Sandy holds the reins of my horse as I dismount.
“I think I fall better,” I say, still laughing.
“She’s a good sport,” Sandy says to Drew. “You should keep her.”
As Sandy leads the horses away, I mouth at Drew: Doesn’t he know we’re just faking?
But Drew just shrugs.
It’s a big day for shrugging.
• • •
And it’s a big day for doing whatever Sandy wants us to do too.
The guy’s got a whole plan. He takes us sightseeing various places, has us stop regularly for meals, and takes pictures of us everywhere we go with his iPhone. “For your adoring public, right?” he says.
And all the while, he keeps up a steady stream of chatter. If there’s one thing Sandy can do, it’s talk. He talks to me a lot and he talks to Drew a lot. Drew and me talking to each other, though? Not so much. But it doesn’t seem to matter because Sandy’s got us covered. Truth to tell, when he talks to me, I kind of like it. He’s funny and interesting and—shocker!—he appears to think the same of me. At one point, he even says, “You’re not half bad . . . for a Republican,” which I take is a huge compliment coming from him. If anything, though, I like it most when he talks to Drew. Then I can just sit back and watch the glory of two people who know each other so well that they can tease each other mercilessly and still manage to have the love shine through. Best friends.
I have to say, I’m envious of that.
It’s getting late in the day. The sky is beginning to change.
“Much as I hate to admit it,” I say, “all good things must come to an end. Time to head back?”
Sandy pulls out his now familiar crumpled itinerary.
“Nah,” he says. “How about one more stop?” Then: “Yo, Kent. Can you take us to the outskirts of town?”
• • •
The outskirts of town. It sounds like something you’d hear in a Western. Or maybe a romance.
Funny, there are a whole bunch of other people hanging out on the outskirts of town.
“What’s everyone here for?” I ask. “What’s the big attraction?”
“Only that.” Sandy points.
And that’s when I see it: the sun setting over the city of Tucson, a whole array of amazing colors trailing across the sky. I watch, we all do, until the sun disappears entirely.
It’s so beautiful.
“I guess we go now?” I say with a sigh.
“No,” Sandy says. “Now we wait.”
“For?”
If I’ve learned one thing today, though, it’s that there’s not much point in arguing with Sandy. So I wait, and surprisingly, all the other people on the outskirts of town wait too, staring up at the sky. Maybe they know something I don’t?
With the sun gone, the sky gradually darkens. And as it does, stars begin to wink, slowly at first and then so rapidly until there are more stars in the sky than I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Pretty amazing, huh?” Sandy says, sounding pleased with himself. Well, who can blame him?
“It’s like being in an observatory,” I admit, “but you don’t need a telescope.”
“Okay, great,” Sandy says, his voice turning all businesslike, as he proceeds to instruct Drew, “now kiss her.”
“What?” we both cry.
Well, at least we finally agree on one thing.
“Go on.” Sandy pulls out his iPhone, holds it in our direction to frame the shot. “Kiss her.”
“Didn’t you tell him . . .?” I start to hiss at Drew. Then quickly, I look around us to see if anyone’s heard, but everyone else is too busy staring at the stars. “That we’re not together anymore?”
“I told him,” Drew says, with a shrug like: But what do you expect? The guy’s crazy.
“Yeah, yeah, I know all that,” Sandy says. “But all those other pictures you’ve been taking of yourselves as a couple—sightseeing this, sightseeing that, occasionally with your arms around each other—it’s all nice and stuff. But don’t you think all your fans out there would like to see something real? You know, one of the guy kissing the girl?”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I don’t wait for Drew to decide what the right thing to do is. Instead I reach up, grab him by the T-shirt with both fists, pull his face toward mine, and plant my lips on his before he can resist.
As Drew slides his arms around my waist to pull me closer, for the briefest of minutes while we perform just for the camera, I feel like something’s been righted in my world. How I’ve missed this: the feeling of his body pressed next to mine, the feeling that he is mine. And oh, how I miss those kisses. How I wish things still were the way they used to be, when we kissed not for the cameras, but just for us.
So caught up am I in longing for the person who’s right next to me, I’m only vaguely aware of the sound of the camera clicking:
Snick.
Snick.
I’ve heard that sound before.
DREW
Election night.
Yes, it’s finally here.
The first returns are scheduled to come in at seven, with Georgia, Indiana, Kentucky, South Carolina, Vermont, and Virginia reporting, and we’re all gathered in our hotel in Hartford. My mom, Dad, the twins, Clint, Ann, and all the staffers who can cram into the penthouse suite. My mom wanted to watch from home, but Ann said it would be better to do it from Connecticut’s capital city, so we could use the ballroom downstairs when the final results are in. As it happens, the Willfield campaign has made the same choice. Only they’re installed in the hotel across the street.
