He got a call back, and Sky launched in as soon as Jay picked up: “Look, Jay, the election has made me crazy. I feel like a vet from a really weird war on, like, another planet trying to reacclimate.”
“I understand,” Jay said softly.
“No, you mean well, but you don’t. You can’t,” he said, controlled, weary.
That hurt Jay more than anything. It had always been his fear that the time apart would somehow change them and make them not fit together in the same way.
“I’m sorry, listen, I’m just exhausted,” Sky continued. “You’re the person I love most, so you’re the easiest target. I don’t know, maybe I’m at a place where I wouldn’t mind a break, like a couple days off.”
His chest squeezed, but he was able to get out two words. “A break?”
“From the campaign, Jay.”
“Oh!” He was speechless.
“Maybe the idea of sharing this beat would’ve been nice. This schedule is rough.”
It occurred to Jay that he had possibly overcorrected, gone from wanting Sky home to nearly banishing him. His mind worked in extremes and absolutes; he didn’t know why. “How about if I bring over Busboys and wine?”
“I think I just want to crash tonight, if that’s okay,” Sky said.
“Sure, of course,” Jay said, but he was anything but sure. No matter what Sky said about just wanting time off from the campaign, to Jay, it still felt more personal than that.
31
I’M NOT HUNGRY, I MADE A MIST
Just before noon, two days after that kiss at the Spanish Steps that she couldn’t stop thinking about, an email popped up in Cady’s inbox.
Subject: “what’s for lunch?”
Not sure what the proper amount of time is to get in touch after a date—was that a date? not being presumptuous, but definitely the best date/non-date/whatever I’ve ever had—anyway: hey there. Not stalking you, however, wanted to make sure you were aware in case you’re looking for exciting new lunch options: the Preamble truck is at Wilson & N. Pierce Tuesdays and Thursdays 11:30 till 2:30. (And if I’m not mistaken, today is, in fact, Thursday.) I feel like you’re not the food truck type—except I guess for formal events (too soon for that joke? Sorry. Never mind.)—that’s cool, no pressure. But, you know, there’s a special going on today: free meals for all TV show producers named Cady...
Yours, Parker
It was so him, she had to smile. It was true; she had never once visited the strip of food trucks around the corner from her office, but there was a first time for everything. She wrapped up some work, then dabbed on more lip gloss, smoothed her hair and went out in search of lunch.
She found a long line of people braving the oppressive, steamy August heat outside the Preamble truck, and suddenly felt like she was waiting outside the stage door for a band to emerge after a concert. Like a groupie. Not her favorite feeling, but still exciting. Eventually she made her way to the front. A man inside the truck had his back to her, flipping a burger on the grill, but he didn’t look tall enough to be Parker. Then someone popped up from below the window.
“Hi! What can I get for you?” a woman said perkily. She had high cheekbones, perfectly pouty lips and bodacious bouncy caramel hair that was more appropriate for a shampoo commercial. Frankly it should have been tied back. Cady was looking for faults, she knew, and that was all she could find. The woman had the kind of curvy figure that made the Preamble T-shirt look like it was designed for her and made Cady instantly disappointed with her own boobs in a way she hadn’t been since middle school. She was certain that this was Melanie.
For a moment, she was too shocked to speak, and then the truck’s side door opened and Parker appeared.
He slapped the man on the back. “Hey, man, I’m clocking in—” He stopped, looked at Melanie. “What are you doing—?” Then he noticed Cady. “Cady—”
Cady finally found her voice. “I’m not hungry.” She squinted, trying to process what she was seeing. “I’m not hungry. I made a mistake.” Then she backed up and began to walk away.
“Cady, wait!” She heard him say.
And then Melanie said, “How do you not know if you’re hungry?”
Cady tuned it out and sped through the snaking lines of patrons, nearly jogging, just trying to keep it all together until she turned the corner to her building. She just hoped he wouldn’t try to follow.
She typed a text once she made it safely into the elevator. 911: the ex was in the food truck. With him. She’s WAAAAAY cuter than me. She didn’t bother sending it though. She had run out of steam. She was done with disappointment.
* * *
Jay had been happy to throw himself into work. He hadn’t seen Sky in the couple of days since their fight, and that seemed significant in a very bad way. Luckily with so many editors on vacation, there was plenty to keep him distracted and in a comfortable state of denial for the time being. He began editing the daily gossip column and was sorry to see that Sophie had preyed upon one of the assistant editors enough for a shot at cowriting. Jay was also immediately sorry he had been so generous with that assistant editor. Gossip had never been the site’s strong suit, but these pieces were particularly bad, running the gamut from cheap shots to total absurdity: two items about reporters from other publications—he never liked throwing stones at the competition, it was just bad form, and he cut both—one item on Carter Thompson supposedly talking marriage with that national news anchor—they were gorgeous and would make hot babies, but honestly, Jay was pretty sure it was just a showmance for the campaign audience—and then a final item that absolutely had to be false. He hoped. It was too ridiculous. He texted Sky first.
Hi, I have a crazy work-related question: there isn’t anything going on with Rocky and Buck Brandywine, is there? Thanks. In other news: I love you and miss you.
