On Wednesday I get an article entitled, HOW WEARING HEELS CAN SERIOUSLY IMPAIR WORKPLACE PERFORMANCE. I figure he must have doctored that headline until I google it and find out it’s real. Damn it. On Thursday I send him Gigantism in Twenty-First-Century America: A Report. I had to do some serious digging to find that one.
I have to admit—the whole thing is pretty entertaining. It’s like we’re back in high school, passing origami-folded notes during homeroom. There’s something deliciously old-school about his handwritten missives, even if their contents do make me question my commitment to nonviolent conflict resolution. I’d never admit it out loud, but I’ve actually started to look forward to his hate mail. Sometimes it’s the only fun I have all day.
I must be losing my mind.
Before I know it, word of our feud spreads and the mail war takes on a life of its own. Everyone in the office wants in on our domino rally of hatred. Stephen’s so invested in the drama that I have to create a separate folder just to corral all the link-filled emails he sends me for inspiration. A group of us dissect each of Ben’s notes, drafting stinging rebuttals that leave us all in stitches. It’s become an office bonding ritual, and I pat myself on the back for bringing everyone together for a common cause.
Taking down Benjamin Mackenzie.
* * *
“You have to join it!”
I’m headed back from lunch with Stephen and Tessa, another staffer on Senator Warner’s team. They’re currently trying to peer-pressure me into signing up for LeftField, the new Democrats-only dating app that everyone in the office is talking about. Their tagline: “There are plenty of libs in the sea.” I wish I were kidding.
“No way.” I punch the UP elevator button and turn to face them.
“Come on, I have to live vicariously through you!” Tessa whines, as though that should sway me. She’s been in a long-term relationship with her boyfriend, Luke, for as long as I’ve known her. “When was the last time you even went on a date?”
I cringe inwardly. My social calendar is pretty barren—though in my defense, who has the time? We work all hours with the same people day in and day out, and interoffice dating is frowned upon. Where would I even meet someone? I should probably be Tinder-ing, Match-ing, Hinge-ing, and Bumble-ing like everyone else I know, but going on semiblind computer dates after a long day at work seems like an almost comical form of torture. And frankly? I just don’t care enough. I’m a happily independent woman, and the only times I wish things were different, it goes away in five to seven days.
“The last guy was the one who only ordered skinny drinks, remember? I ditched him when he asked me what kind of conditioner I used.”
“He was unfortunate,” Stephen concedes. “But all the more reason to sign up. You need a palate cleanser.”
“Why can’t you just join?”
“Oh, believe me, I am. But you’re doing it with me.”
“I’ll set up your profile for you!” Tessa pleads, clutching my arm.
The elevator dings behind me. “Guys, stop. I don’t need to join LeftField to find a date.”
The words have barely left my mouth when I see Stephen’s eyes go wide as he takes in something over my shoulder. I spin around—and come face-to-face with Ben Mackenzie. Only this time, he’s not alone. A tall, glossy-haired brunette hovers at his side, pressing her lips together in amusement. Ben doesn’t bother with such subtleties, donning a Cheshire Cat grin he aims right at me.
My face flushes hot with embarrassment, but I can’t show any weakness. He’s like a shark; he’ll smell blood in the water.
“Ben, how lovely to see you again,” I say, my voice dripping with insincerity.
His eyes spark at my brinkmanship. He opens his mouth to respond but then pauses, glancing at our myriad companions, and I watch the internal struggle play out on his face. Mock me and look like a jerk, or play along?
Social propriety wins out. “Kate, how great to run into you,” he says, his voice equally disingenuous. I step aside so he and his brunette arm candy can exit the elevator.
“Hey, man,” Stephen pipes up, like they’re BFFs or something. I shoot him a traitorous look—what a turncoat.
The brunette eyes Ben and me with confusion, clearly sensing something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Since Ben hasn’t bothered to introduce us, I extend a hand.
