by Claire Adams
Jason still hadn’t arrived for the day. I was dreading his involvement, of course. We were meant to be working together, to be aligned as a team. But instead, he’d been a sort of maniacal leader, a traitor to my very sense of self.
Suddenly, I heard the door open behind me. I froze, my elbows poised high up in the air. I swallowed, waiting. Waiting. Was this Jason? I heard the footsteps behind me, but still no words.
Suddenly, a hand went over my eyes. I lurched forward, frightened. My stomach clenched, and I thought for a moment that if I wanted to scream, my body wouldn’t let me.
“Ah—if you—if you want to take something—“ I sputtered, barely able to find the words.
But then I heard laughter. It was joyful, a bit incredulous. I felt a kiss on the back of my neck, near my ear. I recognized that cologne.
“Xavier,” I breathed. I spun around, removing his hand from my eyes. “You know you scared the shit out of me.”
“And for that I will be eternally sorry,” he said. His face yielded this incredibly bright smile. He leaned forward and caught my lips in his, wrapping his arms around me. The door, I noted, was safely closed; no one was watching. That I knew of.
“You’re here early,” I whispered to him as our kiss broke.
He shrugged. “I knew you’d be here. You little workaholic.” He winked at me, and I brimmed with pleasure. I wanted him to think that I was working hard for him; I wanted him to know that this was my top priority. Because, God: it was. My job was my life.
“You can have a seat in the front row,” I said, gesturing.
He stepped toward it and sat down, leaning toward me with such intensity. “So. Teacher. I have a question,” he said playfully. He lurched his hand in the air and waved it around a bit, trying to get my attention.
I scanned the room, a grin on my face. “Hold on, Billy. I think someone else might have a question—“
He started laughing. But all at once, the play was over. The door swept open, bringing a few of the campaign employees into the room. I nodded toward them and gestured toward the side wall. “We have bagels and coffee, if you like,” I stated to them. They looked at me fearfully. They were in their mid-20s. I was sure I looked like an old, corrupted shrew to them—only 29, and already at the top of the game. “Have a seat wherever you like!” I called.
They were no longer listening to me. I sighed, peering at the president. My eyes gleamed. He snickered at me and leaned forward. “Not the most popular girl in school anymore, are you?”
I shrugged my shoulder and leaned down. “I was always in chess club, anyway.” I winked toward him.
All at once, the remainder of the crew came in through the door, chattering and grabbing bagels as they flew into their seats. I stood at the helm of the room, my hands grasped together. I had my PowerPoint slides ready; I had my speech prepared. But one thing bothered me, in the back of my mind: where was Jason?
Suddenly, the door burst open one final time. Jason flounced in, still wearing his sunglasses. His hair was in an uproar and he was carrying a big, steaming cup of coffee. He dropped his suitcase by the door, and he strode up to stand next to me at the front of the room. His presence was so massive, so obtrusive, that many of the people in the room had turned toward him rather than me. I frowned.
Jason bowed his head toward Xavier then. “Mr. President.”
“Jason. How are you doing?” Xavier asked him, smiling. They pounded fists. I thought I was going to throw up. A part of me wanted to blurt out the entire story right then, right there—in front of everyone. But where would that get me? I’d be fired instantly; the president would be out of office. Our lives would be over.
“All right, everyone. Are we ready to get started?” I asked. My voice grew loud and it emanated over people’s heads.
A few people nodded, waiting.
“All right.” I clicked my clicker, bringing the first PowerPoint slide over the wall. “So. We’re in the beginning stages of the campaign.”
“That’s right; we are,” Jason spit.
I turned and glared at him, uncertain about his outburst. He was chewing gum and raising his eyebrows toward me in such a provocative, strange manner. I paused for a moment, my mind racing. Was he going to fuck this up for me?
“Right. Anyway. Here’s a map of the states we’re going to hit really hard this time around. As you know, we already won the election utilizing younger voters. However, we’re struggling, now, because the older voters are dropping in droves.”
