Domestic Affairs

by Bridget Siegel

  Yanni turned back to them and asked, “Patrón silver with three limes, right, Liv?” He smiled broadly, remembering her drink.

  “Oh no, just a Diet Coke is fine for me.” Not drinking around the boss was definitely Campaign Lesson #3. Or 2. Yes, Campaign Lesson #2.

  “Oh, please!” Yanni flipped his hand at her and continued ordering.

  “We’re all off-duty here,” the governor said, leaning his shoulder against hers. “Have a drink.”

  That’s true. It isn’t actually a fundraiser. But he is actually your boss. Well, not yet. Officially. Yanni passed her a drink as she debated the idea in her head. Needless to say, she drank obligingly, glad halfway through the first glass for its help in abating her nervousness.

  Before she knew it, she was deep in a conversation on the sofa with Alberto, a brain surgeon turned best-selling novelist who liked to shock politicians by showing up to events in T-shirts like the one he had on tonight—a worn-out gray scoop-neck with a big marijuana leaf across the front. He had a subtle dark humor mixed with quiet sincerity. His beautiful wife, Sarah, a brilliant art historian, smiled adoringly in her husband’s direction every time he spoke.

  Far into a conversation about the media’s take on Islamic extremism, Olivia leaned back, drinking her tequila and thoroughly enjoying the idea of an intellectual conversation at a party. It had become commonplace in bars for guys trying to pick her up to rattle on about a political event or issue they undoubtedly knew nothing about. Or for them to feel the need to explain why they hated her candidate or the Democratic party. Regardless of the multitude of clichés (no politics, no religion in polite conversation) people seemed to have no problem going off on baseless tangents about what she did for a living and what she believed in. It drove her crazy.

  “What if I told you I wanted the stock market to fail?” she would retort to a stockbroker in an always unsuccessful attempt to explain the offensiveness of his latest antipolitical commentary. More often, lately, she would just tell people she was a kindergarten teacher, ensuring a subject change.

  But here, sitting with Alberto, his wife inches away, which eliminated any pressure of trying to be picked up, Olivia relished having a real conversation just for conversation’s sake. Midsentence, Olivia heard her name called and turned. Todd was standing around a table of sushi in the kitchen with Yanni, Matt, and the governor.

  “Hey, Olivia,” Todd called out, “come settle something for us.”

  “Sure.” She started to politely excuse herself from the conversation with Alberto and Sarah.

  “Go, go.” Alberto pointed to the governor. “The boss beckons!”

  Olivia nodded and walked over obligingly.

  Todd continued talking. “First, what’s your favorite charity?”

  “Ummm”—Olivia turned and looked around, confused—“that would have to be Taylor 2012!”

  “Love that!” Taylor said with a wink. “But we need something I don’t profit from on this one.”

  “Okay, I’d have to say the Innocence Project.”

  “Okay.” Todd clearly didn’t care about the specifics of her answer. He gestured toward her. “Can PACs give to the Democratic National Committee? And if so, how much? LT here says you are the final word on this.”

  LT? she thought, giggling. They were like a bunch of college kids. “Is this a competition to see if I’m up on my campaign finance rules?”

  “No, no, no,” Matt interjected. “We just need the answer here, and your candidate is no help!”

  Olivia smiled with confidence, glad that she had spent so much time looking up the limits before the last day of meetings. “They can give five thousand dollars annually.”

  “Yes!” Matt shot up his fist. “Todd here owes you ten thousand dollars for that Innocence Project thing.”

  “Huh?”

  Todd shook his head and started scribbling on a pad of paper.

  “This is how we bet. Loser gives to a charity.” He ripped at the piece of paper with his credit card information on it and handed it to her. He had written “10k to Innocence Project” on the top and signed his name across the bottom. “Just call Miranda on Monday if you need other info. And see if I can get invited to some dinner or something for it!”

  “And if he can just send the tickets to me!” Matt yelled about three times louder than need be.

  Olivia looked down at the paper in amazement. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “A bet’s a bet. Besides, the Innocence Project is a good pick—I like that place. Last time Tina picked some weird animal shit organization, and now I get calls from them all the time.”