You need two hundred and seventy of the electoral votes to win a presidential election in the United States. Two hundred and seventy—that’s the magic number. If my mom reaches that, we’ll go down to the ballroom for the most hectic party ever and thousands upon thousands of red, white, and blue balloons will be released from nets hanging from the rafters. If she loses? The balloons will stay in their nets and it will be a much more sober affair as she gives her concession speech.
Even though it’s just six, with those first returns still an hour away, we’re already glued to the TV. Who knew that finding out who the next Leader of the Free World is going to be could be so fascinating? I didn’t. But I do now.
Which is why it takes me a minute to realize that my iPhone is vibrating against my leg.
When I pick it up, I see it’s a text from Sandy.
It’s funny. In a way, back at the Democratic Primary celebration, this all began with a text from Sandy, so it’s somehow fitting that it should end this way too. I read what he’s written:
It was never her.
I type back: What r u talking about?
Him: Katie.
Me: What?
Him: Thing @ ur dad.
Me: What???
Him: Watch TV. Soon every1’ll know.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I look up at the TV screen and sure enough, there’s a special bulletin crawling across the bottom of the screen. Can it be some of the returns already? But no. I look at the countdown clock and that’s still a ways away. So I look back at the special bulletin to see the final words of it: . . . from the Treadwell campaign. What is this? But no sooner does the crawl end than the talking heads start talking about what this is.
“This just in,” one of the election analysts says. “It has been discovered that the unconfirmed source of a story a few weeks back—that Samantha Reilly’s husband was cheating on her—was in fact someone from the Treadwell campaign, fabricating the truth. It seems prudent to point out that this new development has been confirmed.”
Another one of the analysts chuckles at this. “So I guess it turns out that Mr. Clean Campaign was the real dirty player? Not that it will hurt him any. His campaign was already over with.”
Which is true. The debates clearly showed the voters what a whack job Bix Treadwell is, and in this last week my mom and Katie’s dad have broken way ahead of him in t
he polls. Although they’re still neck and neck with each other.
And then all the analysts chuckle. Really? This is a chuckle moment? My family is hurt, my father’s good name is smeared, and my romance with Katie destroyed by false rumor . . . and they think it’s funny? What a bunch of clowns.
And then it hits me: Sandy knew about this story before it broke. My iPhone starts to vibrate again.
I pick it up to see just one word there:
Well?
You wouldn’t think a single word followed by a question mark could be smug, but there you go.
The look on my face as I stare at my phone—if I could just be outside myself right now, I imagine I’d see something on the level of horror-film incredulity.
Me: You knew about this in advance.
Him: I have my ways.
But how?
Me: YOU did this?
Him: Again, I have my ways.
I don’t know what to say to this, but I don’t have to as Sandy gets the last word:
Now, go get the girl.
But I can’t do that, can I? What am I going to say to her? Oh, I didn’t believe you when you were telling the truth, but now that everyone else knows the truth I believe you so can we maybe go on from here?
Yeah, right. Like that’s going to work.
But then I think: I have to at least try. That’s the thing about everything in life, from the smallest things you want to romance and even presidential elections:
You can never know the outcome in advance, but at the very least, you have to try.
“Can you believe that guy?” my dad is saying to the screen.
They must be talking about the Bix Treadwell revelation.
“That’s politics,” my mom says. It surprises me, the lack of anger in her voice. She seems to accept it as being just another part of the game. I suppose she’s used to it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be.
I pick up my iPhone to get in touch with Kat—I’m already thinking of her as Kat again—and it occurs to me: after all this time, I don’t even have her number.
I get up off the sofa, grab my coat on the way to the door.
“Drew?” my mom calls. “The results will start coming in soon. Where are you going?”
“There’s something I’ve got to take care of,” I shout from the doorway, “but I’ll be back!” Then I walk back and give her a quick kiss on the forehead and whisper, “You’re going to do great, Mom. Whatever happens, you’re going to do great.”
And I’m gone.
You’d think it’d be easier to get in to see someone at a hotel.
After crossing the street and going through the revolving doors, I approach the clerk at the front desk and ask what suite Katie Willfield and her party is staying in, only to be met with:
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re not at liberty to give out that information.”
“You don’t understand,” I say. “We’re friends.”
“Yes,” he says, “that’s the line all the young men use.”
Other young men? Other guys have been trying to get up to see her?
“But I’m her boyfriend,” I say.
Well, I was. And anyway, almost no one in the country knows I’m not anymore, so . . .
“Riiiiight,” the clerk says. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
“Don’t you recognize me?” I point at my face but he looks at me blankly. “Never mind.”
I head for the bank of elevators.
If he won’t tell me what suite she’s in, I’ll find her myself.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the clerk shouts after me, his previous snooty tone now replaced with desperation. Then, when I don’t respond: “Security!”
Before I know it, two burly security guards have me by the armpits, dragging me backward through the lobby. As I’m being dragged, I see Kent watching from the elevator bank in bemusement.
“Kent!” I shout. “You know me! Let me up to the suite!”
