“Now you’re so concerned about my time?”
“I am very sorry I was late,” he says evenly. “Though I suppose I should have told everyone that my appointment about a doomed child care bill was more important than rewriting the tax code?”
My mouth drops open but no sound comes out.
“Too abrupt again?” He smirks.
I can only gawk at him. He’s rendered me mute.
Ben leans forward, seemingly more interested now that I’m melting down in front of him. He’s like a hunter, sensing my distress and looking to step on my neck.
“Is this your first bill, Ms. Adams? Because you seem to be taking this very personally.”
I finally recover my voice. “Is this your first time conversing with another human? Because this has got to be the most condescending conversation I’ve ever had.”
“Sorry, I’m incapable of bullshit. Hazard of the job.”
“Is one of the hazards also being completely closed-minded? Or is that just one of the many hazards of being a Republican?” Good one, Kate. I do a mental fist pump.
That earns me a scowl. “I notice you didn’t answer my question.”
“My previous experience is irrelevant to this meeting.”
His mouth turns up in that smirk again. I wish I could smack it off. I’d leave an angry red handprint on his big stupid face.
I glare until he throws his hands up in surrender.
“Fine. You’re right, I kept you waiting, so it’s only fair for me to give you some time. Why don’t you tell me why I’m wrong about this bill? Let’s see if you can change my mind.” He folds his hands on his desk like an angelic schoolboy, though his tone communicates that this is all a big waste of time.
Even so, I seize my opportunity. “You can’t make a snap judgment on the bill without knowing the specifics. This is a bipartisan issue. Rising child care costs are a major pain point for families, especially those living under the median income. Lack of access to affordable care is the number one reason women drop out of the workforce.”
“I’m well aware that the child care system needs overhauling. There’s a GOP-backed bill already introduced that tackles this via tax credits and flexible spending accounts. Now, there’s a bill Hammond will support.”
“That bill doesn’t go far enough. Ours ensures universal access to high-quality preschool programs for all three- and four-year-olds, including children with disabilities, as well as earmarking funds for teacher training.”
I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear the last part because he’s started rummaging in his desk drawer. Once he finds what he’s looking for—apparently, a can of nuts—he cracks open the lid and tosses a handful in his mouth, chewing noisily.
The look I shoot him is lethal.
“What?” he says defensively.
“Should I continue, or wait until snack time is over?”
“I’m hungry. I’ve been in a meeting for three hours.” At my frown, he holds out the can. “Sorry, would you like some?”
I stare at him. “What I’d like is just five minutes of your undivided attention.”
“Only five more minutes? You got it.”
His phone starts vibrating again on his desk. I glance at it, but his eyes stay on me.
“Clock is ticking, Ms. Adams.”
He’s trying to piss you off, Kate. Don’t let him. I take a deep, steadying breath. “Women are hugely supportive of this bill. Our polling indicates eighty-three percent in favor.”
“Never mind who’s gonna pay for it, right?” He grabs his water bottle and takes a long swallow. “Look, I get it. It’s a nice idea in theory.”
“In theory?”
“The last thing Hammond would support is more regulations. We’re pretty busy dismantling the last eight years’ worth that completely paralyzed job growth throughout the state. Hammond’s entire agenda hinges on that promise.”
He eyes me as I process this. Something about my silence seems to soften him a touch, and when he speaks again, he almost sounds sympathetic.
“Look, I’m not trying to be rude. It’s just a fact. Subsidizing a program like this is a nonstarter.”
I register pain in my hands, and when I look down I realize I’m white-knuckling the arms of the chair. I peel my fingers off one by one.
“So there’s nothing I can say to convince you. Nothing Senator Warner can offer in exchange.”
“Nope. She has nothing we need.” He grins, baring two perfect rows of white teeth. He’s a walking advertisement for orthodontia.
“Why don’t you run it by your boss?”
“I’ll do that.” Translation: Not a chance in hell.
“Can I ask you something? If you weren’t even going to listen to what I had to say, then why’d you bother taking this meeting?”
His face goes a bit deer in the headlights, like he’s scrambling for a plausible lie.
“Sometimes things can surprise you,” he finally says haltingly. “Look, Ms. Adams—”
“It’s Kate,” I say tersely.
“Kate, then.” His eyes flare a little on the syllable. “You caught me on a bad day. I’m eyeball-deep in drafting legislation that’s supposed to juggle the competing needs of fifty people who all seem to think their provisions should be the priority.” He exhales an exasperated breath, as if the weight of the world rests on his oversize shoulders. Cry me a river, buddy. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being a little short.”
I let out a clipped laugh and stand, shouldering my workbag. “A little short. Right. Thanks for your time.”
He stands too. “You know, there are other ways to go about what you’re trying to do that would garner bipartisan support. You could make it a tax play entirely if you got Senator Warner to lobby for a credit—”
My laughter erupts in a staccato burst. Ha-ha-ha. “Thanks, but I don’t need your help.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Really. So tell me again, why are you here?”
I have got to stop setting myself up like this. “I have no idea why I’m still here, actually. This meeting has been a gigantic waste of my time. And your much more important time as well.”
