by Claire Adams
“Amanda? You almost ready?”
We burst into the bar only 20 minutes later, both of us looking stunning, sensual. The wine bar was quite ritzy, with this suave-looking bartender leaning against the counter, a bow tie tied beneath his chin. “Ladies,” he began in a French accent. “Please. Zee corner table.”
The corner table was already well-lit with candles. The wine menus were draped over the fine wood. I eyed the wines: from France, from Argentina, from Australia, bringing my finger down the long list. I knew that Xavier knew the texture, the feel of each of these wines. But I was a bit lost on my own.
Rachel leaned toward me, a bit of gleam initiated in her eyes. “Argentina. 1977. You game?”
I raised my eyebrow. Aged wine had never been a part of my regime. “Do you remember college, when we’d buy the cheapest wine possible? I think I bought bottles for three, four dollars.” I laughed, taking a sip of water. The candlelight wafted from the glass.
She nodded, returning a giggle. “We’re high-class broads now.” She turned toward the waiter and pointed at the wine, unable to pronounce it.
“Very good, my lady,” he murmured, bowing his head. “And I suppose you ladies would enjoy a cheese plate, as well?”
I nodded voraciously, my stomach rumbling beneath my dress. “Oh, yes please,” I murmured. Rachel smiled at me across the table.
“You look happier,” she said as the man skirted back toward the wine cellar.
I shrugged. “Maybe just the endorphins from the run. Maybe just from quitting today. I don’t know!” I allowed my hands to fling back, blasé.
She shook her head. “I can’t believe you finally did it. Are you feeling—relieved in any way?”
I shrugged my shoulders, nodding a bit. “Falling in love was quite an experience. Perhaps it was wonderful, sometimes. But more often than not, it was stressful, far too much to handle while also trying to run the president’s campaign. I don’t know. Maybe I was far too young for the job.” I shrugged my shoulders, blinking up toward the sky.
Suddenly, the server was back, presenting the 1977 wine to us at the table. A different server placed the cheese plate before us, allowing the smell to emanate into our noses. I closed my eyes and nodded to the first server, who twisted the cork from the top and poured the deep red drink into my glass. Rachel and I turned toward each other and clinked our glasses, allowing the noise to flow throughout the near-empty wine bar.
The wine drizzled down our tongues, making our bodies warm and loose. I placed my hand on the table and peered at it, wondering what to say next. All this time, my mind was whirring with thoughts of Xavier, with thoughts of what I was meant to do next.
Rachel cleared her throat. “Listen, Amanda,” she began.
My eyes darted up, blinking toward her. I was removing myself from my tense thoughts.
“I was thinking about what you’ve said about everything, about your relationship with Xavier. And I just wanted to tell you that I think—I think that his reaction to what you told him about Jason really sucks, of course. It was completely unconventional, and you have every right to be upset. In fact, you know that I would have been upset, as well.”
I nodded, peering toward her. I didn’t know what was coming next. Her voice was so hesitant, like she didn’t want to hurt my feelings in any way. “Yeah?”
“But I have to say. This is a tricky situation, one that doesn’t warrant an appropriate response all the time. I think his reaction might make sense, in a way. Just like us, the president worked hard for his position. It’s not like he just sloughed into office, like so many of our other presidents with important daddies. He is a prestigious man with good ideas for this country. But he had to elbow his way to the top.”
I swirled the wine in my mouth, listening to the words. I nodded a bit. The taste was bitter.
“And he risked so much to be with you,” Rachel continued. “I know you risked a great deal to be with him, as well. But please consider his side.”
“I did, sometimes,” I murmured. “I didn’t want to tell his wife about us, for fear that she would leave him and create a presidential scandal. I didn’t want to be ‘that girl’ who became famous, only for sleeping with the president—“
“But don’t you see? Already, your thoughts have diverged back into thoughts of only yourself,” Rachel whispered. She swallowed, knowing how she came off. My heart burned, but only because I knew that she was my only friend—that she was trying to help me, not to hurt me. “I’m not trying to reprimand you,” Rachel whispered. “It’s just that after everything you’ve been through, I don’t think you can blame Xavier for being upset with you, just the first time you tell him that he’s this close from allowing everything to fall apart. Can you imagine, living on a precipice like that—and also being the most powerful man in the entire world?” Her voice was breathless, almost pleading with me.