A few people from the audience nodded their heads toward me, their eyes large. Jason, beside me, scoffed at these words. “They’re dying off, you mean,” he said. His joke rang false through my ears, but many of the campaign workers started laughing joyously, holding their gut.
I cleared my throat, searching around the room. Finally, my eyes latched on Xavier. He nodded toward me, frowning. He didn’t appreciate the joke either, I knew. But he didn’t understand the undercurrent of why Jason was trying to get me to mess up. There was so much at stake here.
“Anyway. As you know, Michigan currently has a very rocky economy because of Detroit—“
Jason raised his hand then. He stood right beside me and raised it, ready to silence me. “Please don’t be offensive about Detroit,” he said, his eyes glowing, so bright. “Some of us are from Detroit. Isn’t that right?”
One small girl in the very back of the room raised her hand. Everyone glared at her.
But Jason brought his hands together. “That is a girl who worked hard to get here,” he said, turning his eyes toward me. His eyes were evil, burning. “That is a girl who kicked and screamed her way in here. She didn’t sleep her way to the top or anything.”
The eyes were on me. They were accusatory; they were filled with hatred. I dropped my pen on the ground. I wanted to drop down and get it, but I didn’t want to look so flustered in front of my employees. I cleared my throat. “Anyway.” I continued on with my speech, feeling Jason’s eyes on me the entire time. His eyes were so wicked, so angry. Every time I felt them upon me, I heard myself mix and match different words; I felt myself stutter. Soon, I felt my face redden beneath my fingertips. I felt like I was having a nervous breakdown. I stopped for five seconds and stared at the wall, my fingers over my mouth. It was like I had no idea what came next.
I turned toward Jason. “I’m sorry. I will have to excuse myself for a moment.” My voice was hushed, unsteady. I didn’t bother to look toward Xavier, to make any sort of eye contact. Instead, I just rushed from the room and into the hallway. I closed my eyes and let out a small, helpless scream that I was certain no one would ever hear.
I rushed into the bathroom then. My breaths were coming in strange, scattered stages. I inhaled with my nose, exhaled with my mouth, trying to right my brain once more. I staggered toward the sink and thought I was going to get sick. I gazed at myself in the mirror, looking at an unsteady, insane person. The girl in the mirror was not Amanda Martin. She was a strained and haggard woman—someone who needed help.
I brought water over my face and padded my cheeks with my fingertips. I coughed into my fist and felt my body rattle. Who would help me? Who could I turn to? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.
I turned back and leaned heavily on the porcelain, my mind racing. Xavier couldn’t know about this. He had so much on his plate; he couldn’t sit around, worrying about this man. And what would he do, anyway? Wouldn’t Jason discover what was going on and immediately release the photos to the public?
My mind was chaotic, strained. I turned toward the wall and pounded on it once, twice, three times. The tears were running heavy down my cheeks.
And then, suddenly, I realized that I did have a friend. Just one friend in the world. I had a bed and a home and a friend.
I spun out toward the door, knowing that I needed to go home, I needed to go see Rachel. She had been a part of this world, before she’d gotten smart enough to get the hell out. And because of her experience, she�
��d know exactly what to tell me. She’d point me in a reasonable direction.
I just wasn’t sure if I was actually ready to hear what this “reasonable” direction would be. Perhaps it would involve never seeing Xavier again. And just the feel of Xavier’s lips on my neck, on my cheek that morning had made me weak at the knees, ready to give him my all.
I shook my head, trying to clear the cob0webs from my head. I was on the curb, trying to hail a taxi. I was going home. And I could be my own woman—I could be someone beyond Xavier’s other woman.
If I had to give up this beautiful, romantic endeavor, so be it.
Right?
Chapter Ten
I rushed home, willing the taxi driver to drive faster, to go further. But I sat in back, biting my tongue and waiting. I couldn’t wait to give this to someone else, to ask Rachel to help me carry it. It seemed like too much, in so many ways. And I knew it was.