  Olivia laughed. She folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. She liked that despite their brazenness, they were all constantly giving generously to important causes. They cared. As she shook her head in astonishment at the latest part of a night that had already seemed like a movie, Yanni grabbed her arm and led the group of them outside.

  “Jonny’s going to play us a little something.”

  Sure enough, Jon Bon Jovi sat outside by the first pool with a guitar, taking requests. Olivia sank back on one of the white cushioned chairs waiting for someone to pinch her. The fact that she was completely out of place in this alternate universe seemed to be lost on everyone else. But she also had never felt like she fit in more. She looked over to Yanni and the governor standing by the pool. The governor’s light brown hair flopped forward as he leaned in to talk to Yanni, who stood five or so inches shorter. The governor’s hair looked so soft. She wondered if it was one of the things Aubrey fell in love with first. I’m sure it was. It must have been so fantastic to fall in love with him. He probably courted her at perfect parties like this.

  She remembered reading an article in Vogue about their being homecoming king and queen of their college. It said they went to IHOP once a week. I bet he was the coolest guy in the room, even before he was governor. Suddenly all the facts she had learned about him—and she had learned them all—seemed insignificant. His grades in school, his organizing skills, the bills he passed—they all paled in comparison to his charisma. His magic. He reached up and put his hand through his hair, pushing it back and to the side. She felt like she was in a 3-D movie, desperate to reach out and touch the image.

  “Awesome, huh?”

  “Totally.” She spoke, her eyes glued to his hair, before looking up to see Alberto and Sarah standing next to her chair. “Oh, yes, amazing.” She quickly followed up, agreeing with what Alberto was talking about—Bon Jovi, of course. Not the governor’s hair.

  “Okay, well, we’re going to take off.”

  She stood to bid them farewell and noticed the thinning crowd. She looked back over to the governor and Yanni, who had moved over to Bon Jovi. She could tell Yanni was telling jokes by the way his arms flapped around, while the governor laughed.

  I wonder if I could marry Yanni. We could have one of those marriages they all have. He could go out, I could go out. I could stay in. Here. I wouldn’t have to work. I could be Taylor’s helpful donor. Who needs love anyway? Hmmm. She picked up one of the truffle fries on the table beside her. I could be that shallow. I really think I could. She gobbled down a few more fries, knowing she couldn’t.

  “Okay, it’s Palm time.” Yanni stood over her, waving her up with his hands.

  Olivia knew the Palm well. It was a local, expensive restaurant where anyone from Billy Joel to Diddy and a half a dozen of their peers could be found on any given summer Saturday night. She looked at the heels lying by her feet. The thought of getting back up onto them seemed offensive at best.

  “I think I’m going to let this be a boys’ night out,” she said, demurring.

  “Oh, it will not be a boys’ night.” Yanni smiled mischievously.

  “Right.” Olivia laughed. She was clearly too tired to participate in any of this. “I’m out. The thought of putting heels back on is too much. Thank you so much for everything, Yanni.” She added in the last part feeling
grateful, more than anything, for being included. Yanni, of course, was out the door before the “you” escaped her mouth.

  As soon as she stood up, she realized how right her decision to stay in was. She was either too drunk or too tired to get to her room, much less adventure to the Palm. Head spinning, she grabbed the staircase railing for a bit of balance. As the music began to fade into the background she became aware of her drunkenness. Campaign Lesson #2—no drinking at work. Maybe that should be lesson number one. Focus, Olivia.

  True, Yanni’s house was huge and her bedroom was on the far end of the second floor, but the walk couldn’t have actually been as long as it now seemed. She grasped onto the shoes in her hand and straightened up her back, as if that would make her less drunk.

  Finally she arrived at her assigned bedroom. She looked to the left for her black bag and her purse strewn against a corner (her trick for disguising her messy chaos in hotels and houses was to stuff anything she owned in a corner), which enabled her to make sure she had in fact made it back to the correct room. She could still hear the techno-hiphop remixes playing downstairs.

