Twitter Girl

by Nic Tatano

  Sam’s eyes widen. “Uh, how much wine have you had?”

  “This is my third glass. Not enough to make me do anything I don’t want to do. But enough to make me totally honest.” She turns to me. “Hey, Cassidy, remember that list I had in our dorm room about the perfect guy?”

  I’m still clueless as to where she’s going with this, and Sam’s beginning to look like a nervous schoolboy who is having a letters to Penthouse fantasy come true. “What?”

  “The list. You know, the thing I had in college. You remember it?”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t miss it. You hung it on the back of the door which intimidated the hell out of your dates. You titled it the five qualities of Ripley’s perfect man.”

  “Right, that’s what I called it. What were those five things?”

  “You don’t remember? Hell, it’s burned into my brain.”

  “Enlighten me, dear friend.”

  “Fine.” I envision the hand written sign she had on the door. “Number one was that he had to be very smart.”

  She nods. “That’s right. I wanted a guy with a really good head on his shoulders.” She looks at Sam and taps his head with a knuckle. “Check.” Then back to me. “Next?”

  “Number two, he had to be an old-fashioned gentleman. A guy who opens doors for you, compliments you, puts you first, treats you like a queen.”

  “Right. It’s all coming back to me. A guy who knows how to treat a woman.” She looks back at Sam and runs her hand down the side of his face. “Check.” Back to me. “Three?”

  “Third, he had to be a sweetheart. Sentimental. Romantic. A flowers and candy kind of guy who doesn’t forget your birthday and gives you a gift without needing an occasion.”

  “A romantic, sentimental sweetheart.” She looks at Sam and nods. “Check, check and check. Annndddd… fourth?”

  “He had to be ambitious, have a good career and respect the fact that you had your own and not stand in your way. Treat you as an equal.”

  Back to Sam. “Yep. I’d say that’s a check.” Back to me. “Finally?”

  “He had to be full of life and extremely cute, because classically handsome doesn’t do anything for you. Boy next door type with a sense of fun.”

  “A fun, extremely cute boy next door, right, I remember.” She runs her fingers through his hair. “Oh, that’s a major check.”

  Finally Sam speaks. “Ripley—”

  She puts one finger on his lips. “Shhhh. Ripley is talking and she has something very important to say. By the way, young man, when there’s a girl on your lap you should support her back with your free hand. The other goes under my legs or around my waist.”

  Sam is still in shock and sitting there with his arms hanging down at his sides. “Uh-huh.”

  “Hands. Use ’em. Ripley needs to be held.”

  “Right.” He wraps his arms around her waist and she leans against him.

  “Ah, yes, very nice. You comfortable?”

  “Uhhhh….”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Anyway, Sam… remember Christmas Eve when you told us that we both had tells when it comes to men? That, in my case, my eyebrows do this little jump when I see a man who turns me on. Remember that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I was watching a video of us from a few years ago, someone’s birthday party. Lotta people, lotta fun. And in the video there’s one shot where I look at you. And you know what happened?”

  “What?”

  “My tell. Just like you said. Amazing. My eyebrows did that little jump. When I was looking at you. And I remember having three glasses of wine that night, just like tonight. Which makes me honest.” She turns to me. “Anyway, Cassidy, it’s just like seeing my words in the paper. Or, like you said, seeing yourself on television. So I’m watching this video and all of a sudden I’m thinking, who is this girl? And why can’t she see what the camera sees? Why doesn’t she believe her own words when the newspaper prints them? Sometimes you really don’t know who you are unless you can see yourself through different eyes, another point of view. And then it hit me.” She turns back to Sam, gently takes his chin in her hand and tilts it toward her face. “It hit me that you make my eyebrows jump like no one else. That I love how you look at me in that soulful way and make me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. I love how you cook for me and always make my favorite things when I come over. I love how you don’t let any obstacle stand in your way. I love how you treat your sister like a precious gem. I love the fact that your hair has never, ever been combed but always looks great. I love how you’re protective, how you stood up and defended my honor like a white knight that time in the bar. I love that you’ll spend hours playing gin rummy with me like we’re an old retired couple in Florida. I love that you love the same TV shows I do. I love how every time I’m feeling down I can put on this red dress because I know I’ll get a compliment that will cheer me up and a look that will make me feel special. I love how when you’re in Connecticut you stop at that old-fashioned candy store and get me a bag of licorice that I can’t find anywhere else. I love how you’ve always respected me, the way you respect all women. Samuel Shea, I hope you can forgive me because I have been a complete idiot. The best guy in the world has been right in front of my nose and I couldn’t see him. You are the perfect man on the list in my dorm room and I am terribly sorry it took me so damn long to realize it.”