“Right. Well, I tried. You can lead a horse to water . . .” He shrugs like he’s gone to the ends of the earth for me and come up empty.
“Are you this rude to everyone, or just me?”
“I think it’s just you. You seem to bring it out of me.” Even he seems confused by this.
“If I behaved like you, I’d be out of a job,” I mutter. “Speaking of which, does Senator Hammond know the type of person he has working for him?”
His eyes sharpen. “And what type of person am I?”
“You’re a rude, offensive, patronizing . . .” I falter. God, I wish I were better at slinging insults. It goes against my nature. “Oaf.” Oh geez.
My insult seems to delight him. “Oaf? Are you making a reference to my body, Ms. Adams? I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but hashtag time’s up on sexual harassment in the workplace.”
I have a brief hallucination as we face off. I’m launching myself over the desk and grabbing him by the ear the way my grandmother used to do to me. I’ll bring this fool to his knees. I’ll tan his hide like cheap leather. I’ll slap that smug grin off his face and it will be so satisfying.
I drop-kick the fantasy away. I have nothing to gain by continuing this. I spin around and head for the door, grateful to be leaving this chamber of horrors behind.
“I don’t think Hammond has any complaints about me.” His voice chases my back. “In fact, I’m pretty sure he wishes he had ten more of me.”
“I think you might need a bigger office. I’m surprised your head can fit through the door.” I yank it open.
“It was very nice to meet you, Kate,” he calls.
“Wish I
could say the same,” I toss back.
His laughter echoes over my shoulder as I slam the door behind me.
Chapter 2
I hightail it back to my office, anger and anxiety clashing in my stomach. I let that get way out of hand. Grace under pressure is practically one of my job requirements. The fact that I failed so spectacularly in my mission and earned an enemy in the process makes me a little sick.
I breathe a little easier once I step through my doors. Ahh. Back to my domain.
Senator Warner’s suite of offices is located on the seventh floor of the Hart Building, one of three Senate buildings surrounding the US Capitol, or what’s known as the Capitol Complex. Hart houses about fifty senators and their staffs, the other fifty split between the Russell and Dirksen Buildings. All three are connected by long hallways and tunnels, which means a ton of walking, but I don’t mind. It’s a rare day when I don’t hit my ten thousand steps.
I actually prefer Russell to Hart—the domed ceiling, crystal chandeliers, and heavy wooden doors evoking the archetypal Mr. Smith Goes to Washington version of DC you see in the movies. That marble rotunda in the background of every cable news interview? That’s Russell. I’m there every day but I still get goose bumps every time I climb the grand staircases. Hart is more of a modern office building, with speckled fiberboard ceilings and carpet that gives me static shocks.
But Hart is the center of everything, a building teeming with life—and these days, protesters—at all times. The glass-walled offices are laid out along the building’s outer perimeter, with an open atrium in the center where an immense sculpture installation entitled Mountains and Clouds resides. To me, it looks more like random black geometric shapes than mountains and clouds, but that’s art for you. Some people complain about the lack of privacy (and I get it; the building is basically a giant fishbowl), but I find it all entertaining—the constant commotion, the tribal camaraderie, the simmering resentments that boil over into passive-aggressive window-sign wars the week of a big vote. There’s an odd intimacy to it, a sense that we’re all in this together despite our differences; a big, dysfunctional family forced to sit across from each other at the Thanksgiving table.
When I walk into reception, the TV is blaring CNN, per usual. It’s one of the prerequisites of the job—the constant surveillance of cable news, like an IV drip that can’t be turned off. Sometimes I even dream in a headline scroll.
The first thing I do once I enter my office is whip off my blazer; I’m overheated and some days it feels like a straitjacket. I love fashion, but the stodgy political environment doesn’t exactly encourage sartorial expression. It’s business formal all the time, especially for meetings I attend with Senator Warner. There’s a strict dress code for appearing on the Senate floor and I follow it to the letter.
My only rebellion is my heels.
When I first moved to DC, it took a week of wearing monotonous, soul-killing suits before I decided sporting outlandish heels was going to be my rage against the machine. Now it’s my signature. No matter how conservative my attire, you better believe I’m wearing flamboyant footwear, usually with some type of embellishment: a bow, a buckle, a tassel, a stud. Most of the time they’re hidden under a desk—but I know they’re there, and that’s just enough civil disobedience for me.
As I hang my jacket on the back of my chair, my eyes catch on the double photo frame I keep front and center on my desk. The left side displays a shot from my mom’s college graduation: she’s holding a pigtailed, chubby-cheeked version of me tight and beaming, her rolled diploma raised in victory. The picture on the right is similar but age-progressed—we’re hugging at my graduation, and this time I’m the one celebrating. It’s the best possible reminder of why I’m here, why I need to keep fighting—even if it means putting up with brutes like Ben Mackenzie.
I have my mom to thank for my career path. At just eighteen years old, she got pregnant with me at her senior prom. Yep, I’m that cliché. She was a teen mom before doing so meant landing your own MTV show.