  Or is that just in my head? I should brush my teeth and wash my face, she thought as she flopped down on the bed. Ohhh, but the bed is so soft. I’ll go in a minute. Closing her eyes, she sank into the sheets and wondered how many thousand the thread count was as the gravel spewed outside her window from the caravan of cars heading off to the Palm.

  Olivia turned over in exhaustion, grateful she had decided not to go. She dozed off, awakened a few minutes later by rustling at her door. She tried to pick up her head but, as if in a dream, couldn’t really get her head from the pillow. Her eyes opened with the sound of the door and suddenly she was awake.

  “Governor.” She felt her neck shoot up. “I . . . um . . . I’m sorry . . . oh my gosh, did I take the wrong room?” Her eyes darted to find the bag she swore she had already confirmed to be on the floor.

  “No, no.” He paused and looked around the room. “No, it’s, uhhh . . . all me. Sorry. So sorry!”

  “Oh.” Olivia exhaled slowly. She stood and twisted back around the skirt that had turned during her flop on the bed. Ohmigod. What am I even wearing? I’m a mess. And he’s . . . She looked at him standing so casually in her doorway. He’s perfect. His shoulders pressed out against his blue jacket and the top two buttons of his shirt were open, exposing a bit of his skin. It looked so smooth; she hadn’t noticed how smooth his skin was. Stop noticing his skin!

  “Sir . . . Sorry . . . I thought . . . didn’t you go to the Palm?”

  “Nah. Figured I’d make Page Six work for their news this year.”

  Olivia tilted her head, trying to make the world stop spinning. And totally virtuous. And that skin. She glanced down. Ohmigod I just looked at his crotch. Look up. Look up. He’s your boss. Was it big? Could I glance back without his noticing? Did he notice already? Stop it! She tried to stop thinking and focus on what to do with her hands, which hung down awkwardly by her sides.

  Thankfully, he interrupted her spiral.

  “What a day, huh?”

  “Incredible. Bon Jovi did just play an acoustic set downstairs, didn’t he? I mean I hear tequila is a hallucinogen but that seemed pretty real.”

  He laughed.

  Holy shit. Who am I? What am I doing? Drinking? Talking about tequila? Looking at his crotch? Ohmigod, I just saw it again. It is big. Holy shit. I said that already. He is your boss. You are a professional. This is the job of your dreams. Stop looking at him, she begged her subconscious.

  “Some days I’m sure someone will wake me up and I’ll still be a law professor just daydreaming at my desk.”

  “You ever wish you still were?” Olivia stepped to the side a bit and lost her balance.

  The governor noticed and stepped toward her, as if he were ready to catch her. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  Embarrassed, Olivia tried to cover up the tipsy move. “Whoa, you know when you get up too quickly? What do they call that—‘head rush’?”

  “I believe the proper term is ‘tipsy’!” He laughed. He seemed to be making a point of not letting go of her elbow. “God, you have a great smile.” He was actually saying those words.

  She froze, looking up at him, aware of how close that smooth skin under his neck was. And his hand on her elbow. She awkwardly pulled it just a bit, needing to break away and regain her composure.

  “Thank you, sir.” She looked around, desperate to escape the inappropriate closeness between them, but as she did, he stepped away too.

  “I’m apparently losing my mind today.” He lingered on the “-ay.”

  She looked at him, trying to decipher his smile. Could he have meant to come here? This couldn’t have been a mistake. It didn’t seem like a mistake. Maybe he loves me. She quickly pushed the thoughts from her head. What am I saying? I am insane.

  He apologized again, shaking his head, as if he were trying to get something out. Then he straightened up his body and switched his voice to a parental tone, a bit louder and less breathy than before. “Okay, then. So you get some rest.”

  “Okay, yup.” As the door closed behind him, Olivia felt the room double in size and her own self halved. Unsure of what had just happened, she knew she should feel uncomfortable and possibly upset, but instead her stomach churned with excitement.

  She flopped on the bed, her skirt spinning back around again, feeling that tingling that she felt when she first glanced at the sleekness of his chest. She closed her eyes, imagining what the rest of him looked like. Felt like. She grabbed a pillow and squeezed tight. It’s a crush. I have a crush, she told herself. It will go away. It has to.

