, deep green—my favorite—and just the right mix of conservative and flirty. Meg and I had gone to a local boutique after hours last night to pick it out together. She fussed over the dress for a proud moment before returning to Gabe’s clip-on tie.

&
nbsp; I snapped a quick selfie and texted it to Tess, who’d made me promise to send more photos for her to add to the last blank pages of my scrapbook. The senator had invited them up to Boston to join us for Election Night, but they’d exchanged a panicked, completely intimidated glance before politely declining.

  “You enjoy some time to yourselves as a family,” Barry had said. “We’ll be rooting for you from here.”

  We had managed to talk them into coming up to DC for Thanksgiving, though. It was nice to have that to look forward to, no matter what happened tonight.

  In the suite next door, I heard voices and the dull drone of the TV. As soon as Gracie was done admiring her freshly curled ringlets in the mirror, we headed over. Past the door, I saw a wall of strangers. No Nancy, no Elliott, no Cal. Not even Libby. But as I was glancing at the TV, where Texas had just popped up red on a large digital map, I felt a shy tap on my shoulder.

  It was Tim the Sullen Aide—but somehow, he didn’t look as grumpy as I remembered. He was wearing a lanyard bearing a new, higher-level campaign title and a twitchy smile that I had never before witnessed.

  “It’s so good to see you!” I said, a little surprised by how much I meant it. “I wasn’t sure how many people I’d know tonight.”

  He shook his head with that trademark Tim scowl. “A bunch of people left with Cal. He had a ‘job offer he couldn’t refuse’ from Nancy’s new company. It couldn’t wait until after the election? Coward.” He said it with such venom that I thought for a second he was going to spit on the carpet. “Anyway. Some of us know what loyalty means.”

  I followed his eyes across the room and was rewarded with the most beautiful sight in the world—a short, bald, middle-aged man cracking a joke while pointing at the TV screen. The senator was quipping back, laughing easily. I could tell by the notable absence of a cell phone in Lou’s hand that he wasn’t here in an official capacity. He must have come as a friend.

  It was no wonder the room felt so light, so relaxed and upbeat, despite the fact that the United States map on TV was getting bluer by the minute.

  As the evening became night, even Lou couldn’t keep the mood from sinking. Meg sat next to the senator, rubbing his knee when wins came in—and when yet another loss was announced. The senator’s face got tighter and tighter, the pain behind the practiced smile impossible to disguise.

  Just yesterday, he’d said he would be fine either way, but I saw now that the truth was a lot more complicated than that. This was his dream. And it was evaporating.

  Gabe was the first to catch on.

  “He’s not winning, is he?” When I replied that it was still early, he shot me a look that was way older than his years.

  Once the reality became impossible to ignore, the suite emptied out, except for me, Meg, the twins, and Lou—the new inner circle. The senator sat on the sofa with the TV muted, making phone call after phone call to his most loyal supporters and Republican colleagues, thanking them for all the work they’d done in the past year. I couldn’t believe how well he was holding it together. One deep breath between calls and he would dial again, his voice upbeat, full of genuine appreciation for each person on the other end of the line.

  In the face of devastation, he was doing his job. Watching him now, I saw what all those cheering crowds saw in my father, and suspected sadly that he might have made a great president after all.

  At around midnight, they called it. We nudged the twins awake, left the suite, and rode the elevator in silence. At floor ten, I reached out for the senator’s hand. He held on until we got to the ground floor.

  The hotel ballroom was packed with cheerfully dressed supporters. Music played, the bar served drinks, the stage was colorfully festooned, a huge COOPER FOR AMERICA banner covered the wall, but there was no celebration at this party. The air was thick with stunned disappointment. It was like being on a cruise ship that had just learned it was sinking.

  Tim held us in the wings until the cue came through on his earpiece, then waved us on with a sympathetic sniff.

  We stood behind the senator while he gave his concession speech, the McReadys lined up beside us. Carolee’s mascara was running. She’d been crying. I liked her better for it.

  The senator’s speech was so simple, direct, and lovely, that I knew he’d written it himself. The audience cheered as loudly as they had at any of his early rallies. It was disorienting. When we left, waving at the crowd, Gracie looked around, confused and upset.

  “He’s not going to be president?”

  “No, sweetie,” I said, squeezing her hand.

