Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

  “Wow,” Jay said softly, sitting on the edge of his seat.

  “The question,” Birdie began, “is whether you want to stay or go and how you want to go about that.”

  Cady could barely formulate a response. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Not here—” she gestured to the apartment, adding “—this is lovely.”

  “Aww, thank you.” Madison squeezed her hand.

  “But I mean, here, in this city. What am I doing? I’m thirty years old and my life is self-destructing. How did this happen to me? This isn’t how I...operate. I just, I don’t know.” She held her head in her hands, speaking as if the only one in the room.

  “Listen.” Birdie knelt on the floor in front of her. “You can start over. Everything changes in this city every eight years, sometimes every four. Everything shakes up and rebuilds and starts over. So you can do it too.” She said it so easily, shrugging, as though it were no big deal at all, just something that needed to be done, like brunch on Sunday afternoons. “Now’s when we find out what kind of woman you are.”

  Cady looked away a moment and then back at Birdie, holding back tears. “Maybe I don’t know who I am,” she whispered, defeated.

  The others remained silent, not even breathing, it seemed. Madison smoothed Cady’s hair like she was a lap dog.

  “Ugh. Please,” Birdie said, not having it. “Yes, you do. You did the minute you set foot on the set of that crappy show and turned the whole damn thing around. So just be that ballbuster in your personal life. Okay?” Birdie said, looking in Cady’s eyes.

  Cady nodded, exhaled. They expected her to man up and seemed sure that she could move on, restitch her rapidly unraveling life. So she would have to, pure and simple.

  “Okay then.” Birdie nodded too. Then continued, “So, onward—your options. Inciting jealousy is always a fine way to go, in my book. These two have been doing some oppo.” She gestured to Reagan and Jay.

  “Oppo?” Cady asked, pulling herself together now.

  “Opposition research,” Reagan clarified. “On Willa Sedgwick.”

  “It appears that this was her debut on the The Hill’s Annual Hottest in DC list. She’s with a rag called Capitol Report,” Jay said, scrolling through his phone. “But she appears to be really a terrible reporter—a staggering number of corrections have been issued and the stories she does write, well, look like they may have been largely borrowed—”

  Reagan coughed, “Plagiarized.” Cough.

  “From other sources,” Jay continued.

  Cady didn’t feel better though. “She’s not our problem,” she said. “The fact that he let this happen is our problem.”

  “Very well. I admire that we’re not pointing fingers,” Birdie agreed, taking a different tack. “Drink, drink, and let’s look for our candidate, someone to inspire jealousy and also deliver some...instant gratification. That’s a win-win.” She grabbed the remote to Madison’s enormous TV and dimmed the lights as though they were about to screen a movie.

  Madison served the cookies Reagan had brought—on a gold-rimmed platter that probably cost more than a month of Cady’s salary. She smiled as Cady took one.

  “These also go well with silk scarves.” Madison winked at her.

  Birdie clicked through the channels, reaching her destination: “Bingo,” she said. On-screen a panel of lawmakers sat behind microphones looking serious, while equally stone-faced staffers sat against the wall behind them.

  “Are we seriously watching C-SPAN right now?” Jay asked quietly.

  “We’re going to find Cady a rebound,” Birdie said, matter-of-fact. “We’re going to hit Jackson where it hurts—”

  “All right, get him in the—” Jay started.

  “Legislative branch,” Birdie said.

  “Right,” Jay said under his breath. “Not where I was going but okay.”

  “So this is C-SPAN?” Madison asked, watching excitedly.

  “We just need a good hearing. Reagan, darling, what do you say?”

  “I’m with you.” Reagan leaned in, considering. “What’s on C-SPAN 2 and 3? Let’s see the options.”

  “‘House ways and means. Senate intelligence. POTUS immigration speech from the rose garden,’” Birdie read.

