I groaned. “You can’t have it both ways, Maya. First you say I want to keep you hidden, and now you’re saying you don’t want to be seen with me. Which is it?”
She covered her eyes with both hands. “I don’t know. I just don’t know if this”—she motioned to us—“can work. Ever. We’re so different.”
“But we aren’t—not inside. We both just want to be left alone.”
The tightness in her facial muscles confused me. Was she angry? Or about to give in?
“You have no idea what it’s like being from Mattapan and attending Whitlock. Being a minority, fatherless, struggling to keep a roof over my head, and alone.”
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me. Everyone has treated me differently because of my last name. I thought you were different,” I said without thinking. “I’m not a person; I’m a Carmichael. That’s all anyone sees.”
She flinched but quickly recovered. “Must be such a hardship. How do you get out of bed every day?”
The conversation had taken a massive wrong turn. “I can’t change who I am,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry you had it so rough while I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but you aren’t the only one who’s fatherless.” I stood up in a huff, but I didn’t rush off. I wanted her to stop me. I wanted her to say she was sorry, to say “to hell with it; let’s give it a go.”
She didn’t. Maya continued to stare at her feet. Clearly she had no intention of continuing the conversation. That was that. I was the rich white girl. She was the poor minority. And in her world, that still mattered. I knew it mattered in my world, too, but at least I was willing to give us a chance.
***
“And that’s all she said?” Fiona rubbed one of her earlobes. “No major bomb, just that she’s poor and her mother was born in Puerto Rico?”
“Thank you!” I slapped the kitchen table.
“She has beautiful skin. You say her family goes back to the slave trade.” Fiona grabbed a silver and red can from the fridge, popped the top of the Diet Coke, and handed it to me. “From the color of her skin, I’d say she was mixed, and damn, she inherited all the best genes from Africa, Europe, and America.”
“Really, Fee. That’s what you want to talk about?” I sipped my drink. “Can we get back to the matter at hand? It wasn’t like she’d dropped a bombshell. I already knew she was a minority. I just don’t think it’s a big deal.” Fiona’s perky yellow walls oozed happiness, while I slowly perished from a broken heart.
Fiona shrugged. “For us, maybe. But what would your mother say, Ains? Her first thought would be your political ambition. And Grandmother would have a conniption.” She eyed me knowingly. “Maya probably doesn’t want to get hurt. Why fall for you when there’s no chance? Not to mention she’s hiding something. Why else wouldn’t there be records? Think of how that’ll look…”
“Don’t say during my presidential campaign,” I groaned. “Fuck my career. I’m not even out of college. I’m so sick and tired of making all of my decisions based on something that probably won’t happen. Not to mention being hounded by Susie Q, who’s bent on destroying any chance of happiness.”
“Have you received anymore random texts?”
I swatted the air. “No.” My right eye twitched uncontrollably. Rubbing it, I continued to keep Fee off the trail of quotes. “How many presidents have there been? Forty-something?”
“Forty-four. You know the number.” Fiona poured another cup of tea from the pot and plopped in two sugar cubes, splashing tea onto the table. She swiped it away with her fingers.
“In over two hundred years, only forty-four individuals have held that office. And no woman has been elected so far, let alone a lesbian!” I let out an angry puff of air. “I’m tired of making all my decisions based on a long shot.”
At eighteen, I was starting to realize I was constantly wracked with worry about my presidential quest. I would be judged on everything I did, not only as a senator’s daughter, but as a future president. I avoided Facebook, Twitter, blogs, and any type of social media. Even Goodreads was out of the question, because what if I rated a book that could potentially become a scandal thirty years from now?
Scandal.
All my life had been devoted to dodging scandals so I wouldn’t become a footnote in American history. Being with Maya might not be scandalous on a huge scale, but it could cause ripples—and I didn’t give a damn. Not when I kissed her and not now. Fuck living in fear, because that wasn’t living.