“Hi, I’m Kate, and this is Stephen and Tessa. We’re on Senator Warner’s staff.”
Her expression of polite indifference shifts on a dime, her upper lip curling ever so slightly.
“I see. Corinne,” she says, grabbing and releasing my hand so swiftly you’d think I have an infectious disease.
“For what it’s worth, Kate, I agree,” Ben drawls, that cocky grin still plastered across his face. “You shouldn’t have to join a discriminatory site like that to get a date.”
“Good thing it was just a joke,” I respond, smiling through gritted teeth. I could claw his eyes out. To prevent it, I ball my hands into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms.
Corinne doesn’t look confused anymore—in fact, she’s looking at me like something smells bad. She places a hand in the crook of Ben’s arm, subtly tugging him away. “We should go. We don’t have long before we need to get back.”
“Of course. Enjoy your lunch,” I tell them, my voice syrupy sweet. I hope you choke on it. As I brush by him to enter the elevator, Ben catches my elbow.
“On the other hand, you may want to reconsider the app,” he murmurs in a voice low enough that the others won’t hear. “Where else will you find a man with a fetish for uptight ballbusters?”
My jaw drops, but by the time I process his insult, he and Corinne are already halfway across the lobby. I gape soundlessly as the elevator doors shut in my face.
Chapter 5
I think Ben’s bugged my office.
There was an envelope waiting for me on my desk this morning when I arrived. Nothing too unusual about that, since I’m averaging one piece of hate mail from Ben every other day. But when I opened it to find a snarky editorial about the Capstone Pipeline drilling project, a chill ran through me.
Only yesterday, Tessa and I had a meeting in my office about this very issue. We worked on a statement for Carol that addresses the current drilling controversy but it hasn’t been released yet. There’s no way he could know about it.
No way—unless he’s listening.
And it’s not the first time it’s happened, either. Some of his recent missives relate to specific initiatives I’m working on. At first I thought he was just guessing well, but I’ve clearly underestimated his aptitude for skullduggery.
My already hyperactive imagination shifts into overdrive. I consider frisking everyone who enters my office to see if they’re wired. I sweep my office for listening devices, though that mostly involves me picking things up and shaking them. I have a sneaking suspicion that isn’t how wiretapping works.
When I share my theory with Stephen, he tells me I’ve gone off the deep end. In fact, he dismisses it so swiftly that I become suspicious of him too. Maybe Ben has something on him and is forcing Stephen to feed him intelligence from the inside. I interrogate him over lunch, but he doesn’t crack.
I might be watching too much Homeland.
Maybe it’s all in my head, but when it comes to Ben I don’t believe in coincidences. To cover my bases, I add a postscript when I send out my next poison-tipped spear.
PS. Surveillance without a warrant is a federal offense. If you’ve bugged my office, I will find out.
He replies with a postscript of his own:
PS. Paranoid much? Have you seen a doctor about your delusions?
* * *
“Kate, wait up.”
I turn when I hear the voice belongs to my colleague John Conrad, chief of staff for Senator Maxwell (D-Maryland). We were just in a meeting tog
ether but I booked it out the door as soon as it ended, intending to make it to the Senate gym before it gets too crowded. If I dillydally, all the good machines will be taken.
“Where you headed?” he asks, jogging to catch up with me.
“Just the gym. What’s up?” I ask, not breaking my stride.
“I’ll walk you. I had an idea for your bill,” he says, and my stomach jumps.
John’s boss is one of Carol’s closest allies in the Senate; they regularly cosponsor each other’s legislation and almost always vote together. As a result, John and I are frequent collaborators and close friends. He’s funny and attractive in a perfectly polished, presidential candidate type of way; kind of Patrick Dempsey in Sweet Home Alabama smooth. He can be a bit intense—I sometimes wonder if he thinks about anything besides politics—but he’s incredibly smart, which for me trumps just about everything else.
