by Claire Adams
But what kind of life was that, anyway?
Finally, I reached my home once more, feeling the sweat pulse down my body. I removed my clothes swiftly, tossing them on my shining wooden floor. I rubbed at my back, at my side. The pangs of stress lingered on, making me feel older than my years.
The water that gleamed on my body was so fresh, so vibrant. I rubbed at my scalp, feeling my hair as it oozed down my back and my muscles. I captured it with shampoo and felt it liven beneath my fingertips. I thought, gruffly, about what Xavier was doing right then. Was he, himself, in the shower? Difficult to imagine a president in the shower, thinking about the strain of the world he controlled—all the lives that were lost across the great country, every day. Weird to think that the president was able to take a moment for himself, to allow himself such feeling.
Of course, as I washed my face, I remembered that he had sought that feeling in me, through that kiss. I was his escape, I knew, from the reality of his marriage, from the reality of the terrible power he’d claimed above everyone. I wondered if power was really all that it should be; I wondered if everything he’d sacrificed was worth it to him.
The rest of the day, I lived in a sort of dreamland of emotion, of feeling. I gave myself this day to think about him, I decided. And then, every other subsequent day would be null, would be rooted in career prospects and campaigning. I wouldn’t even allow him to think I ever considered him a prospect. I practiced looking at myself in the mirror with dead eyes, and I promised myself that I would only look at Xavier this way—with no inner turmoil, with no feeling.
I propped myself back on the couch with a movie and popcorn. It was late in the evening at this point, and I realized that I hadn’t called anyone or spoken to anyone the entire day. I considered calling my mother for only a moment—that woman who all but ruled Philadelphia with her bake sales and her quiltmaking (what a different and strange child I had been for her!) But I imagined something in my voice would give away my adoration for someone; something in my voice would render me weak. She could smell the weakness, I knew.
I sighed, taking a small bite of popcorn and diving into the old, ‘30s film. I liked living in this world, if only for a moment. I knew it was silly: the passion that drove each character to fall in love over the course of two hours.
Suddenly, a heard my phone begin to buzz in my portfolio—a portfolio I hadn’t opened and a phone I hadn’t checked all morning. My heart constricted in my chest and I rushed up, nearly spilling the popcorn all over the floor. I tapped toward the portfolio and knew, suddenly, that if Xavier was calling—if it truly was him—then I had to answer it.
I had to.
I brought my hand around the vibrating beast and tugged it up, feeling all the clutter on the inside of my bag hound around my fingers. I gazed at the number for a moment, with the name: JASON. I smiled at it and placed it on the table, allowing it to buzz and buzz and buzz until it exhausted itself. I imagined Jason somewhere in one of those grubby apartments, yelling into the phone. I hoped it wasn’t for work, of course. But even if it were work, it could wait. It just could.
I stretched my arms over my head and yawned, feeling aches and pains coursing throughout my body. I licked my lips for a moment, reaching back toward the popcorn and targeting my eyes back into movie world.
But the phone began to buzz once more, suddenly. I growled, spinning back around, ready to answer it just to tell Jason if he ever hit on me again, I’d report him. By God, I would.
But the name was different.
This time, the name read: MR PREZ.
I placed it down on the table and allowed it to buzz once, then twice. I felt aches throughout my entire body. I shuddered, so worried. Why was he calling? Was he calling me to reprimand me about the other evening—about running out on him?
Finally, I picked it up. I swallowed and let out a meek: “Hello?”
“Amanda. Miss Martin. How are you?”
I sputtered for a moment. “I’m fine,” I forced myself to speak.
“I noticed you didn’t come into the office today.”
I rubbed my temple, feeling it pulse beneath my fingers. “I had a lot on my plate, you know.”
“Right,” he said quietly. I could hear him sitting on that squeaky chair in the Oval Office. I pictured him putting his feet on the desk—something he only did when he talked to someone he felt comfortable with on the phone. “Listen. I was wondering if you had changed your mind about having dinner with me. Just a business dinner, of course. Something very professional.”