I was a late bloomer for everything. I was the last to lose my first tooth and the last to start my period. I still hadn’t grown any boobs to speak of. A virgin. I never rebelled. None of this stuff had mattered months ago. Hell, it hadn’t mattered weeks ago.
Fuck twenty years from now. I wanted to live in the moment.
How did this happen? How did Maya worm her way into my life and turn everything upside down?
Fiona snapped her fingers in my face. “Earth to Ainsley. You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Spacing out. Probably stewing about all the wrongs in the world.”
“Close. All the wrongs in my life.”
“That’s not very presidential.” Fiona placed an exaggerated hand on her chest, feigning bewilderment, and laughed. She sipped her tea and immediately scrunched up her face. “I wish we could go to La Creperie. That place has ruined me for all other hot beverages.”
I perked up. “Why can’t we?”
She sucked her lower lip into her mouth. “Won’t that be awkward or come across as desperate?”
I waved her concerns away. “Maya wasn’t wearing her black shirt today. I’m pretty sure she’s not working.”
Without waiting for me to continue, Fiona yanked her purse off the side table and shoved me toward the door. Outside, her arm encircled my waist and I leaned my head against her shoulder as we walked in silence past the John F. Kennedy School of Government.
Outside the entrance of La Creperie, Fiona asked, “Are you sure she’s not here?”
“Of course.” I still didn’t know who Maya was, but I did know one thing: she was predictable, mostly. I brusquely tugged Fee’s arm, taking her by surprise and causing us to stumble inside. We weren’t making a grand entrance; we were making a spectacle.
“Grace isn’t your thing, is it?” Fiona arched an eyebrow and straightened her blazer.
“It’s hard to believe I took six years of ballet and tap lessons.” Not flummoxed, I marched to the counter to order. Right when I reached the register, Maya stepped out from the back to relieve the person at the counter. Grace and timing weren’t my strong suits, apparently.
Maya, stone-faced, waited for me to order. Fiona shuffled her feet, and I sensed she wanted to belt out, “Awkward!”
The overhead lights seemed unusually bright, and I simultaneously covered my eyes and squinted.
“Hello, we’re back for your wonderful brews.” Fiona came to my rescue. “I’m addicted to the hazelnut latte, so I dragged my dear cousin here kicking and screaming.”
Some rescue.
Maya punched a few keys on the register and busied herself making our drinks.
Fiona dug a ten and three ones out of her Woodrow Wilson wallet, which she’d been carrying since she was twelve.
“I can bring them to your table if you like.” Maya glanced over her shoulder at the customer behind us, dismissing us with a curt nod.
“That would be marvelous.” Fiona jostled me toward a table in the rear—the same one behind the column where Maya had hidden that first night. There was no denying Fiona was relishing my mortification. “You’re more entertaining than all the John Hughes’ flicks put together.”
I scowled at her. “Glad someone is finding this funny.”
“I asked you, and you were so sure.” She waved a haughty hand in the air.
I put a finger to my lips to silence her. The last thing I needed
was to have Maya overhear. My plan was to bolt down our coffee and make a quick, and hopefully refined, exit.
“Oh, did I tell you, darling, that we’ve been summoned to a family dinner this weekend?” Fiona’s sweet façade was a cover. Not that dinner with our family was horrible—draining was more like it.
“Everyone?”
“As far as I can tell. Mom told me to make sure you’re there. Your mother is in California, fundraising for one of the senators—I can’t remember which one.” She tapped her nose with a finger.
“Why did your mom say I had to be there? Why single me out?”
“I dunno. A surprise, maybe.”
“Sounds ominous. Do you remember the last family surprise?” I cringed.
Fiona looked away. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Fiona… I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.” I rested my hand on her arm.
The last family bombshell was the announcement that her parents would be living apart—permanently, although we were never to speak of it in public. Divorce wasn’t an option, considering her father was an esteemed member in the House of Representatives. Fee’s mom had put up with a lot, but when her husband had been caught with yet another staffer—actually two staffers, and one was male—she’d called it quits. That, of course, wasn’t mentioned at the family estate either, but it was hard to avoid scintillating news reports about the male staffer on the evening news cycle for several days. Susie Q had a field day on the Tattler. Somehow, she managed to get her grubby paws on blurry photos that showed Fee’s dad giving the dude a BJ.