  Jacob shot up at seven forty-five a.m., long after he was used to waking up, but without the groggy exhaustion he should have had. He couldn’t help smiling at the fun of last night. The Palm was obscene. That was the appropriately descriptive word. Models had flocked to the table Yanni had anchored with bottles of every type of liquor possible. Jon Bon Jovi had left because it was “getting out of hand.” I stayed at a party too out-of-hand for a rock star, Jacob thought to himself with an urgent need to contact at least four or five people from high school to tell them.

  And Jenny. Or Jackie. Shit, what was her name anyway? He had never done anything like that. Not that he did anything. Okay, so we went swimming and she definitely was in her bra. But it was a just-look-don’t-touch kind of thing, he said to himself, feeling like he needed to defend the decision. What should I have done? Looked away? Yeah, I should have looked away. Definitely. But that would have been weird. And he couldn’t deny enjoying the feeling of fitting in. Fitting in with the business guys, with the guys he wanted to be. The night confirmed all his suspicions that his proximity to the governor, the future president, would lead to his corner office. To his own table at the Palm. In past campaigns he was the peon but now he was at the adult table. Literally. As Landon Taylor’s campaign manager.

  Okay, so he was the body guy, not exactly the campaign manager, but for all intents and purposes he was managing the campaign. At least the road part. Billy would probably eventually hold the official title, but Jacob would do the work. Now that Olivia was on board to take over the fundraising, he could step into the role he really wanted. He knew they wouldn’t give him campaign manager but he was sure he would get deputy campaign manager or road manager. He laughed thinking of how much like a rock band that sounded.

  As he threw his rumpled and wet (Who thought that two a.m. swim was a good idea? Oh right, Jackie. Jen, I mean Jen.) clothes into his bag, he thought about the conversation he would have with Taylor. He heard Yanni’s voice in his head. “Step up, man,” Yanni had said. “Wishing and hoping is for lazy people. Good things come to those who get up and grab them.” That’s what Jacob would do. He would step up and grab the reins. The reins of the campaign to the White House. Damn, it’s good to be me.

  Damn, damn, damn. Olivia woke up in even less of a real world than the one she fell asleep
in. Her mind ran from yesterday straight into today as she focused on packing and practiced her “Hello, Governor” with Shakespearean intensity. She precisely folded every piece of clothing. She needed to get control over something. She longed to be zapped to the diner with her friends or to her apartment. Her couch. She’d rarely been so desperate to get back to the emptiness of her small home. Why am I so freaked by this?

  It was nothing. Nothing. The more she protested to herself, the more she seemed to believe it was more than nothing. What was that thing about her smile? Why was everything so blurry? Why did she have that tequila? She had never been drunk at a work event before; she had barely ever drunk alcohol at one. And granted, this wasn’t exactly a work event, but it was workish.

  She looked at the day on her BlackBerry. Sunday. One day before she officially started on the campaign. Maybe she should get out of it. Dream job. Not getting out of it. It will be fine. Questions kept resurfacing. Was it really an accident that he stumbled into her room? Could it have been more than that? Nothing, she reminded herself. It will be fine.

  She headed down to the kitchen, bag in tow, determined to seem more professional than ever. She just needed to survive an hour. Not even. The governor and Jacob would be on a plane back to Georgia in fifty-two minutes and she could go back to the city and regroup. Fortunately, as she stepped into the kitchen, Jacob and the governor were, as they always seemed to be, mid-conversation. They barely looked up at her, waving a bit only, and her practiced hellos became totally pointless as a chef-looking person put himself in her path before she got the first “H” out.

  “What can I get you for breakfast?” He went on to offer her more choices than she would find at an IHOP.

  Note to self: rethink marrying Yanni.

  Actually she could have gone for an omelet and well-done bacon but there was no chance she would sit down for an awkward breakfast. Plus, she had already noticed that Jacob and the governor had half-finished coffees in hand and figured she should match their gambit. “Just coffee would be great, thank you.”