  “Hank tried watching this once, months ago,” Madison said to Cady, sipping her champagne. “But he turned it off immediately. He said it was like soccer, not enough scoring. I didn’t mind it, but I just prefer shows with more women. Then I can relate better.”

  Cady smiled. Madison wasn’t wrong on that last count.

  “My gut tells me, Senate. It’s more intimidating since it isn’t Jackson’s world,” Reagan reasoned.

  “Brilliant, and intelligence committee is sexy,” Birdie agreed, tuning in. “They know all the secrets. Okay. Cady, love, gather round. I’d like to draw your attention to that row of staffers sitting behind the senators.” She pointed. “They are young, passionate, smart. And, this is a small town. Between the four of us, we can probably get to any of them. Start browsing! This is just what you need—”

  “This is Tinder for nerds,” Reagan said.

  “This is Tinder for nerds, yes,” Birdie repeated.

  Cady sighed. She wasn’t much in the mood. She would’ve been fine just drinking until she passed out, but she didn’t want to be a bad sport. “Okay, um—” she guzzled her glass of champagne, then looked again “—that guy. Blond. Seated behind—who is it?” She squinted to read the name placard. “Behind Senator Tallon.”

  “Nice!” Jay said in approval.

  “Yeah, yeah, we wrote a speech for Tallon once,” Reagan said, snapping her fingers, then called out like on a game show. “Bryce Smithson! Engaged. Sorry.”

  “Figures,” Cady said, her glass magically refilled as Madison topped everyone off.

  “Oooh, him!” Jay called out, pointing. “I know him.”

  “Talking to McAfee?” Birdie asked of a brunette whispering in the senator’s ear. “Cute.”

  “Matt Gorbanski!” Jay blurted. “Sky’s friend from school dated him. I think he’s single now.”

  “On it,” Reagan said, focused on her phone.

  “What about that one? He looks sweet and smart.” Madison pointed to a man with glasses, a serious expression, with a huge stack of papers in his arms. “He looks like he would be so nice.”

  “Madison, darling, yes, but we can do better,” Birdie said gently. “This isn’t a charity hookup situation.”

  “Cady isn’t a 501(c)(3),” Reagan joked.

  “Cady is a gorgeous, whip-smart woman who just happened to have been wronged,” Birdie said, speaking as though Cady wasn’t actually in the room.

  “No, oh, I know, I’m sorry.” Madison grabbed Cady’s hand. “I was just looking for someone real nice for you since it sounds like you haven’t had someone real nice.”

  “You guys are great to do this, but maybe this isn’t the right time. Or...hearing,” Cady said, appreciating the effort. She was beginning to feel woozy.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you this but that Willa hussy posted an Insta of her, Jackson and a couple other people next to Air Force Two,” Reagan said, waving her phone at Cady.

  She grabbed Reagan’s hand, getting a closer look. It felt like another kick in the gut. “Is it getting hot in here, do those windows open?” Cady pushed the hand and phone away, tossed back her champagne, then curled up on the buttery leather sofa, fanning herself. She felt shaky again—and livid. “Fine, so what do we know about that Matt guy?” she asked.

  “Might be in a relationship,” Jay said, scrolling on his phone.

  “Let’s also check that ‘hottest list,’ just to be sure we’re covering all the bases,” Birdie said.

  “On it,” Jay said.

  “Does party affiliation matter?” Birdie asked. />
  “I don’t know, no,” Cady said, unsure.

  “Good. You can kick this Carville-Matalin style, that’s sexy,” Reagan said.

  “Ohhhkay,” Cady said, not sounding very optimistic.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Reagan hit the sofa, perking up. “You know who’s cute and used to be on the Hill? Emo guy, from the bar?!”

  “Yesss!” Jay said.

  “Emo guy?” Cady asked.

  “Broken heart, broken arm, you know, the one who’s always talking about his feelings—”

  “That’s cute,” Jay said, encouraging.

  “What’s his name, Parker,” Reagan said. “And he’s super into you.”