I thought for a moment, remembering the dream world I had created in my mind over the previous few hours. I gazed up at the television screen as it illustrated two 1930s characters speaking wildly, tossing their arms through the air.
“Just a professional dinner, correct?” I asked him then.
He nodded. “Professional. That’s it.”
I bit my lip for a moment. “You know. I think it could be beneficial to have a dinner together. I have a good deal of information to go over with you about the campaign.”
“Do you?” The president sounded so thrilled as he spoke—if a bit amused. He knew he had conned me, in some way, into saying yes to dinner. He knew his kiss had worked. For this reason, I mildly hated that I’d allowed this to occur.
But I couldn’t go back on it now.
“You’ll meet me at the White House.” It wasn’t a question; it was a command. “We’ll dine in the formal dining room.”
My heart nearly stopped beating in my chest. I knew the White House formal dining room was top-notch, offering the most beautiful dining experience in the world. I swallowed. I hadn’t even entered the place before. I had barely looked inside on my many walks past it. It was, in my mind, simply off-limits.
“What time?” I croaked, feeling the scratchiness of my throat.
“You’ll meet me at 7:30,” the president said, utilizing his arrogant, orderly tone. “I’ll see you there.”
He hung up the phone, then, leaving me in a lurch at my dining room table, feeling the pangs of an illicit relationship take forth before me. I could already see the disastrous consequences of it; I could already feel the terror of it coursing through my veins.
But to have his lips upon mine just one more time; perhaps I could do it. I could.
Just once.
Chapter Ten
The next evening, I leafed through my closet, searching for the perfect gown for the evening with the president. I knew it had to be a professional dress—something that would be appropriate in the eyes of the Secret Service. Finally, my fingers traced the lace sleeves of the black dress I’d worn to a previous gala—something that was formfitting but not low-cut. Something that left a good deal of my body to the imagination. This, I knew, was essential.
I called a taxi and walked quietly out into the darkness. The night had come earlier each day since the middle of August, and already I felt that summer had passed me by too readily. I’d been hovered over a desk for too much of it, searching for the perfect solution to all presidential problems. Searching ever for the right career path for myself, as well.
The taxi sprung from the darkness up toward the sidewalk. I stepped into the back seat.
“Hello, beautiful lady,” the man up front spoke to me in a gruff, not unpleasant voice. “Where to?”
“The White House,” I answered primly. I actually never tired of saying it. The White House had become my home. I’d been a wayward girl from Philly, but now I was so much more.
The taxi wound its way to Pennsylvania Avenue, swerving through traffic. I steadied my shaking hand on my leg, trying to hum something to myself to put my brain at ease. I tried to tell myself that this was only a business meeting—that nothing was different about this meeting than the lunches we’d had together through the course of the previous few weeks.
But something in the back of my mind ebbed at me, allowing me to understand my lingering, wholehearted attraction toward the man at the
other end of the taxi route. I shivered once more.
Suddenly, we arrived. The taxi driver rushed around to my side and opened the door for me, placing his hand out. I felt like Cinderella at the ball. I thanked him, leafing through my purse for the money I owed him. He accepted it, bowing to me a bit as he skirted back into the taxi, leaving me alone on the curb.
I stepped toward the White House, finding myself face to face with Dimitri once again. I smiled at him sheepishly, realizing he would suspect something was up. “Hello, stranger,” I called to him. I tried to play it cool.
“Well, well. Don’t you look ravishing,” Dimitri said, a twinkle in his eye. He reached behind him and grabbed the door, allowing me entrance. “Don’t play too rough in there, you hear?”
“What do you mean?” I asked him seriously. “I have a campaign meeting—“
“I know. And I know how you work,” Dimitri chortled. I now understood: he was joking with completely good intentions.
“Right,” I laughed, nodding toward him.