I nodded, feeling a bit ashamed. “I just wanted everything to be perfect,” I whispered.
“I just think you have to give him a bit more time to comprehend something as big as this,” Rachel whispered. “You kept this from him for many, many weeks. Perhaps, in many ways, he feels betrayed by you? He has told you so much about himself, about his marriage. And you’ve kept your troubles on the sidelines.” She shrugged, peering down at the untouched cheese plate. “Perhaps you could talk to him once more. Perhaps you could give him a chance.”
I cleared my throat, taking a small piece of Brie into my mouth. The creamy cheese glided across my tongue. So savory, it made my eyes water. “Perhaps you’re right,” I whispered. I began to understand that perhaps not all was lost, that perhaps I could still have the man I loved, I could still have the career I’d always dreamed of. Everything could fall into place, if I just worked for it. If I just gave Xavier time to come to reason.
“You know that I envy you,” Rachel began again, pouring another layer of wine into my wine glass. “I admire the way you take action, the way you get what you want, no matter what.” She shrugged. “When the President of the United States gave you grief, you essentially told him to fuck off. That is powerful, Amanda. That is more than many of us can ever say we’ve done.”
I looked down at the cheese platter once more, my mind spinning. I had quit the White House that day, and I needed to find a way back in—a way back in to see if I could reason with Xavier, to needle my way back into the position. Only if I did it appropriately, with a sense of tact, would I feel right about it. “I’m never going to be stupid about anything ever again,” I whispered toward Rachel, laughing a bit. A slight jazz had begun over the loudspeaker, making me speak in time with the music.
Rachel nodded. “If only we could all say that and truly mean it. But alas: I’ll definitely make a mistake today, tomorrow, the next day. I’ll look stupid at least three more times this evening. That’s life, isn’t it? No preparing for it, I suppose. We trip. We fall. We get back up.”
“I’m just lucky I had you there to catch me when I fell down, down, down—all the way,” I said to her. We clinked our glasses once more, feeling the camaraderie initiated with this true, effortless friendship.
But I knew I would take the weekend off, to fume, to understand what was going on inside my mind. I couldn’t go rushing back to the president’s arms. Not yet. Perhaps if I spent enough days away from the White House, they’d pull me back to help them. I was the only one with any clue back on the campaign team. Jason’s actions during my last absence had been orchestrated to him by a series of notes he’d found in my desk—notes that I had meant to involve a long-term strategy, not a one-year-before-the-election strategy. But all was not lost. I had ideas brimming up to my ears.
After another bottle of wine, after allowing drunkenness to pummel through us, Rachel and I both stood up, woozily. We sauntered toward the door and gave a hearty goodbye to the bartender. The bartender pointed, telling us that a taxi was waiting outside. We rustled into it and cackled, bringing the window open so that we
could see the glinting stars from the October night sky. It seemed like things were both beginning and ending, all at once. Everything was up in the air.
Chapter Seven
The taxi swept us back to Rachel’s apartment. We cackled all the way up the steps, feeling no strained anger toward each other for the previous conversation. She was watching out for me, and I knew it. The anger for Xavier was dissipating, as well. I felt calm, cool. Ready to take on the following few weeks.
I collapsed into my bed that evening, still wearing that slim, black dress. I laid on my side, feeling the way my body dipped into the mattress. The moon gleamed outside my window, and I brought my hand in front of it, noting the way the light made my fingers just shadowed outlines before my face. I wondered, in that moment, what Xavier was doing, whether or not Camille was with him. I wondered if he was thinking about me, as well.