  “I think he’s just friendly,” Cady said.

  “Good enough,” Birdie said, switching among the news networks, all rerunning footage from the convention.

  “No, it’s more than friendly. I’m good at this stuff,” Reagan said.

  “We can go there tomorrow night,” Jay proposed.

  “If nothing else, stake your claim to that bar so Jackson doesn’t get it in the breakup.” Reagan shrugged.

  “It did seem like a fun place,” Madison said. “Hank and I never go to places like that anymore. Reminded me of the greasy spoon we worked at in college.”

  “Really? I can’t even picture that. You two,” Birdie said.

  “I know. I keep telling you, the Hank out there now isn’t the guy I married.”

  Cady was barely listening. “I’m suuuuper sleepy,” she yawned. She tried to sip the rest of her champagne—was it her third or fourth glass? Who could say? But she was still lying down and only half got in her mouth, the rest splashing onto Madison’s immaculate couch.

  Birdie gasped “Roche Bobois!” and yanked Cady upright.

  “Fuuuck, I’m sorry. Don’t know what’s with me tonight,” Cady slurred.

  “It’s fine, sweetheart,” Madison said, hand on Cady’s shoulder. “You’ve had a night. And this’ll come right out.”

  “This is some crazy champers,” Cady said, holding up her empty glass. She shook her head, but only very slowly. She never referred to champagne as “champers.” Her jaw felt slack like she’d been shot with Novocain. Her brain seemed to be working at normal speed but her body in slow motion. She tried to say, “Either my defenses are down and this is a psychosomatic response to the emotional annihilation of my day, or there’s something else going on here.” But to her ears all that came out was a low, moaning demon voice, “Psychooooemotionannnihilationnnnn.”

  “Fuck! Birdie, what did you do?” Reagan asked, kneeling in front of a flopsy Cady. She could hear them, it was just taking some time to lift her head. She tried to give a thumbs-up.

  “It’s just a little something I thought would be helpful. A pick-me-up. It’s like ecstasy but legal...ish, legal-ish. It was supposed to make her happy. Huh. CADY,” Birdie said loudly. “YOU’RE GOING TO FEEL AMAZING. VERY SOON.”

  “I’m fiiiine,” Cady mumbled, face flat down against the sofa. “Justtiredbuthappy.”

  “See?” Birdie said, vindicated.

  * * *

  By the time they put Cady in an Uber home, with many hugs and kisses, she had begun to feel a surge in energy. When she protested that she was fine, she could stay, they all packed her into the cab anyway. Jay and Reagan both fought to accompany her home but she wouldn’t allow it. “No, no, I’m fine,” Cady said, feeling at ease. So they waved goodbye from the curb, the party over. She felt her heart rev back up, a jolt coursing through her veins. She felt free—sloppy, as though she couldn’t totally control her limbs, which wanted to flail and dance to the music playing in the cab—but free. Her phone displayed a string of texts from Jackson that she refused to read and at least four missed calls.

  She rolled down the window to let the warm night air whip through her hair.

  “Sir!” she called to the driver, as though he were miles, not feet, away. “I have a crisp—” She went through her wallet, found only one twenty-dollar bill. It made her sick. “A Jackson, of course, that fucker.”

  She tried again. “I’ve got twenty bucks extra if you take me somewhere else.”

  Anxious to purge all Jacksons from her life, she flung the bill into the front seat with a flourish.

  The cabdriver just looked over his shoulder, confused. “I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go, that’s my job. But I don’t need this, it all goes on your Uber account, you know? Are you new here?”

  Of course, she still wasn’t quite thinking clearly. Well, Jay or Reagan, whoever had called the cab for her, would be paying. She would reimburse them whenever, but right now, she had more pressing matters. “Take it anyway, sir! You’re so nice and isn’t it just a magical night?!” Feeling winningly loopy, she gave him the new address.

  25

  I’M GETTING CUSTODY OF THIS BAR!!!