  Her forehead knotted as she fought to form the next logical question. “Is it going to be okay?”

  We all looked to Meg for the answer. She was watching the ballroom, where people were hugging each other, wiping their cheeks, patting shoulders, and waving good-bye—and where her husband was shaking hands with well-wishers, saying thank you one last time. Meg’s expression was raw with grief. But then she turned to us, taking us in as if evaluating us academically. And at last, she smiled.

  “You kidding?” She rumpled Gracie’s hair, but her eyes were on me—a promise. “It’s gonna be great.”

  EPILOGUE

  Friday, March 24

  A Perfectly Ordinary Day

  140 DAYS SINCE THE CAMPAIGN ENDED

  “So you’re telling me you don’t want to meet the Prime

  Minister of England.”

  I laughed, shouldering my backpack. “Yes, Andy, I want to meet the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom—”

  “See? This is why I need you.”

  “But I’m not sure it’s—”

  “It’s not like you haven’t been to the White House before.”

  “This is different.” I shook my head. “That was your living room. This is a state dinner. It’s a . . . big public thing.”

  “And?” He smiled, teasing.

  “And . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay out so late the night before a calculus test.”

  He opened the door for me and we emerged onto the gleaming front lawn of Farnwell Prep, its borders bright with the spring’s first tentative blooms.

  “Such a goody-goody.” He slung his arm around me. “You know the rest of the year doesn’t matter, right? You’ve already sent in your application. And you’re Mark Cooper’s kid. Legacy goldmine.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “Well.” He grinned. “I didn’t say I was worried about my chances either.”

  “Yes.” I turned to face him, spotting the limo rounding the long circular drive to the school, a small presidential seal emblazoned on its side. “I’ll come to the dinner.”

  “Dress sharp.” Andy squinted in mock-concern and I swatted him away, but he caught my wrist and pulled me in for a kiss. The bite of the wind vanished as I nestled into him, feeling one of his hands steady against my waist, the other tracing my arm. I could have stayed like that forever, but behind us, Jake Spinnaker led a group of onlookers in a round of wolf whistles and we broke apart, blushing.

  Andy pointed at me. “See you Sunday, Quinn.”

  I drove home in my trusty old Buick with the windows down, euphoria dampened by the dread I felt at the prospect of bringing up Andy’s invitation. Never mind that it came from Andy, still not exactly their top choice of boyfriend material for me, even after five months of on-the-record dating.

  This was an invitation to a state dinner. At the White House. Where we didn’t live. I’d have to play this one very carefully.

  When I pulled up at our actual, perfectly lovely house, Meg was standing in the doorway. I was surprised to see her—since she’d started at Georgetown, she’d been pretty much locked in her office making up for lost academic time. I hoped nothing was wrong.

  Shutting off the car, I hurried to greet her. Her face was serious.

  “Your father needs to talk to you.”

  My heart thudded. With his name on three pieces of legislation going to the Senate floor next w
eek, he was meant to be pounding the pavement in DC today, drumming up as much support as possible. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m going to let him tell you.”

  He was waiting for me in the study. As I stepped into the room, he stood, his expression grave.

  “What’s up?” I glanced behind me, hearing Gracie and Gabe scurrying in behind me. Whatever had happened, the whole family was concerned about it. And he still hadn’t said anything. I stomped my foot. “Tell me!”

  His face melted into a smile and we all held our breath. This was not the old, TV-ready, Cooper for President grin. It was a much rarer thing these days—a crinkly smile that flickered, wavered, didn’t quite beam. It fought to appear and never stayed as long as we hoped it would. But it was his real smile, the authentic face of Mark Cooper, who didn’t know who he was anymore, or where he was going. My father—sad, disillusioned, finding his footing a little more every day.

  I loved this smile. And it was still on his face when he pulled an envelope from behind him.

  It said Harvard. It was thick.

  “Open it!” He tossed it at me, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’m dying here!”

  I tore open the top, trembling, and peeked at the cover letter before glancing up again with flushed cheeks. “I’m in.”

  The room erupted in cheers, but before my father could dance me all the way around the room, I moved away, arms crossed. This was too golden an opportunity to pass up.

  “Now I just have to hear back from all the other schools, and I’ll make my decision.”

  His face clouded like a puppy whose treat has been taken away. “What other schools? We’re talking about Harvard here! My alma mater!”