I walked through the halls, remembering that the president had said the dinner would be in the main, formal dining room. I felt my dress fly back behind me as I walked, tiptoeing through the great, echoing place.
Finally, I reached it. The great, double, floor-to-ceiling doors were wide open for me. I sighed, my mouth open with wonder. At the very center of the room stood a long table, set with a white tablecloth. At the door stood a Secret Service agent. He reached out and took my hand, shaking it. “Hello, campaign manager,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Jacob.”
“I’m Amanda,” I said, smiling at him. I was glad he’d referred to me as that—allowing me to understand that this dinner was, indeed, a business meeting. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was a business meeting.
Jacob sauntered with me toward the table, pulling the chair out and allowing me to sit gracefully, flinging my dress out before me. I nodded at him as he left, stating, “Mr. President will be with you in just a moment. He’s taking a call upstairs.”
I sat alone in the echoing dining room, staring at the empty plate before me. I felt so strange, biting at my lip. A waiter entered the room and took my wine order—red, of course. He plucked a red bottle from the cellar and poured a glass for me, allowing the music of it to emanate through the grand dining hall. “Cheers, my lady,” he said cordially, retreating back into the ethers.
Finally, I heard the familiar trouncing of Xavier’s feet. My ears perked up, and I stood as he entered. Our eyes met in an intimate way—so pensive, so full of emotion. I swallowed as he came closer. His beard was so dark, making him look jagged, almost warrior-like, even in his presidential position. I liked feeling like this president could care for me, could look after me in times of crisis.
He approached me and reached out his hand, shaking mine formally. His words were cordial. “Thank you for taking the time out of your Sunday for this meeting.”
“It’s my pleasure, Mr. President,” I stated, sitting down. We were so many feet apart. I couldn’t imagine that our lips would ever come together in such a world as this.
Xavier suddenly sputtered into action, then, calling the waiter. “Yes. Yvonne will carefully explain the menu we’ve orchestrated for the evening,” Xavier began.
Yvonne cleared his throat. “We’ll begin with a divine Mediterranean platter, with a bit of antipasto. Afterwards, we’ll have a brief bread course, followed by the soup. Then, we’ll have a main dish—duck—followed, of course, with dessert.” He bowed before me, making me feel nervous—like I needed to clap. Instead, I just laughed, feeling like a fool.
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, bringing my hands together.
“The president and his work associate will dine momentarily,” Yvonne stated then, skirting back toward the kitchen.
I allowed the silence to hang between us for a moment before I said anything. “Yvonne is really excellent.”
“He’s wonderful. I enjoy all the people I have on staff.” He sipped at his wine, gazing at me. There was such intimacy in the air. “How was your weekend?” he finally asked.
I bit my lip for a moment, remembering all the lost hours I’d spent daydreaming about him. “It was nice to get away from work for a little while,” I whispered.
He nodded. “I hope the polls haven’t dropped too much since you went away.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You know I’m far too careful for that.” I raised my eyebrows, knowing that I was insinuating something else—an affair that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t go on.
The food swept in then. The first course. Then the second. The president and I busied ourselves with small talk—much of which put me nearly to tears with its hilarity. I slurped the soup and nearly squirted it out, yelling out, “Stop it, Xavier! You’re going to make me choke to death!”
“I can’t help that I’m the funniest president since Clinton,” he said simply, his eyes bright.
I bit my lip, feeling the soft candles as they glittered their light across my eyes. I searched around me, noting that the Secret Service was outside the door, 20 feet away. I leaned over the table and whispered toward him. “This dinner is really perfect, you know that?”
Xavier shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “I wanted things to be special for you. I don’t get out of my apartment or the Oval Office often. And I have a feeling that you don’t get out much, either.”
I shook my head, bowing it a bit. I didn’t like that Xavier could see through me so well. It was like he knew my every thought, my every need. I placed my spoon next to my bowl—the soup bowl I’d scraped clean. “Should we do a bit of talking about work?”