I burst up the steps, knowing that Rachel had the day off that afternoon. I felt my bag as it banged against my side. Each step seemed further and further apart. Finally, I reached her floor and tapped at the door, bringing my weight from one foot to the other.
Rachel appeared in the crack of the door. She looked so bright, so sunny. She was wearing a spring dress, even on the grey fall day. And she was holding a broom. “Hello! You’re home early!” she called to me.
I loved that she called it my home. In that moment, I felt really light, really happy. But then, she saw my face, and her frown took form. “What is it, Amanda?” she asked. The reality rushed up around me. She pulled out the kitchen chair and allowed me to collapse in it. She locked the door. “You look so sick. Are you all right?” Her voice had taken on that authoritative feel—the one she’d used to use when she’d worked in politics. It was oddly comforting to me. This was the Rachel I had first met.
I shook my head. “I really need to talk to you,” I whispered. I made a strange motion with my hands. My throat was caught. “I just. I need to talk to you.”
Rachel frowned. She reached around and grabbed the wine bottle then, and she tipped it back on her mouth, allowing the wine to drizzle down her throat. She handed it to me, and I did the same. Then, she grabbed two glasses and got serious.
“Okay,” she stated as she poured. “Is this what you’ve been so upset about—is this why you called me out of the blue?”
I nodded, taking a long sip from the glass of wine. “I’ve made many, many mistakes,” I began then. “You know that I’ve always treated my career as the most important thing.” My eyes flitted up to her, and she nodded, listening to me with such earnestness. “Well. I worked my way to the top, just like I wanted. I had the interview with the president.” I sighed, thinking about his face. “And truth be told, I’ve always had a thing for him. But in an abstract way, you know?”
Rachel nodded. “I remember you talking about it.”
I smiled sheepishly. “I can’t hide things like that very well. Anyway. We started seeing each other. Just as friends, of course. And then, not like friends.”
Rachel’s eyes grew wide. “He’s married,” she whispered. But she didn’t seem shocked; she was simply stating the fact of it. The root of my debacle.
“I know. That is an issue. But I was just following my heart, sort of being reckless. Which isn’t like me at all. And then: boom. He comes to my place. We sleep together. Things get out of hand.”
“Sure,” Rachel whispered. She poured us both another glass of wine. We were drinking far too quickly, and the room was blurring on all sides.
“But Jason, my second-in-command in the campaign. He had placed cameras in my apartment. And he caught it all on camera. And he’s blackmailing me, Rachel. He’s ruining my life.” I felt my throat crack. I felt the tears course down my cheek. I didn’t know what to do, who to turn to. I watched as Rachel brought her hand toward me, placing it on my arm, rubbing at the skin with her thumb.
“He’s taking advantage of you. This is completely illegal,” Rachel stated. Her words were precise, a bit angry. Her eyes flashed. “I can’t believe this.”
I nodded, closing my eyes. I wanted someone to whisk this all away, to carry it for me.
Rachel thought for a moment, tipping her tongue up to her top lip. She tipped her head to the right. “Have you seen the president since then?”
I nodded, blushing. “We—we care about each other a lot. He told me that he would leave his wife for me.”
Rachel’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “Well. This is quite a quandary. And you’re worried, of course, that if this is exposed, the president will be slaughtered. And naturally, you’re worried about your own career.”
I nodded. Finally. Someone understood. It was out in the open. It was free.
Rachel considered this. “You love him, as well. I understand that. Don’t you think it’s time to tell him about this, to allow him to help you through this?”
Initially, I shook my head vehemently. I nearly laughed. “No. No. I mean. He’s so busy; he’s the president. He has so much on his mind—“
But Rachel squeezed my arm a bit harder, looking at me with such assurance. “You have a good deal on your mind, as well. Please don’t downplay this in your life. If you’re important to him, then he must care about this. He must help you get out of this. Do you understand?”
I understood. I bit my lip, blinking toward her with big, doe-like eyes. My wine was disappearing before my eyes. I gestured toward it, hoping to cut through the tension between us. “Gosh. I’ve really hit rock bottom here, haven’t I?” The words rang with a strange truth. I shuddered.