Fiona, being the sexually fluid type, wasn’t bothered that her father was comfortable being with men and women. Her anger stemmed from two sources: that her father was stupid enough to get caught and that it hurt her mom.
That meeting had been called to inform all of us to circle the wagons tighter than ever before. Fiona was whisked off to public events with her loving father, to show he was a family man. She played her role to perfection: smiling for the camera, planting kisses on her father’s cheek, and acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. Fee’s mom made a few appearances. When she did, they all held hands, with Fiona in the middle, a la the Clintons after the Lewinski brouhaha.
Duty.
Carmichaels believed in family duty, no matter what. Until recently, I believed it was akin to breathing—that it had to be done to survive.
“I need to use the bathroom.” I stood up abruptly, turned, and crashed right into Maya, who was holding a coffee cup in each hand. One cup flew into the air and hung there for a split second before spiraling down like a shooting star, leaving a trail of brown. The crash was deafening.
I shrieked.
Maya set the other cup on a nearby table and reached for my hand. “Are you okay? You aren’t burned, are you?”
I looked down at the floor. The cup had shattered like Humpty Dumpty. Maya’s apron was sprayed with coffee, and my hand dripped with searing liquid, but I wasn’t in pain. My brain could only comprehend that Maya was holding my hand, inspecting the faint red splotches. I was aware of her touch, nothing more.
It didn’t last. She released my hand, letting it crash to my side. Maya marched to the back of the store, reappearing moments later with a bowl of cool water, which she plunged my hand into.
Neither of us spoke, but I noticed Fiona scrutinizing the situation.
“Does it hurt?” Maya asked.
I shook my head, unable to register whether she was annoyed or not. Was she worried about a lawsuit?
“Are you?” I asked. Her splattered apron revealed she had taken the brunt of the collision.
“I’m fine.” She looked at Fiona. “You might want to take her to a doctor.”
Fiona slapped the table. “Pat.” Not saying anything else, she hopped up to make a call.
“Pat?” Maya queried.
“A doctor friend. We try to avoid making a fuss, to stay out of the news.” I explained, feeling like a pompous fool.
“That must be hard for you.” She smirked, avoiding my eyes.
I laughed. “I’m usually not this bad, I swear.”
The shop was deserted, considering it was close to ten and the stress of classes hadn’t kicked into full gear. Two weeks from now, I imagined the place would be filled with students in dire need of a caffeine fix to stay awake cramming into the wee hours.
“Are you working the rest of the night?”
She nodded. “We close at midnight.”
“Alone?”
“Nah. Josh is on his dinner break. Allison had a family emergency and asked me to cover the rest of her shift.”
Fiona returned with a mop and bucket. “Found this by the bathroom.”
Maya jumped out of her seat. “Here, let me do that!”
“Pffft, I can handle it. Take care of her.” She gestured to me, and Maya looked at the bucket and then back at me. Having a customer clean up a spill probably went completely against her moral fiber. However, considering who we were, she may have considered it an order. Secretly, I also wanted Maya to take care of me.
Maya retook her seat and lifted my hand out of the water to inspect the damage. It wasn’t that bad, really, just red. It was hard to determine whether that was from the coffee or from the frigid water.
Fiona took great delight in mopping up the mess, whistling like a sailor swabbing the deck.
“There. Good as new.” Fiona scooted the yellow bucket behind the counter. “All right, Pat’s meeting us at my place.” She shook Maya’s hand. “We should have you over for dinner some night next week. Will Tuesday work?”
Speechless, Maya nodded.
“Good. Ainsley will give you my address.”
With that, Fiona ushered me out.
Mission accomplished.