  Sam’s eyes are wide as his jaw hangs open.

  I have the same look.

  Ripley raises her wine glass. “Hold this a minute. Ripley is done with the verbal portion of her apology.” Sam takes the glass. Ripley takes his head with both hands and kisses him, long and hard.

  I’m in absolute shock and what I’m looking at brings a lump in my throat like never before. A single tear rolls down my cheek as I see the two people I love most making the ultimate connection.

  After what seems like a beautiful moment frozen in time, their lips slowly part and she leans back. “So, am I forgiven?”

  “Whuh?” says Sam, still stunned that his dream girl is sitting on his lap and has just planted a big one on him.

  “For being an idiot. Am I forgiven? By my perfect man.” She puts out her lower lip in a pout and bats her eyelashes. “Please don’t make poor little Ripley get on her knees and beg.”

  “Apology accepted.” Sam turns to me and we lock misty eyes, but he says nothing. I smile and nod, giving him the non-verbal go-ahead, then he turns back to Ripley. “Any chance you could apologize to me again?”

  “I’ve got lots of apologies for you,” she says. “Several years worth. Now, since I have deemed you ready to drive off the lot, why don’t you roll us both over to your bedroom?”

  ***

  I’m greeted with the wonderful aroma of frying bacon as I head down the stairs shortly after nine. I see heavy snow falling through the front window and know this will be a good day to be a couch potato.

  I walk into the kitchen expecting to see Sam but instead find Ripley mixing pancake batter while bacon fries on a griddle.

  “Morning!” she says, with a huge smile.

  (It should be noted that Ripley is the antithesis of a morning person. In college she would get up at the crack of noon and anyone who gave her a cheerful greeting would receive “bite me” as a response.)

  “My, aren’t we up early, and ambitious.” I walk around the kitchen island and see the only thing she’s wearing is one of Sam’s long-sleeved blue oxford shirts, unbuttoned halfway down, showing off her perfect boobs. “Well, that’s a new look for you. Is this from the Hooters restaurant spring collection?”

  “Couldn’t cook in the red dress. And Sam seems to like this outfit.”

  “Gee, what a surprise. And since when do you do get up early to cook breakfast?”

  “My growling stomach woke me up.”

  “After all that pizza?”

  She gives me a sly smile. “Burned a lot of calories last night.”

  “Hey! Tha
t’s my brother you… you know…”

  She shrugs and turns back to preparing breakfast. “Hey, you know that fettuccine dish Sam cooks with the shrimp and scallops and the cajun spices?”

  “You mean better-than-sex pasta?”

  “Well, you need to change the name. Because it’s not.”

  My jaw slowly drops.

  She leans toward me and whispers in my ear. “Best. Sex. Ever.”

  “Ripley! Stop it!”

  She leans back and smiles. “But you should know—”

  I put up my hand. “I don’t wanna know!” I put my hands over my ears. “La, la, la, la, la—”

  “Okay, I’ll stop!” she yells.

  I drop my hands, then fold my arms. “Mind explaining what happened last night?”

  “Just like I said. The newspaper article led me to the video and it all led me to the realization that what I was looking for was right under my nose.”