  Cady flung open the door with a crash and stomped in. “I’m getting custody of this bar!!!” she shouted, still slurring.

  Parker looked over as she clomped down the stairs, nearly tripping in her very-high heels.

  “I was here first!” she barked, righting herself.

  “Yikes,” Parker said, leaping over the bar and darting across the crowded room—full of Hill denizens watching the convention post-show—to get to her. “Well, that could’ve been a lot worse.” He laughed, grabbing her arm. “I’d get you your drink, but it looks like you’ve been cheating on me.”

  “What?” she nearly spat at him.

  “Looks like you’ve been drinking somewhere else I mean.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. But not at another bar,” she said, mumbling.

  “Oh, good, just at home, then.” He guided her to a bar stool. “I’m cutting you off. Buddy, a water over here?” he called to the bartender as Cady began to slide off the stool. He picked her up and held her around the waist. “Make that to go, Buddy!”

  “Those—” she pointed to the bar stool “—are very dangerous.”

  “Yeah, well, so are you,” he said. “You’re scaring my customers, so let’s call you a cab from my office where the furniture is less hazardous.”

  On wobbly legs, she let him pull her around the other side of the bar and through a door with a STAFF ONLY sign. As the door swung shut, her heel tripped him and they landed in a heap on a beat-up old corduroy sofa.

  He jumped to his feet, handed her a bottle of water and pulled out his phone. “Let’s get you that cab,” he said, tapping his screen.

  She tried to drink but spilled it all over her dress. “WOW that’s cold.” She gasped.

  “Ohhh, boy, I meant for you to drink that, but that oughtta sober you up fast at least,” he said, grabbing the only thing on the coatrack: a tuxedo jacket. “Here.” He held it out.

  She pulled herself off the couch, shimmied on the jacket and stumbled around the room. “This is cozy,” she said, opening the closet, which even through her haze she noticed was full of clothes.

  “Thanks.” He shut the closet door. “I like it here. It’s a short commute to work,” he said. “Your car is arriving in four minutes.”

  She plunked down in his desk chair and began opening and closing each of his desk drawers. “Looks like you spend a lotta time here.”

  “HEY!” He swooped over, slamming shut the bottom drawer.

  “Jeez! So secretive,” she said.

  “Jeez, you’re a very rude guest.”

  “No, you are.”

  “No, pretty sure I’m not a guest here.” He looked at his phone. “Three minutes. You’re a handful.”

  “You’ve said that before,” she said, brow furrowed.

  “That’s because it’s abundantly true.”

  “Thank you.”

  He shook his head. “Not really a compliment. What’s with you anyway? No offense, but you’re—” he
paused, arms up “—not really yourself tonight.”

  “Jackson cheated on me,” she said nonchalantly, spinning around and around in the chair fast, faster, fastest.

  He stopped her, both hands on the arms of the chair. “Wait. What?”

  She propped her dizzy head on her hands. “Yup.”

  “What an asshole,” he said. “I mean, I’m sorry. I know what that’s like. Are you okay? I’m sorry, that’s a stupid thing to say. Are you—”

  She flopped her head to the side; it still felt like she was spinning. “You. Are. Cute.”

  “Uh, thanks?” he said.

  “No. You. Are. Cute,” she said again, as though making a discovery then confirming her findings: “Cute. Hot-cute.”

  “Okay?” he said, standing upright now, ruffling his hair, checking his phone.

  In a quick sweeping motion, she charged at him, her body hurling itself, arms around his shoulders, lips landing on or near his mouth; she couldn’t quite tell, the exertion leaving her depleted.

  “Whoaaaa there,” he said, catching her messily and depositing her back on the couch.

  She didn’t remember much about finally getting home. Just that he helped her open her apartment door and then said good-night once she was safely snuggled onto her sofa.

  PART III

  ELECTILE DYSFUNCTION

  26

  AND THE GENERAL ELECTION