She never married my dad—or more accurately, my dad never married her—and thankfully her parents offered to help raise me. When I was a toddler, she worked during the day and toiled away at night classes to get her degree in hospitality management while I got spoiled as my grandparents’ little angel. She currently works for a chain of luxury hotels in New York, where she moved from our small town outside Nashville as soon as I went off to college at UNC Chapel Hill. My paternal grandparents did their best to help too, not that paying for some dance classes could make up for their son’s absence in my life. My childhood wasn’t picture-perfect, but I didn’t want for anything—except a father, of course.
I open my laptop and sigh. It’s after five, but I hate leaving work with the equivalent of a seventy-car pileup in my inbox. I settle in to clear my emails, following up on some committee business, responding to a couple of constituent emails that have been passed my way, and compiling a list of talking points for an upcoming speech Carol will be giving. At six fifteen, I hear Stephen’s voice boom out from his desk.
“Candy time!”
Stephen Campbell is Carol’s scheduler, and his job is basically what you’re thinking. Like a glorified secretary, he keeps her calendar, arranges interviews, organizes travel, and keeps her on schedule, which, because of how sought after she is, is sometimes chopped into five-minute blocks.
Stephen was the first friend I made when I got this job. He’s hilarious and loyal, though gossip is his self-admitted weakness. He filled me in on all the office drama before I even had a chance to meet everyone. I don’t recommend this—it made for some awkward introductions—but we were inseparable after that. He’s also a southern expat, so we just get each other like few others do.
I stand and stretch, ambling out to his desk. He holds up Red Vines and dark chocolate M&M’S, which he knows are my favorite. I grab the Red Vines just to keep him guessing.
This is our evening routine. Before Stephen leaves for the night, we catch up on the day’s goings-on—though it’s more like Stephen catching me up on gossip since I’m completely clueless. He once confided that the candy stash is his secret weapon. Guilty consciences seek guilty calories.
“You look tired,” Stephen announces without preamble. Ah, my least favorite insult in disguise.
“Should I smile more, too?”
“Ooh, someone’s cranky. Bad day?”
“Terrible.” I kick off my heels and collapse onto the communal couch, propping my legs up on the table. I need a pedicure. “You would not believe this guy I had to meet with over in Hammond’s office.”
“Do tell.” Stephen swivels around in his chair and rips open the bag of M&M’S, spilling them all over his desk and cursing. “Today’s been super boring, so spill.”
“First of all, he showed up half an hour late for our meeting, then had this chip on his shoulder the whole time, like I was the one wasting his time.”
Stephen wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”
“And then he goes on and on about how busy he is rewriting the tax code. Like I’m supposed to be impressed.”
“So he’s working on tax reform? That’s got to be pretty intense right now.”
“Excuse me, Stephen.” I snap my fingers at him. “We do not care about him. I am the injured party here. Please focus.”
He covers his heart with his hand. “What was I thinking? Empathy for others is so ten years ago. Carry on.”
“You should have seen him. The guy was a human Goliath. Like a linebacker, only bigger. I would have been afraid of him if he wasn’t such a douchebag.”
“Was he good-looking?” He throws an M&M up in the air and catches it in his mouth.
“Good-looking? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“I have, and you just referred to him as a football player, which implies muscles, which has piqued my interes
t. Many jerks are, unfortunately, attractive. So, was he?”
“That, that—doesn’t matter!” I sputter. “I wasn’t there to get a date. I was there to get my bill passed!”
He raises his hands, placating. “Calm down. I’m asking for a reason. Maybe he was acting out because he was into you. Guys are immature that way, you know. Or maybe he was intimidated by you. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He leans toward me, resting his chin on his hand. “Important question. Did you use your hair on him?”
“Oh my God, you and my hair,” I groan.
“What? If I had your hair, God knows I’d be using it to bring men to their knees.”
“Oh, really? In the workplace?”
“Why not? You’re much too scrupulous. You and your ethics,” he says with exaggerated air quotes, and I laugh in spite of myself. “Give that glorious head of hair a toss, bat those baby blues, and any man will be putty in your hands.” He dramatically flips a pretend mane.
“I’ll remember that next time I’m out of the office trolling for guys.”
Stephen’s exaggerating, but like a lot of southern women, I have big hair. It’s long and blond and, honestly, I’m more vain about it than I’d like to admit. I baby it with absurdly expensive products and bimonthly cuts at an overpriced salon in Georgetown. I’m not proud.
I blame my mother for this. She’s beautiful and I’ve spent my life chasing her perfection. At forty-five, she still turns men’s heads in the street—and rocks long hair like she’s Christie Brinkley. It’s one of the reasons I can’t bring myself to crop it shorter; it’s one of the few things that reminds me of home. When I moved north, I dropped my accent but kept my hair.
What I always considered an asset, though, quickly proved a liability in the restrained, austere world of government. In my first week of work alone, I’d fielded so many Elle Woods jokes—and naughty intern jokes—that I considered shaving my head entirely. Instead, I started taming it into submission any way I knew how, which usually means restraining it in a boring bun, like today.
“I’m just saying, God gave you that hair for a reason. You’re a fool if you don’t use it to your advantage.”
Meet You in the Middle Page 2