Xavier gave me that crooked smile once more—that dark, penetrating stare. “Why stop now?”
The main course and the dessert were, once again, completely perfect. I felt that my soul was rejuvenated after such a hefty few days of anxiety, of continuous daydreaming. I felt like Xavier was welcoming me back into the world. And it was a beautiful, luxurious one at that.
I tapped on my stomach and gazed around the room after the meal, as Yvonne took our plates away.
“What are you thinking about?” Xavier asked me, gazing at me through the candlelight.
“That I’ve never had a more perfect day,” I whispered, hoping no one in the world would ever hear those words. They were private, for him and I. For no one else.
Chapter Eleven
Xavier pushed himself up from the table, a bit uneasy on his feet. He smiled at me in that crooked way. I was falling in love with him in each passing moment. But I didn’t want to admit it to myself.
“Did the wine go to your head?” I asked him, teasing him. I felt a lightness about myself as well.
He reached out his hand to me and I accepted it. We stood there together, in the shell of the candlelight. I couldn’t help but gaze into his eyes, feeling such a weight in me. Every time I was with him, the world around us seemed to calm; I seemed to forget every element of my responsibilities, of my dreams. I could just be. There was a freedom in it.
“Do you want to dance?” he asked me then, his words a bit sloppy.
My eyes coursed toward the doorway, where I could see the Secret Service walking and talking, a bit anxious to go home.
I shook my head. “Too many witnesses,” I said, my eyebrows going high on my forehead. I felt silly, for some reason—up for anything.
Xavier nodded, stepping closer to me. I half-expected his mouth to come toward mine, to engage in that kiss once more. Deep in my heart, in my stomach, I wanted it—I wanted so much more, as well.
But instead, he whispered in my ear. “Do you want me to take you home?”
I reared back for a moment, shocked at his words. He’d been such a president during much of dinner—with a loud voice, with a dominant personality. But this softer side forced me to nod my head, to lower my eyebrows, and to admit to myself that I very much wanted him to take me home. “Please,” I said, biting my lip once more
.
He allowed me to accept his arm, and we walked out into the foyer, where we found the Secret Service men, including Dimitri. Dimitri looked at me with a vague, confused expression. He didn’t say anything, of course. Gosh, he’d been my friend for so many, many years. What would he think of me now?
“Gentlemen. I’m going to accompany Miss Martin back to her home. Dimitri, if you could drive us. I believe you know the way rather well,” Xavier announced, administering his president voice once more. I sniffed, lowering my eyes. I tried to become invisible—not a proud, dominant girl of the White House. Surely not her.
“Yes, sir,” Dimitri stated, his voice a bit harsh. I looked down at the ground, not wanting to see his assuredly shocked, angry expression. Sure, I’d known he liked me throughout all those years of friendship. I didn’t mean for it to be this way—for this start of a torrid affair hurt his feelings. It wasn’t meant to be like this.
Dimitri rushed to grab the car. Meanwhile, the other Secret Service men grabbed a few others, meaning to follow us, I suppose. Xavier and I stood together, my arm still through his. We casually sipped on wine and spoke of other things—not of the things we might do, in the back of that black, secret car. I wanted to smack myself, to allow myself to understand that this was all off-limits. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t do this. I would dance with him, hold his hand. I’d talk to him and play fantasies in my head. But no more.
Dimitri pulled up before the White House, allowing us to enter the back seat of the black vehicle. Xavier swept in after me, closing the door with an affirmative clunk. In the back, the intensity was heightened incredibly. Xavier’s face was inches from my own, and our lips were so close together, needing each other. I held my hand over his chest and I pressed my fingertips into his muscles, wanting to rip his clothes from his skin. Stop, I kept thinking. Stop wanting him.
Stop needing him.
Dimitri pulled up in front of the apartment building without my realizing that time had passed. Xavier turned toward me, his breath hot. “Do you want me to walk you up?” he whispered, his mouth so straight, so serious across his face.
