by R. C. Martin
“Okay,” I say softly, lifting my eyes to meet Irene’s. I know that if I don’t fess up, she’ll stare at me until I can’t take it anymore. “I’ll admit it. He’s extremely easy on the eyes. But he’s also married and—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re completely in love with Mateo. I know, girl. I totally get it. I love my man, too.”
My smile falls when she walks away. As I listen to her check on her customers, I furrow my brow, feeling guilty that I wouldn’t have finished my sentence the way that she did. I wasn’t thinking about Mateo at all. I was going to say that since Michael is married and a customer, I really don’t think it’ll work in my favor to ogle. Not when I’m hoping he’s a good tipper.
Yet, now that Mateo has worked his way back into my thoughts, the ache in my chest I felt fifteen minutes ago is back in full force. His half-ass apology really had me going for a minute, then he had to go and ruin it. Replaying his words in my head only gets me worked up, and I try to busy my hands, keeping myself occupied in an effort to shift my focus. It doesn’t work, of course, but it gives me the chance to decide that I’m not going home tonight.
Dad might be right in that I should kick Mateo out on his ass until he can get his shit together, but I can’t do that.
“Got a crab cake order,” announces Austin from the wait staff, standing at the opening to the bar.
“That’s me,” I reply, hurrying over to grab it. “Thanks.” He nods, and I grab a roll of silverware, stowed in a bin under the counter, before heading to the opposite end to deliver Michael’s plate.
“Dinner is served,” I tell him, trying to be jovial while simultaneously shoving thoughts of Mateo and our sleeping arrangements out of my head. “Did you want me to get you another beer?”
“No, thank you,” he declines, unrolling his utensils.
“Okay.” I offer him a feeble nod as he tosses his napkin into his lap, all the while keeping his eyes trained on me. “Well, if you need anything, give me a wave.”
I force a smile, take one step back, and then pause as he furrows his brow at me and mutters, “You’re giving me the liar’s smile again.”
“Um, excuse me?” I mumble, taken aback by his accusation.
He props his forearms on either side of his plate, leaning toward me as he softly clarifies, “The smile you gave me when I first sat down, it wasn’t real—a lot like the one you just gave me. I thought I’d chased it away.”
He shrugs and then finally looks at his plate. Still trapped in a state of confusion, I watch as he picks up his fork and cuts into his crab cake. It isn’t until he takes a bite and looks up at me that I shake my head clear and ask, “You just met me. How do you know if my smile is real or not?”
He smiles as he chews, and I immediately wish I could take back my question. I know, without an ounce of doubt, that the curve of his lips is the reason behind the light in his pretty blue eyes. Only an idiot would question whether or not the closed-mouth grin he’s giving me is genuine.
After he swallows, he pulls me back into the conversation and says, “Blaine, in my profession, lies have always been a factor with which I’ve had to contend. Most days, I know counterfeit when I see it.”
Discarding my embarrassment for curiosity, I fold my arms across my chest and inquire, “What do you do? Are you a detective or something?”
He chuckles—the sound deep, warm, and enticing—and cuts another bite of crab cake. Before he puts it in his mouth, he informs me, “Not quite. I’m a politician.”
Connecting the dots between lies and politicians, I can’t silence the giggle that bubbles out of me as I reply, “I guess that makes sense. The Capitol building is only about a block away.” He nods, and I find myself asking, “So what kind of politician are you? Not the lying kind, I hope. We’ve got enough of those.”
He swallows another bite, spears a piece of broccoli, and smirks as he admits, “My constituents teasingly refer to me as Honest Abe.”
“Your constituents, huh? So you were voted in.”
My eyes widen a bit when he squints at me and asks, “Are you registered to vote, Blaine?”
“Of course,” I gasp, feigning offense.
“And the last time you found yourself at the polls was…?” His inquiry trails off, the silence an obvious invitation for me to finish it for him.