The response came instantly: Not that I know of, but the pool has been off for a few days. Haze people just said “personal matters” and back on Monday. I know you won’t believe me, but I’ve literally just been sleeping and doing laundry. Xo.
Before Jay could even begin to sort through his feelings for Sky, he had to deal with the other part, the newsy part. He couldn’t see any way around it: he was going to have to call Birdie. He would kill the item now. But that was only a Band-Aid. If it was true, someone else would soon discover it, and they might not be so diplomatic.
* * *
Cady’s phone pinged as soon as she got back to her office. She had managed not to cry and decided to just go straight to the angry stage of grief. Mild progress.
A message appeared from PARKER APPLETON. She was confused. She was positive she didn’t have his number saved in there, hence why they were always emailing each other.
She considered not reading the very large block of text that came next, but she couldn’t avoid her problems anymore.
hi, it’s parker, i put my number in your phone the other night when i deleted your ex. i wish i had told you that before, because now it’s just another weird thing to have to explain when i have a bigger weird thing to have to explain: i wanted you to know what happened today. i’m angry and don’t know where to start so i’ll start with the most important thing: there’s nothing going on with melanie. (that was melanie in the truck.) i haven’t talked to her since she broke up with me. she showed up today, she wasn’t invited. chip was working the early shift on the truck but was going to leave early for a doctor’s appointment so i was going to go take over for him. i emailed you on my way over there. chip said she just showed up to surprise me and made it seem like she was invited, but she wasn’t. he’s an idiot. i love him, but you know what i mean. anyway, i made her leave and told her not to come back, we’re over, etc. i guess she got dumped and decided to try to come back, but cady, i’m not interested in that. at all. she is the past and i didn’t realize how messed up that relationship w
as until i got to hang out with you. and that’s even before this week, though this week was pretty great (until today, but you know what i mean). it was the first time we met and then when you interviewed me and when you did that thing where you tied up your hair with that pen? and it was kind of falling out but not all falling out and just really pretty. so anyway i’m really hoping you understand. god, this is a really long text. i’ll let you go now but if you can just forget about today and start over with me, i’d really like that. just shoot me an “OK” or “it’s cool” or something if we’re good. i’ll leave it up to you.
She definitely wasn’t going to write back right away. She wasn’t sure if she would bother at all. She read the note again. It seemed sincere, but what did she know at this point? Look at Jackson. Parker wasn’t Jackson. She knew that. But she felt so beat-up and beat down and had to get off this roller coaster. Maybe she just needed a break from all of it.
Someone knocked at the door and she half expected to see Parker. But instead Jeff appeared, a nervous, agitated look in his eyes. He threw himself into Cady’s chair and started talking without waiting to be asked in: “Gotta go over some things with you.”
She set her phone down. “Is this about that gardening segment? I didn’t realize the Weedwacker had that much horsepower. It sounds like Gracie’s leg is going to heal in a flash,” she explained. There had been a little mishap testing out some new tools; still, they had gone to a commercial break and there had been very little blood, at least.
“No, I don’t care about that. She can take one for the team.” He rolled his eyes, flitted his hand. “No, I need you to find ways for us to buzz it up for the sake of our show.”
“I know Madison’s hacks have gone well. I’m trying to get her back, but she’s had trouble getting away lately. It’s like she’s under house arrest.”
His eyes lit up: “Seriously? Should we stage some sort of prison break? Intervention?”
“No, I was just—no, it’s not, like, a hostage situation. She’s just been stuck on the trail, which isn’t her favorite place.” The campaign was probably trying to keep her off the show actually, which made Cady feel important though she knew she wasn’t.
“Oh, well,” he said, disappointed. “Well, keep thinking, okay?” He got up, brow still furrowed, eyes dark, very unlike him and troublingly so.
“Hey, Jeff, when you say ‘for the sake of our show,’ how bad is it?” she asked.
“We’re doing the best we have in years, but it’s not enough. We’re gone after the election unless we figure something out.”
She felt knocked out.
“Like rebrand again. I dunno. I’m gonna go drink in my office and update my resume.”
32
WANT TO BE MORE THAN A SPERM DONOR?
Birdie perhaps shouldn’t have been so surprised: she had, after all, been on guard against this sort of thing ever since it happened the first time. But this story just sounded so...unexpected. Yes, unexpected. She wouldn’t have guessed Buck would choose someone so high-profile. She would have imagined someone more...disposable. Certainly not anyone even more well-known than he was. Something felt off about this. But at the same time, it was true that she hadn’t seen him coming or going next door for several days. And she had been watching. The fall semester wouldn’t start for another week or so, late August, and his summer schedule had been far more relaxed. He had been on board to lecture for some of the classes, but not regularly, from what she gathered.
“Thank you, Jay, I appreciate your telling me,” she said into the phone, peeking out the window into another warm and sticky evening as though Buck might appear at just that moment. “And it was incredibly kind to kill that for me.”
Cady’s eyes bugged.