Chapter Nine
“I’m telling you that girl is gaga over you.” Fiona tapped cigarette ash into a ceramic Richard Nixon tray. She sat in the window of the front room with one curtain partially pulled to the side to allow the smoke to escape.
Pat examined my hand. “What girl?” he asked in his thick Boston-Irish brogue. “Do tell.” He fumbled through his black medical kit on the table in front of the couch.
“Not much to tell,” I said through gritted teeth. The pain was starting to set in, not to mention the embarrassment.
“Not much to tell. Yeah, right. Our little Ainsley’s in love.” Fee stood up, gripped both of my shoulders, and leaned down to my level. “Our rigid girl has finally found someone to break down her wannabe presidential ice walls. Oh, this will make a splendid chapter in your bio. A horrific accident leaving you scarred for life, and your future wife ignoring her own pain to attend to you. Of course, it was at that moment you both knew you were destined to be together, no matter the odds.”
“Oh, Fee. You should write fiction, because that’s the biggest load of crap.” Pat wrapped a sterile cloth around my hand, even though he had assured me the burn was nothing to be concerned about.
“Ouch!” I squirmed.
“Too tight?” Pat quirked an eyebrow.
Fiona burst into a fit of laughter. “Boy, have you got that right, mister.”
Pat joined in at my expense.
“Yuck it up, you two. I’ll get my revenge.”
Unperturbed by my threat, Fee added, “Ainsley may be the first person to woo her beloved by farting.”
“Farting?” Pat’s dark-chocolate eyes left mine in search of Fiona’s emerald ones. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” Fiona tittered. “Not only that, she belted it out in front of her entire class.”
Pat covered his mouth. I wasn’t sure why he bothered, since he was already laughing uncontrollably.
“It was my chair! It squeaked!”
“That was no squeak. They heard your gas explosion in Hong Kong.”
Pat grew serious. “Wait, was this last week at 1:17 p.m.?” He howled with laughter, rubbing tears of mirth from his eyes wit
h the hem of his shirt. The light flickered off his shorn yellow hair. The top of his head resembled a fuzzy tennis ball that had seen better days. Regaining some of his composure, he added, “I didn’t think you Carmichaels ever farted or took a dump, just in case someone was recording you.”
“Only Ainsley,” Fiona said matter-of-factly. She lit a joint and handed it to Pat. “Besides, Grandmother’s minions sweep our places for bugs once a week.”
“You’re kidding.” Pat lowered himself to the floor, sitting with his back against the couch, and stretched out his tree-trunk legs.
Fiona winked. The goons did do a sweep, but I sensed Fee knew she had said too much.
She handed him the roach, and he took a hit. After holding the smoke in, he handed it to me. “It’ll help with the pain.” He smiled like he actually believed he was giving out sound medical advice.
I shook my head.
Fiona took the joint and settled on the floor next to him, her legs almost as long as Pat’s. “Don’t bother. Ainsley is determined not to make Clinton’s mistake.”
Pat’s face twisted.
“She doesn’t want to have to explain that she never actually inhaled.” Fiona stood and grabbed some whiskey from the bureau on the far side of the front room. “This should do the trick.” She poured me a hefty dose, taking a sip before handing over the tumbler.
“But drinking is okay?” asked Pat.
“Hell, you can’t be a politician and not drink. And we’re Scottish. We’ve been in training since we were babes.”
Pat shook his head at Fiona’s logic.
“Our moms used to rub brandy on our gums when we were teething, or if we were acting up. Only the cheap shit, though.” Fiona laughed. “I still can’t stand the swill they used for medicinal purposes.” She scrunched her nose.
Pat motioned for me to hand him the whiskey.
“Only if you promise not to mention the girl, or this, to anyone?” I raised my bandaged paw.
“Please. I’m a fourth-generation Irish-American from Southie. I know keeping my trap shut isn’t just good manners; it’s the difference between life and death.” He smiled, but there was certainty in his squared shoulders. I wasn’t positive, but I suspected some of his family members were connected to the mob.
The Chosen One Page 8