“Okay! You got me,” I admit, throwing my hands up in surrender. “I’ve only ever voted in a presidential election. Two of them, to be exact. I don’t even know when the others are.”
“You should pay more attention,” he insists, his voice not condescending but encouraging—almost pleading. “State elections are just as important. Your representatives do just that—represent your voice in higher sects of government. Voting in people you can trust is nothing to neglect—especially not for the younger generations.”
I purse my lips together, fighting a grin. He’s very passionate about politics, that’s for sure.
“So, are you going to tell me what you do?”
“I’m your state governor,” he answers nonchalantly, popping a bite of broccoli into his mouth.
I jerk my head back a little, totally buying his statement for a second, and completely appalled that I was recently checking out the Colorado State Governor. He said it so confidently—so coolly. It takes me a moment to shake off my surprise and come to the conclusion that he must be kidding. He knows that I am obviously uneducated when it comes to local government, and he’s taking advantage of my negligence. I walked right into this.
My lips curl in a knowing, crooked smile, and I prop my hands against the edge of the bar before I say, “Yeah, right. Be honest. What do you do?”
He lifts his cloth napkin, and I try not to blatantly stare at him as he smears it across his lips before dropping it back in his lap. I’m not very successful, wishing not to break eye contact with him while I wait for the truth. Only, he doesn’t break character. Not for a single second.
“I promise you that I’m not lying. Honest Abe, remember?”
My mouth falls open and words come flying out before I can think better of them.
“You must be joking. I’ve never known a governor as—” I manage to shut myself up before I say something irrevocably inappropriate; but I can tell by his quirked eyebrow that I’ve said enough to pique his interest.
“You’ve never known a governor as…what?” he asks, spearing another piece of broccoli.
I fight like hell to keep a rush of color from blossoming across my cheeks as my mind silently finishes my thought.
I’ve never known a governor as attractive as you are.
Clearing my throat, I blurt out the next thought that comes to mind. “As…young as you are.”
“I’m not sure I’m as young as you think,” he says, speaking around his broccoli. He swallows and then adds, “Would you mind a little history lesson?”
Relieved that I’ve managed to not completely embarrass myself, I shake my head in reply.
“The youngest governor to ever serve was sworn in at twenty-five. He was elected in the state of Michigan when it became a part of the Union. I won’t bore you with the second and third youngest, but Bill Clinton was only thirty-two when he was elected into office in nineteen-seventy-eight. I’m not the youngest governor to ever be sworn in; but I must admit I’m the youngest holding the position currently—by a year.”
I watch him eat another bite of his dinner, still a bit unbelieving that this man is essentially the leader of the entire state of Colorado. Aside from his looks, he doesn’t strike me as—ruthless or unbearably ambitious as I always imagined the higher-ups of government have to be in order to reach such a status.
“You still don’t believe me,” he chuckles, reaching for his glass.
He downs the rest of his beer as I admit, “I don’t know. You’re just so…nice.”
He grins, setting aside the now empty glass, and tells me, “How do you think I got elected?”
“Now I know you’re lyin
g,” I declare with a laugh. “Nobody gets elected by being nice.”
“I’ve got a few other qualities and qualifications that worked in my favor as well,” he tells me before consuming the last of his crab cake.
“Mmmhmm,” I hum. Pointing at his plate, I ask, “May I?”
“Please. And my check, if you don’t mind. I should be going.”
“Certainly.”
I set his dishes aside and head to the register, wasting no time printing out his tab. When I set it in front of him, he doesn’t even look at it before placing his card on top. I’m back at the register in less than thirty seconds, mindlessly completing his transaction. I’m so accustomed to it that I rarely think about it anymore.
By the time I return to his side of the bar, he’s on his feet, shrugging his jacket over his immense shoulders. He signs the receipt, an absentminded smile on his lips as he does it, and then returns his card to his wallet. He slides out a bill and places it on the bar; only, I can’t see what it is, as he doesn’t lift his palm right away.