  “I hope you’re sure about this. You know how Sam feels about you and if you broke his heart—.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, dear friend. I would never toy with his emotions. He has my heart and I’d be an idiot to look elsewhere. As you say in your poker games, I’m all in because I know I’ve got a winning hand. He’s the perfect man and he worships the ground I walk on. About time I worshiped him.”

  “Then I’m beyond happy for you guys.”

  “And boy, did I worship him last night.”

  I roll my eyes, knowing any attempt to shut her up will be pointless. I hear Sam’s bedroom door open and see him heading in our direction. “I smell something good.” He shoots me a look of pure joy as he passes, then comes to a stop next to Ripley and his eyes widen since he’s at the perfect level to look inside her shirt.

  I shake my head. “You two give new meaning to the phrase My eyes are up here.”

  Sam blushes as he looks up at her. “You need some help?”

  “Nope,” she says, running one hand through his hair, “for once I’m waiting on you. However…”

  “Yes?”

  She scratches her chin. “Well, the cooktop is a bit low. I need a better vantage point.” She grabs the giant measuring cup filled with pancake batter, sits on his lap and begins pouring the batter on the griddle. “There. That’s perfect.” She turns to him and gives him her wide-eyed little girl look along with the innocent bimbo voice. “You have to keep a close eye on things if you want perfect pancakes. You don’t want things to get too… hot.”

  Sam gulps. “Damn,” he says, as he wraps his arms around her waist. “I could get used to this.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Let me get some coffee, cause this is better than late night cable.”

  An hour later we all lean back, seriously satisfied after a delicious breakfast helped out a bit by that real maple syrup I brought back from New Hampshire. “Ripley, you’ve outdone yourself today,” I say.

  “Really, it was delicious,” says Sam. “Loved the chopped pecans in the pancakes.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” she says, giving him a kiss on the cheek as she gets up and starts clearing the table. “Wait till you see what I’m making you for lunch.”

  “I thought you had that weekend shoot with your client today,” I say.

  She points out the window. “Uh, the blizzard outside canceled it.”

  I glance out at the giant flakes piling up. “Oh, right.”

  “Just stay the whole weekend,” says Sam, with a gleam in his eye.

  I get up to help her with the dishes. “Really, you don’t need to be out driving in this stuff. I’ll get you some clothes.”

  “That’s okay,” she says, tracing his jawline with one long red fingernail. “Don’t think I’ll need any.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  @TwitterGirl

  It’s Super Tuesday! President Turner puts “bring out your dead” scene from Monty Python movie on his website.

  This is the big one.

  Eleven primaries in one day, all across the country. I don’t know how many frequent flyer miles we’ll be logging, but I need to be at the top of my game. This is pretty much the make or break day for the candidates, as tomorrow we’ll see some of the also-rans sent packing.

  It might also be the day when Will Becker can lock up the nomination, or get pretty damn close.

  By the way, the “top of my game” does not refer to Twitter, though I’ll be tweeting all day.

  Will wants me to accompany him to each and every stop. After the Valentine’s Day scene turned into such a hit, the campaign higher-ups have been clamoring for this. I’ll be by his side, doing the Tammy Wynette “stand by your man” thing in front of millions. And while it’s nice that party leaders consider me to be an asset to the campaign, it’s much more important that he considers me an asset to him personally.

  Some are calling me “The New Jackie” in reference to JFK’s wife, who often got more attention than President Kennedy when they traveled together.

  While I don’t own a pillbox hat, I can’t help but be flattered. Jackie Kennedy was an icon, and I don’t remotely deserve the comparison. But I’m not turning it down. Besides, Will started calling me “Jackie” the other day with a Boston accent, and when he says it things seem perfect.

  The party chairman wanted to buy me a whole new wardrobe but I know people who donate to a campaign don’t want their money spent on clothes for a candidate’s girlfriend, especially after that flak Sarah Palin got years ago about the cost of her wardrobe. Besides, I’ve got tons of great outfits the network bought me and don’t want to appear like some diva. So I have two green outfits packed for today along with the emerald green dress I’m wearing. And it worked out well since the campaign logo is in Kelly green and that’s my best color anyway.