I’d never stayed up at night, thinking about boys. I’d never kept my eyes open, staring ever out into the darkness, wondering about the man of my dreams. I’d never before assumed there was any one person out there for me. In many ways, I wished that my one person could have been anyone else.
With the anger dissipating from my body—leaving me with a shell of off-white sadness and interior loneliness, rather than madness—I now understood Rachel’s point wholly. I knew that Xavier’s reaction was warranted. But I still didn’t think that my reaction to his reaction WASN’T warranted.
Thus, I wasn’t ready to go back to work yet. I was happy to be away from the rushing office, so happy to be away from the prying eyes of the other campaign workers. I was ready to remain calm and cool before approaching Xavier, before apologizing to him for all that had happened.
I had spent the previous few weeks so resigned, so unhappy, so confused about everything. Xavier and I—for all intents and purposes—had broken up. He’d kicked me from his bed like a sad, tired dog, and I’d grown angry, filled with emotion. This emotion had blocked me from truly understanding what my next steps should be. I’d disappeared from work so often; I’d halted my work completely. And now, I was slowly but surely finding my way back toward an appropriate path.
I brought myself from the bed and removed my black dress, finally. I brought my hands over my breasts, closing my eyes and thinking only of Xavier. I wanted his arms around me once more. I wanted him to rip my tired clothes from my back, from my breasts. I wanted his hands on my pussy. I wanted to forget all the terror that had come between us.
I tapped toward the window and peered out, still naked. Washington D.C.’s Friday night was still in full swing, all these hours after midnight. I knew that every single one of the people, rushing to and fro in one of the many taxis that pulsed over the great expanse of the city, had worries akin with mine. We were all working toward greater understanding. We were all reaching toward final decisions.
As I lay back down, still naked in the bed, I knew that I was growing closer and closer to the decision that worked best for me. And that, beyond anything else, was beautiful.
The following morning was Saturday. I lifted my body from the bed, feeling the hangover rally against my brain. I sighed, feeling the aches and pains emanate throughout my torso. “Not so young anymore,” I murmured to myself. I brought a borrowed robe around my slim frame and wafted toward the kitchen, where I found Rachel sitting at the table, her own head in her hands.
“What happened last night,” she whispered to the table.
I felt the laughter bubbling in my stomach. But soon, those bubbles turned sour. I felt sick and collapsed in the chair beside her. I sighed into the words. “God. I don’t even know! I woke up naked!”
Rachel brought her hands over her mouth. “I would laugh,” she murmured. “But I don’t think it would result in anything good.”
“We need hangover food,” I muttered. I reached toward my cell phone, thinking of the greasy spoon down the road. “Do you think they deliver grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“Ugh,” Rachel said, flopping to her side on the table. Her legs cranked out from her on the wooden floor. She looked minutes from death.
Moments later, we’d both sprawled out on the floor before her living room television, ready to soak in whatever terrible Saturday mid-morning programs were running, full-color and full-scale. We had very low expectations for our day.
As a talk show host blared on about celebrity gossip, Rachel suddenly rolled toward me. She closed her eyes, working through her headache. “I’m sorry if anything I said last night touched any sort of nerve,” she murmured. “Oi.”
I shook my head into the carpet, closing my eyes as well. “Everything you said was honestly warranted. It made me realize another perspective of my situation. That, beyond anything else, is what I needed the most.”
“Do you think you’ll talk to him again? Do you think you’ll tell him? Or is it all lost?” Rachel asked me.
I shrugged my shoulders half-heartedly. “I honestly don’t know what to expect,” I murmured. “I think that—perhaps—the ship has sailed. But if I do decide to talk to him, I know that you have my back.” I reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly for just a moment. “Thank you for everything.”
Suddenly, there was a great rapping on the door. My eyes widened, and Rachel’s snapped opened quickly. No one had ever come over, not in the many weeks since I’d moved in. “Did you order food?” she whispered to me.
I shook my head, my heart thudding quickly in my chest. “No. Is someone coming over? Could it be the mail?”