“Do you know Paul Bradley over in Senator Moreno’s office? He mentioned they’re looking for bipartisan support on their transportation bill and I thought this could work in your favor. Infrastructure seems like something Warner could get on board with, especially in exchange for Moreno’s vote on the child care bill.”
“I think she’d be open to it,” I say excitedly. Finally, some good news. “I’ll reach out to Paul ASAP. This is so helpful, John, thank you.”
He smiles. “You can thank me by letting me take you out for a celebratory dinner when the bill passes.”
We chat about the details until we reach the gym and I say goodbye and head into the women’s locker room. As I’m changing out of my work clothes, I hear someone enter. Glancing up, I recognize the ponytailed brunette, sweaty and svelte in her designer activewear. Corinne.
When we lock eyes I can tell she really wants to ignore me, but we both call upon the social etiquette drilled into us since birth and fake-smile at each other. Guess all that sorority rush training was good for something.
I can’t help myself—I’m on a high from John’s news and feeling rebellious. “Corinne, right?”
She eyes me guardedly as she twirls the combination on her locker. “Right. And you’re Kate.”
She’s already surprised me; I wouldn’t have expected her to remember my name. Or admit to it, anyway.
“So you must work with Ben, then? I don’t think you said.” If she knows about our feud, it would certainly explain her frostiness.
She gives me a thin-lipped smile. “Among other things,” she says, prying open the door and burying her head inside.
So they are dating. Or hooking up, maybe—hard to tell from that vague statement and her suggestive little smirk, which will undoubtedly require a brain bleaching later.
“Is it crowded out there?” I ask, bypassing those disturbing mental images, determined to kill this ice queen with kindness.
“Not too bad.” She slams the locker shut and turns to face me. “So how did that dating app work out for you?” she asks, smiling innocently.
Innocent as a fox. “I didn’t actually join it. My friends were just messing around.”
“Oh.” She flicks her ponytail back and shoulders her bag. “Well, Ben might think apps like that are silly, but I think they make perfect sense. Why not cut through the crap and find someone who thinks like you do? Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same if I was stuck in the dating pool.” She pauses. “No offense.”
“Oh, none taken,” I reply dryly.
There’s a beat of silence as we size each other up. My cheeks ache from holding this phony smile. I’ll have to scrape it off later with a putty knife.
“Well, good luck,” she says, her tone reassuring, like I’m some charity case to be pitied.
I narrow my eyes at her back as she flounces out, thinking of the old platitude: The couple that preys together stays together. Those two deserve each other.
I’m still smarting from her low blows when I head into the gym—and immediately spot Ben running on one of the treadmills lining the back wall. I cannot win today. His back is to me, but I still jerk my gaze away when I realize I’m checking out his ass.
What? I’m a feminist, not blind.
I should avoid him, I know I should, but it’s like I have a devil on my shoulder today. I need to regain some ground and the pull to antagonize him is too strong.
I walk right up and take the treadmill next to his, surreptitiously peeking at his machine’s display as I climb on—8.0.
I set mine for 8.1.
I know he sees me, but neither of us acknowledges the other as we run in silence for a minute—until I hear a couple of beeps and slide my eyes over.
He’s upped his speed to 8.2.
I increase mine to 8.5.
“It’s so cute how desperate you are to beat me.”
I swivel my head toward him, frowning at his stupid smirk. Cute?
“I know I can beat you. I’m a sprinter.”
I regret the words as soon as they’re out. I just broke my own cardinal rule: Do not reveal any personal information he can use against me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he excavates my old high school running records just to taunt me.
“A sprinter, huh? You like to finish fast?” He laughs at his double entendre.
“I haven’t had any complaints.”
“Things must be going well on Donkey Date, then?”
“Donkey Date?”
“You know, the app for people who refuse to date outside their own echo chambers.”
My blood pressure spikes. The sudden rush of adrenaline causes my stride to falter, and for the next few seconds my brain is wholly focused on not flying off the treadmill.