  The plane touches down in our first stop, Virginia Beach. I look out the window and see a cheering crowd waiting on the runway, waving Becker campaign signs.

  And one I don’t expect.

  I heart Cassidy.

  “They love you more than me, you know,” says Will, leaning over my shoulder and looking out the window. “You and your damn approval ratings.”

  “I really don’t get it.”

  “A good friend once told me you can’t judge yourself. You need to look at yourself from other points of view. Cassidy, if you could see yourself the way I see you, the way the American people see you, you’d understand.”

  The engines cut off and Jessica opens the door of the plane.

  Will extends his hand and does a Kennedy impression. “C’mon, Jackie. Your, ah, fan club awaits with, ah, great vigah.”

  I take his hand and we head down the aisle.

  As soon as we hit the top of the stairs, the cheering begins.

  And Will raises my hand with his own.

  He starts waving and flashing that famous smile, so I follow suit as we make our way down the steps and over to a podium that has been set up. Will moves to the microphone as I stand next to him, still holding his hand. He gestures for the crowd to quiet down, then steals a line from JFK’s Paris trip.

  “Good morning. I do not think it entirely inappropriate to introduce myself to the audience. I am the man who has accompanied Cassidy Shea to Virginia.”

  The crowd roars and then they start chanting my name like a sports star. “Cass-i-dy! Cass-i-dy!”

  The whirlwind has begun.

  The returns are in. Will didn’t run the table but won eight of the eleven primaries, coming in second in the other three. He still needs a few more delegates to lock up the nomination. So the race continues.

  As for the returns on me, Frank says it was a clean sweep.

  I’ve never felt such warmth and adoration as I have today, all of it undeserved. All because I’m dating a guy running for President.

  The name chanting became a popular greeting as the day went on. I felt like a baseball player after a game-winning home run.

  I received flowers everywhere we stopped, sampled food at pr
obably a dozen restaurants and shops (no complaints on that), got a kiss from Will after every one of his speeches, and generally felt like royalty. I smiled so much today I think my face is now frozen like those women who use so much Botox it’s impossible to tell if they’re mad.

  I’m also physically exhausted, and so is Will.

  We had originally planned to fly back to New York tonight but he’s doing live interviews for the West Coast so Frank pushed it back till tomorrow morning. Wheels up at eight.

  Despite the wonderful day, I find myself once again alone in my hotel room, so wired I can’t possibly go to sleep.

  I need my FaceTime buddy.

  I text Tyler on my cell. “You still up and wanna talk?”

  I sit there at the desk in my room, drumming my fingers on the top, waiting for his usual lightning fast response.

  Nothing happens.

  I check my phone to make sure the text went out. I see that it did, just as Tyler responds.

  “Just for a little while, okay?”

  “Yay!” I quickly grab my iPad and hit the button to connect.

  Tyler’s face fills the screen, but it’s not the smiling upbeat look I’ve gotten used to. He looks drawn, eyes sad.

  “Hey, Tyler, you okay?”

  “Just dealing with some personal stuff, that’s all. Kind of a depressing day.”

  “I’m sorry. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I’ll take you to lunch tomorrow. It’s my job as a superhero to feed you and cheer you up.”

  “You’re a superheroine. A female superhero is a superheroine.”

  “Whatever. In any event I patrol the streets keeping seriously cute men safe from depression with my snarky personality and food obsession.”

  I get a little smile. “Ah, so I’m seriously cute?”

  “If the shoe fits, Tyler. So, what’d you think of the results tonight?”

  “I’m happy. Would have been nice to wrap the thing up, but eight out of eleven is still terrific. How are you doing?”

  “Exhausted but excited, if that makes any sense.”

  “Yeah, I could tell from the coverage. You looked great today with all the different outfits. Of course you’d look good in anything.”