When my gaze collides with his, he murmurs, “I wasn’t the slightest bit disappointed. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Blaine.”
“You too, Michael,” I reply, noting that the smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth is completely genuine.
“You have a good night.”
“You, too,” I repeat.
He dips his head in a final nod farewell and then lifts his hand, turning toward the entrance without hesitation. When I look down and spot the fifty-dollar bill, my lips part in a quiet gasp.
“Oh, and Blaine?” he calls out from the door.
I whip my head up to look at him. For the first time since he walked in, I notice the lone man in a suit at the front of the Lounge. He stands, buttons his jacket, and walks toward the door, his focus on Michael.
“If you still don’t believe me, google it.”
Then, without another word, he’s gone.
“Wow,” Irene mumbles. I jump, not having noticed her approach. Her gaze flicks down at the bar and then back at me as she says, “That’s some tip.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I swipe the fifty and shove it into my back pocket without comment. She chuckles in reply.
Blaine
I WAKE UP to a quiet house, the sun shining through the closed blinds into the room. A year ago, when I first started working the night shift at the Lounge, I thought I’d have a hard time adjusting to sleeping when the sun was out. I learned pretty quickly that after seven and a half hours on my feet tending bar, a little daylight isn’t enough to pull me out of my slumber.
Reaching for my phone, I check the time and find that it’s a few minutes past one in the afternoon. I also find a text from dad, informing me that he’s got plans with some of the guys at work, so we’ll probably miss each other today. I’m only slightly disappointed. It makes me happy to know he still goes out with his friends a couple of times a week. I don’t ever want him to get too lonely.
My phone is still in my hand when another text message comes through. It isn’t until I see My Artist lit up on the screen that I realize, unlike yesterday, Mateo didn’t blow up my phone this morning. He didn’t even respond to my message last night, when I told him I’d be staying with dad again. My chest aches as I ask myself, what’s happening to us?
Sliding my finger across the notification, I open the message and let out a sigh.
Come home. I love you.
Five words. Five words have never left me feeling so conflicted. A part of me is now afraid that he doesn’t actually mean what he says; or maybe not so much that he doesn’t mean it, but that the meaning behind the words is different than it used to be. Then there’s another part of me that simply loves him, too; loves him enough to understand that every relationship goes through phases, and not every phase is easy—just like every phase won’t be hard.
Trying my best to find some forgiveness in my heart, I type out my reply and hit send before I can change my mind.
I love you, too.
The truth is, I only packed enough underwear to stay at dad’s one night. I have to go home this afternoon so that I can shower before work tonight. Except, rather than getting out of bed, I roll onto my side and burrow underneath the covers a little more, wishing to stay right where I am for a while longer.
I think back over the last thirty-six hours, not sure what to expect when I face Mateo again. Remembering how quickly things went sour last night doesn’t leave me particularly anxious to return to the loft just yet. I close my eyes as a yawn comes over me, and that’s when my thoughts see fit to remind me of another conversation I had last night.
My eyes pop back open, and I tug my bottom lip between my teeth as I combat my smile. Then I hear his voice in my head—You’re giving me the liar’s smile again—and I immediately free my lip. This time, instead of the sense of shock that washed over me at hearing his observation, my stomach tingles at the realization that he noticed. More than that, he made an effort to find my real smile. A complete stranger. An undeniably handsome stranger.
A kind stranger.
I flop onto my back as bits and pieces of our conversation bounce around in my head. I remember telling him that he was too nice to be our governor, and he told me to google it. I’m going to. Right now.
I open the app, type in Colorado state governor, and hit the search button. Two seconds later, his picture is right in front of my face. Not just one picture, either, but an entire thread of them. I swipe my thumb left, glancing at the ones that appear on my initial search page, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Oh, my god,” I mutter in amused disbelief, stopping on the last image available.