“I can’t do that,” he says. “But if you wait outside, I’ll tell her you’re here.”
With that, I’m thrust back out through the doors and onto the street.
And that’s how you get thrown out of a hotel.
I wait outside in the cold for what seems like forever, pacing the pavement, using my time to rehearse what I’m going to say. What if she doesn’t come? And if she does, what good is a rehearsed statement? I’m not making up fake campaign promises here, trying to earn votes. This is real.
I’ll just speak from what’s in my heart.
“Drew?”
I turn, and then there she is, coming through the revolving doors, holding her arms across her chest as she shivers against the cold.
“Hey,” I say, trying on a joke as she approaches, “didn’t you read the Farmer’s Almanac? They said it was going to be cold tonight, maybe even snow.”
But she ignores my lame attempt at humor. “What’s this all about?” she says. “I need to get back upstairs.”
“Yeah, okay, listen.”
But I can’t stand to see her shivering like that, so I take off my coat. “Here,” I say, draping it around her shoulders.
It’s worth noting that she doesn’t say thank you, just continues looking at me, hard. “Well?” she says when I fail to speak. “I’m listening.”
It’s now or never. I take a deep breath and start to speak.
“I know now that it wasn’t you behind the rumor about my dad and—”
“Right,” she cuts me off. “You know, because the world knows, it was Bix. So, thanks for the apology and all . . .” She starts to turn away.
“That’s not it!” I call after her.
She turns. “Then what is?”
“Look, I already had this discussion, in my head.” I point at my head to demonstrate, and feeling foolish, put my hand down. “I know it’s not enough for me to say, Oops, my mistake! It wasn’t you. Can we go on from here?”
“You want to . . . go on from here?”
“Yes! But here’s the thing: It shouldn’t have mattered who was behind the story, Bix or any other person. The important thing is that I should have listened to you when you first said it wasn’t you. I should have trusted your word. Just like I should have trusted in my dad and Sandy.”
She looks puzzled at this last part. If I get the time later, which I hope I will, I’ll explain everything.
“But most of all,” I continue, “I should have trusted you. If you’re going to choose to have a person in your life, if you fall in love with someone, you have to also choose to trust that person. Because if you don’t have that, if you’re not going to trust the most important people in your life, then what do you have?”
“You’re . . . in love with me?”
“I think I always have been,” I say. And then, as she stares at me with increasing wonder, I proceed to tell her about all that Sandy reminded me of: how we met when we were four, how I carried her picture in my wallet when we were eight.
There’s astonishment in her eyes as she says, “I remember that boy. I remember that day at the summer festival.”
I love that astonishment in her eyes. I love everything about her eyes. I love her.
“It’s always been you, Kat,” I say.
“Drew . . .”
I see a single snowflake settle on her hair, followed by a few more.
“What do you know?” I hold my arms out wide. “The Farmer’s Almanac is right again!”
“It can’t work,” she says and I feel the smile immediately disappear from my face.
“You don’t love me back?”
“No. I mean, yes, I do—love you, that is, but—”
“Kat,” I say, “is it that you still think I was responsible for leaking those photos from the night of the masquerade ball because—”
“I know it wasn’t you.”
“Because you trusted me?”
Is this what’s going to kill my chances, that she was smart enough to trust
me while I was stupid enough not to believe her?
“No,” she says. “But I should have. It was Sandy.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he told me. In Arizona.”
“When?”
“You were in the bathroom or something, and he confessed that it was him. And he confessed about why he did it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
She doesn’t answer this. Instead she says, “I made him promise not to tell you I knew. Because what would be the point? You still thought I was behind the story about your dad.”
Sandy kept his promise to her? What a time for the dude to keep silent!
“You know,” she says, “you’re lucky to have him for a friend.”
I realize that it’s true: I am lucky to have Sandy.
“But if you know the truth now,” I say, “and I know the truth, then why can’t this work?”
“Drew,” she says, “in a few hours, either your mom or my father is going to be elected president of the United States. And then, in January, one of us will move to Washington, DC to live in the White House. How can we make a relationship work with all that?”
It gives me hope that she uses the word “relationship” and not “romance.” Romances, they can be such temporary things. You fall for someone in the cafeteria line at school on Monday and before the Friday pep rally, it’s all over. But a relationship, that’s something that sounds like it could have a future in it. That sounds like something that, if two people are incredibly lucky, could go on and on.
With no shortage of romance in it, of course.
“I don’t have all the answers, Kat. I don’t even have most of them.” I put my hands in her hair. The snow is falling harder now. “But if two people love each other like I love you and you love me . . .”
I look at her questioningly and she nods, confirming that she loves me back.
“Then,” I say, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few months it’s that, at the very least, you have to try. We have to try.”
For the first time since she came out here, her mouth tilts into a smile.
I love that smile.
And seeing it, I do what I’ve wanted to do for what seems like forever. I lower my face to hers and kiss her, and she kisses me back.
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 20