Birdie shook her head, telling her not to worry. It wasn’t that kind of kill. Though Birdie had been enjoying the company up until now, she did wish she hadn’t had to take this call with her houseguest in the room. But she had been there for Cady’s Very Bad Night, so Birdie would just have to accept Cady viewing a bit of her own unraveling too. That was friendship, wasn’t it? It just wasn’t Birdie’s style, if she were being honest. She was fine helping when others had come undone, but she would rather be alone when it was her. She preferred keeping up illusions, with everyone, across the board, no matter how much of a kinship she felt with them. Still, Jay, himself, after all, had been the person who had arrived on her doorstep on a very fragile day months ago. She had had no choice, really, but to let him in. And now, at a moment like this, she was glad she had.
“Absolutely, Birdie. But, my worry is that if we have it, then someone else probably does too,” he said, ominous. “Or they’ll get it.”
“I understand.” And she did; she intended to get some answers. “You said it checks out?”
“Yes, I’m afraid, or at least that one part of it. I called the Watergate and they confirmed that Buck’s staying there. The rest we’re still not sure of. Sky isn’t due back on the campaign until next week.”
When they hung up, she told Cady simply, “I have to make one quick call,” and disappeared upstairs into the bedroom.
To Birdie’s great surprise—the second of the night—Buck picked up. “I know it’s not my business what you do or who you do it with until November 9,” she launched right in. “But you should know that there’s been some chatter. I’m mostly just puzzled why you would choose to stay at the Watergate instead of enjoying the fine accommodations of our multimillion-dollar home beside this multimillion-dollar home.”
“I have my reasons, Birdie,” he said easily, almost playful, which she didn’t know how to interpret. “But I’m just not at liberty to discuss them at the moment. But nice talking to you.” He said it perfectly congenially, then hung up.
Now she was angry. She marched downstairs, where sweet Cady was trying to appear like she was absorbed in whatever show was on; Rachel Maddow, it looked like.
“Could you get us a camera or two?” Birdie asked, arms folded as she threw herself into her favorite Herman Miller chair, the one that looked like a coconut slice.
“Sure. I do work at a TV show.”
“Yes, but I mean those tiny ones that could be hidden in corners, that kind of thing.”
Cady paused. “I have a better idea.”
* * *
Reagan wasn’t sure what was worse: having Ted home or having him away. At least there had been no run-ins with the law this time. But, when he wasn’t at the office, Ted mostly just roved around the house muttering into his Bluetooth, leaving laundry for her from the suitcase he’d abandoned in the middle of the living room for reasons unknown (she left it there as a matter of principle, and the girls filled it with dolls and wooden blocks), and then occasionally letting the girls climb on him like he was a jungle gym. That, of course, made up for all the time he had spent away, in their eyes.
When Birdie called asking for a favor on this rare weekend Ted was in town, Reagan signed on immediately, without even knowing the details. “We’re just going to need your baby monitor for a couple days. I hear it’s top of the line.”
* * *
Ted claimed he would be glad to watch the girls, spend some quality time home on a Friday night, so Reagan found herself in a sedan (dispatched by Birdie) pulling up to the Watergate Hotel, baby monitor tucked into her Hatch diaper bag, at 7:30 p.m.
Apparently, Birdie—who booked her own accommodations at the hotel in order to have “an on-site war room, just in case”—had managed to finagle a key to Buck’s $500-a-night suite on the 10th floor, overlooking the Potomac River, in record time. From what Reagan could gather it had involved a lot of subterfuge and some flirting. It seemed Birdie’s assistant, Abbie, had charmed a hapless male front desk attendant and, using Birdie’s room key as a decoy, fed him a story about how her boss was staying there with her husband but the boss’s key wasn’t working. C
ould they please give her a new one for Buck Brandywine’s room? “And I totally wasn’t thinking and I didn’t write down the room number, could you remind me? She’ll kill me if I call to ask her another question today, you know how it goes,” Abbie had gone on and on, smiling sweetly.
In Birdie’s words, it had been absurdly easy.
Cady was there to meet Reagan in the lobby: floor-to-ceiling 1960s retro fabulousness meets modern-day luxe, a wonder of curved metal, woodwork and marble. Reagan hadn’t been there since it had reopened earlier in the year, and while she wished her business at the historic spot was slightly less sordid, she was just glad to have been able to get out of the house.
“Abbie called Buck’s book researcher and found out Buck’s at a dinner from seven till ten tonight,” Cady greeted her with a status update. After a beat she added, “And, gotta warn you, Birdie is a little intense today.”
“That’s a surprise, because I’ve got a baby monitor in my bag and I’m here to rig it up in her husband’s hotel room,” Reagan said.
They both laughed as they waited for the elevator.
“How’s Ted?”
“We’ll see, half an hour and no phone call yet, that’s gotta be good.” She gave Cady a look. “Enough small talk—what’s the deal with Parker?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m not usually one for giving someone a break, but I do think he was telling the truth, in that text, about what happened.”
“I just need a break. It’s kind of a lot of drama condensed into a short time frame. Maybe it was the universe trying to tell me to be on my own a little bit.”
“Or it was the universe telling you that this guy has a thing for brunettes.” Reagan tugged at Cady’s very light brown hair. “So, game on. Why would he invite you there to hang with him and his ex-fiancée though?”
Campaign Widows Page 24