But Rachel just shook her head, bringing the wine bottle back toward us. “We’re just two 20-something girls—not yet 30!—with so much going on. Someday, we’ll be old, and this will all feel like a dream. At least you’re living. You slept with the president!”
“I’m in love with him,” I whispered, my words emanating with drama, with life. And then we giggled together for a moment, lost in the comprehension that this was it—that us two girls were safe in our little abode at the top of the steps, away from the rushing Washington D.C. world.
I was so appreciative of Rachel’s words, of course. But I wasn’t sure if I was ready to tell Xavier about my dilemma. I tried to imagine the conversation playing out in my mind, and I couldn’t. When I told him—in this imagined reality—his face grew blank—no nose, no mouth, no eyes. Just grey and pale. Like a shadow of his former self.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, I woke in the guest bedroom. The light shone in brightly from the exterior courtyard. To the side, in the bed, lay Rachel. She was sleeping so peacefully. I remembered then, that we’d both stayed up in the guest bedroom watching television and giggling together until dawn, never wanting to say goodnight. I laughed at the thought of having a best girlfriend at the age of 29. But things were upside down in this new reality, anyway.
I righted myself and then peered over at the clock on the bedside table. My eyes grew large. “Shit!” I pushed myself from bed and sprang toward the shower, knowing that I was already 30 minutes late for work. I scrubbed at my scalp, at my back quickly, my mind rushing. Shit! I knew that we had a big campaign meeting again that morning—one to right the mistakes of the previous day, of course. I pulsed from the shower and wrapped a towel around my body, shaking at my hair. The water splashed everywhere. God, I didn’t want to go to work this day—I wanted to lounge around, cure myself of this terrorizing headache. Why! So much wine!
I stood out in the hallway, shuffling into my clothes and preparing for the day. I grabbed my briefcase and began shoving papers into it, feeling so frazzled. I tried to remember everything that we were meant to do for the meeting, every topic I was meant to cover. But the hangover hung over me like a cloud.
I heard the door creak to my right, and Rachel shuffled from the room, rubbing at her eyes. “What happened last night,” she teased in a croaking voice. “God, we’re not in college anymor
e. Do you want me to call you in sick?”
I laughed, feeling the strain of it hurt my back, my sides. “Everything hurts,” I murmured. “I have to go to a campaign meeting. I’m already late.”
I shuffled into the hallway and down the steps. A taxi was poised at the intersection outside the apartment building, and I pummeled into it, spewing the words: White House. I thought I was going to throw up.
But by the time we arrived at the White House, I had applied my makeup, brushed through my hair. I was feeling a bit better already. I sniffed and paid the taxi driver a bit extra than normal, thanking him for the use of his mirror. He said he did it all the time.
I rushed into the White House and flung myself down the hallway, knowing that everyone would be lined up at their tables, looking up at Jason—or perhaps Xavier—expectantly. Waiting and searching and waiting for me.
I took a deep breath and then shoved the door open, blinking out over the crowd. Standing next to the computer was Jason, who was wearing a typically wrinkly shirt and a pair of black, wrinkled pants. He turned his nose down to me and scoffed. “Look who decided to show up,” he stated, his eyebrow raised.
I smiled. A few of the people on the campaign team whopped and hollered from the innards of the crowd. I waved. “Sorry, sorry. I have no excuse beyond my aching headache.” I winked at a girl in the front row. In that moment, I realized that the president hadn’t arrived to the meeting yet, either. I turned toward Jason expectantly. “What have you covered?” I asked him.
Jason smacked his hand on the board. “We can’t cover anything! The president hasn’t showed his face in here yet, and you’ve only just arrived. We’ve been sitting here, scratching our asses!”
Only a few people snickered in the first few rows. I felt embarrassed for him, even though he was the one holding my entire livelihood over my head. I swallowed and tugged at my skirt. “Okay, Jason. Let’s get started. Shall we?”