Don’t let him see you sweat, Kate.
“Forget it. You’re not worth it.”
“You know, a dry spell is nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to the best of us.”
I clench my jaw so hard I nearly crack a crown. To prevent myself from committing murder in a federal building filled with security cameras, I increase my speed again and focus on leaving Ben in the proverbial dust.
He takes the hint, and for the next couple of minutes the only sounds are the pounding of our feet on the whirring belts and our panting breaths. We’re silent in our quest to best each other. My lungs are burning and white spots dance in my vision, but I’d rather die on this treadmill than slow down.
Eventually I hear a chuckle, followed by a rapid-fire set of beeps. “Don’t hurt yourself, Goldilocks. I was already on my warm-down.”
I smother my reaction to this new nickname as he rolls to a stop, guzzling from a water bottle as he steps off the treadmill to leave. I can’t resist.
“You should get used to losing to me,” I call as he walks away.
He stops. Pivots. Saunters back to my machine, casually draping his arms over the handrail. I glance at them and they’re so massive they crowd my field of vision—ropy mounds of skin and sinew, each curve revealing yet another heavy muscle. I wonder idly if I could fit both my hands around one of his biceps. I doubt it.
“Losing, huh? Those are fighting words.”
“Someone is very touchy about losing to a girl,” I pant.
His eyebrows jump. Sweat pours from his brow, and when he grabs the hem of his shirt to mop his forehead, I get a flash of about thirty-eight perfectly defined ab muscles. What a waste of a man.
The brief distraction is my literal downfall. Before I can register what he’s doing, he’s reached over and pushed the EMERGENCY STOP button. In my fight to stay upright, I almost miss his parting words:
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Princess.”
* * *
On the last Wednesday of February I get a call from my dad, “just checking in,” as he always says. It’s around the same time every month, so I’m pretty sure he calendarizes it.
My relationship with my dad looks something like this:
My grandparents have a nickname for churchgoers who only show up on Christmas and Easter: Chreasters. As in, “We need to get to the service early because all the Chreasters will take up the good seats.” Well, for the first half of my life, I had a Chreaster father. When he was in college, I only saw him during holiday and summer breaks. He was a visitor, a guest, a blurry figure occasionally dropped into my memories. For me, dads felt about as real as Santa Claus.
After he graduated, he took a job in sales that required constant travel. While Nashville was technically his home base, I rarely saw him except for the occasional meals or outings my mom would force me to endure. Rinse and repeat. By the time I reached middle school and he decided he was ready to be more involved, the damage was done. Still, our relationship improved some—just in time for him to get transferred to North Carolina for his job.
It used to be that I could count on seeing him over the holidays, but that changed when I was in high school and he met and married Melanie, ten years his junior—and only eight years my senior. I get along with her fine—the fact that we’re so close in age makes things both easier and more awkward—and four years ago they had their first daughter, Alexis, and recently, baby girl number two, Annabelle.
It’s weird to have toddler half sisters at age twenty-seven, especially when all I’d wished for growing up was a sibling. I haven’t met the new baby yet, but Alexis, the four-year-old, is adorable and I love her to pieces. Since I don’t get to see them very often, I’m more like the cool aunt than a sister. Still, I do the requisite things to stay connected: gifts on birthdays and Christmas, FaceTime calls where we play virtual Barbies, polite fawning over the photos Melanie texts me. No one can say I abandon my family members.
I love my dad. I do. If anyone saw us together, they’d never guess the truth of our thorny relationship. We rarely discuss it, but it’s always there, hovering like a rain cloud, felt like a phantom limb.
Our check-in goes as it usually does—I ask after my sisters and Melanie while he digs for insider details on some of the more scandalous recent headlines. He loves to talk politics, and while he leans conservative, I enjoy our debates because he’s such a good sparring partner; he’s one of the few who can stump me. When we say goodbye, it feels too quick.
Meet You in the Middle Page 4