He’s sitting at a table behind a propped up microphone, obviously in the middle of saying something. He looks serious, like a politician—a really, really hot politician. I know that it’s ridiculous of me to think such a thing, but it’s true. The look captured on his face isn’t one I was graced with last night. His dark eyebrows are drawn together, and his eyes look like pools of angry water. It’s obvious that whatever he was talking about in this moment, he was definitely passionate about it.
Now completely intrigued, I click on his Wikipedia link. For a second, I think about how crazy it is that I spent part of the night talking to someone who actually has a Wikipedia link, and then I start getting to know him.
His full name is Michael Isidro Cavanaugh and he’s an American politician—more specifically, Colorado’s forty-third governor. It’s a title he’s held for the last two years. He’s a member of the Republican Party, born in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and he’s a graduate of Harvard Law School—holy hell!
As I continue to read, I note that he’s thirty-seven years old; he’s been married for the last fifteen years, to a woman named Veronica Hernandez; and before he was elected governor, he was elected to the position of District Attorney—where he served for three years. Given this snapshot of his life, I admit that I was wrong. He’s definitely got some sort of ruthless ambition. He’s obviously worked really hard to get to where he is today.
Scrolling down to his family life, I learn that he’s half Caucasian and half Latino. For some reason, that knowledge explains and justifies his incredibly good looks. Apparently, his dad was originally born in California, while his mom is from Ecuador. Douglas Cavanaugh is the senior pastor at a non-denominational Christian church, Mercy Hill, here in Denver. My eyes widen a little bit at that information. I’ve never been, but I’ve definitely heard of it and driven by it. They’re very active in the community, and that place is huge.
I’m starting to read how he’s one of three Cavanaugh children when a call starts to ring through, blocking his information from view. I grin when I see Mommy’s Pearl lit up in front of me, and I don’t hesitate to answer.
“Simone, hi!” I greet excitedly.
“Did I wake you, darling?” she asks instead of hello.
“No. I’m up.”
“Good. Meet m
e at our spot. Thirty-minutes. I’ll be waiting.”
Before I can protest, complaining of how I’d prefer to head home and clean up a bit first, she disconnects. I shake my head, stifling a laugh as I climb out of bed. If Simone demands my presence, I try my best to never deny her. When I need her—night, day, sunshine, rain—it doesn’t matter, she’s there. Always. The least I can do is show her the same kindness.
Though, I’m not stupid enough to imagine that I could ever begin to repay her for the love she’s shown me over the last few years.
After I hurry to the bathroom to brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and toss my hair up into a messy little bun, I race back to my room to change my clothes. With not much choice, I opt for my black work slacks and the matching, form fitting, cotton camisole that I usually wear underneath my button-up. I skip the work shirt, yanking my Whatever Sprinkles Your Donut tank over my head, and slip into the sparkly, black Toms that I often wear to the Lounge. After one last glance around the room, I race out the door—locking it behind me—not wishing to keep her waiting.
Our spot is this tiny place downtown that serves gourmet sausage sandwiches. Basically, The Über Sausage sells hotdogs on steroids. They’re huge, delicious, and should be eaten with a knife and fork—but we never do. It’s our thing. Messy hotdogs that leave us stuffed like—well—sausages. I can’t really explain how it became our spot. It was as if our united grief drew us there. The outrageous menu distracted us somehow. We ate until we were too full to cry, and a couple weeks later, we found ourselves there again. It’s been four years now, and it’s still our favorite place.
By the time I find somewhere to park, I’m fifteen minutes late. I run down the street toward the shop, throwing open the door anxiously before stepping inside and looking for my friend. When I see her, she’s already looking at me. Seated in a stool at one of the high-top tables—one of the awesome high-top tables, with a glass surface that covers a bunch of random pieces of chopped wood resembling logs for a fire—Simone looks as gorgeous as she always does. Sitting up straight and poised, dressed in a pair of navy slacks, a silky, coral, sleeveless blouse, and a colorful scarf she’s got wrapped around her neck and shoulders, she offers me that all knowing smile that I’ve come to recognize as hers.