But Rachel was lolling up quickly, bringing her hands to her head once more. “Goddammit,” she murmured. “Coming!” she called, as a hand rapped once more. “Better not be that neighbor again, complaining about the loud television. I’ll kill him!” She winked at me.
Finally, she reached the door. I sat up, leaning against the chair while on the floor. I brought the blanket up around my neck, covering myself into near invisibility.
Rachel caught the door open and didn’t say anything. I peered around the chair, trying to make out who it was. But Rachel’s head was blocking the figure.
There was a great, hanging pause. My eyes searched wildly around the room as I panicked about what was going on—who had come over? Did anyone know I was here? Why wasn’t Rachel saying anything? Rachel—who always had something to say?
Finally, the silence broke. “Hello,” the voice said on the other side of the door.
My heart dropped into the acidic sea of my stomach. I crunched myself into a ball beneath the blanket. The voice was so familiar, spoken in a near-bedroom voice. Xavier.
Xavier Callaway, the President of the United States.
Rachel tipped her head to the right. “Hello, Mr. President,” she crooned, a bit of sauce on her lips. I was glad that she was standing up for me, even if she thought this man was right. “Do you remember me?” she asked.
Xavier paused. “I believe I do, yes. On the first campaign trail. You were good friends with Amanda. I believe she’s our mutual friend, these days.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Rachel said, her voice haughty. Suddenly, she spun her head to the side, placing her hand over her mouth. I brought my chin to my chest, worried Rachel was about to hack all over the president’s shoes. This hangover was nothing to mess around with. “But what can I do for you?” she finally asked him, finding the words after her brief scrape with embarrassment.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked her then. “You don’t look so good. A little green, maybe.”
“A friend and I had a good deal of wine last night,” Rachel said offhandedly. “She needed a pick-me-up after a hard few weeks.” Her voice, again, was a challenge.
I peeked further around the chair to see him.
Xavier paused for a moment, still standing in the doorway. He turned to his right and spoke to who I assumed was a Secret Service agent. “Could you wait out here?” he asked this before he spun back toward Rachel. “Rachel. I’m sorry if this is too forwa
rd. But could I come in, please?”
Rachel took a step back, uncertain of what to do. My heart was beating wildly in my chest. I wanted to grab Rachel, to tell her I wasn’t ready yet! My mind had been a whir of emotion all throughout the morning. I didn’t see how I was ever, ever going to be able to pick myself up from this hangover and deal with the president. God, this was a disaster.
But Rachel didn’t have a choice, really. She bowed her head and told him, “Certainly. But only for a moment.” She closed the door behind him. I jumped back behind the chair. I could hear his fine shoes tapping on the wooden floor. I told myself not to feel sick, but my stomach kept flipping over. I brought my fingers over it, shaking my head. I knew I was concealed from view by the chair in front of the living room floor.
“Quite a place you have here,” Xavier said politely.
Rachel shrugged her shoulders. “It’s okay. All I can afford right now.”
“You left the political scene, I know,” Xavier offered.
Rachel seemed embarrassed. She searched for the right words. “I’m not altogether too upset about it,” she stated. “The stress was far too much for me.”
“I might join you very shortly, should I lose my campaign manager forever,” Xavier said. “Do you have coffee, by chance?”
Rachel paused before answering. The mere mention of me seemed to echo throughout the room. I heard her parse through her coffee filters and plopped one into the maker before filling it with water. I heard her hit the button and let the crackling begin.
“Thank you,” Xavier said again, bringing his voice into the mighty absence of noise.
Rachel grunted. “So. What is that you have there?” I peered around the chair once more, noting that Xavier had seated himself away from the living room, rather than toward it. In his left hand, I saw beautiful, brightly-colored tulips. My heart flip-flopped.
“Oh, it’s nothing. They’re just—they’re for someone, if I found her here.” He smacked the back of his neck with his free hand, looking a bit sheepish. “Doesn’t seem that I’m that lucky, though.”
