Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  His eyes restlessly took in the crowd. “Not enough.” He seemed to realize that might be considered rude. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m sure security is fine.”

  “No apology necessary, and honestly, I’m just trying to keep you two here longer to put off the inevitable further socializing. You’re free to go. I will definitely see you later.” I hoped, anyway. If bell stood us up and by consequence I had no excuse to talk to Ram and Elena again, I was going to give her a piece of my mind.

  Only not really. Because she was bell hooks and the two or three times we’d met before were mostly characterized by me fumbling my words and trying not to be star-struck. I’d resolved to do better this time. There may have been mantras involved. I’ve met kings and queens with less anxiety, and it wasn’t bell hooks, she was a gorgeous human being who in no way wanted me to be terrified of her. Or terrified of looking stupid in front of her, which was the actual problem.

  On this night, though, I had a goal. And that was to use bell hooks as an excuse to talk to Ram Ruiz.

  That…sounds more skeevy than it felt at the time.

  It was arguably an abuse of power. On the other hand, had I, a widow, met Ram, a grown man, in any other context than that of our respective jobs, I could have simply walked up to him.

  bell was lovely, as always, and Elena managed to comport herself better than I had at our first meeting.

  I stood just slightly off to the side, not allowing myself to feel disappointed that Ram had apparently wandered off somewhere. The night was beginning to wear on me a bit. This was the time when Hank would have found a way to grab me fifteen minutes by myself in the butler’s pantry (yes, the Maryland house has a butler’s pantry, and yes, it’s big enough to sit in with a cup of tea). It only ever took ten, fifteen minutes before I could re-enter the stream and thrive on the current.

  I could use fifteen minutes, though. Without a break, the current began to feel like it was sucking me under.

  Elena was talking animatedly and in all honesty, I couldn’t linger much longer without it seeming a little weird. Just as I was readying myself to join the fray, Ram arrived at my elbow.

  He had champagne, not tea, but he offered me one of the two glasses he held.

  “Thank you.” I realized it must have been intended for Elena. “Did you just give me your sister’s champagne?”

  “She doesn’t drink, ma’am.” He shook his head. “I saw you standing here and thought…it seemed polite.”

  I took the liberty of putting my hand gently on his forearm, careful not to lean in or lower my voice. “It was. Thank you, Ram. How are you enjoying the party?”

  “It’s very nice, ma’am. You have a lovely home.”

  I glanced around, pondering the word. “Thank you. I was thinking earlier that I missed our place in California. We moved here with our eyes on political office. Or my eyes were on political office, and Hank’s everywhere else; being the spouse of a politician isn’t for the faint of heart. We bought the right house, had it decorated in the right way—clean, not too modern. But it doesn’t really reflect us. Or me, I guess, now. Do you have a home that reflects you?”

  If we were just normal people, he could invite me over. To his apartment, probably. Would it be all dark linens and cleared surfaces? I couldn’t imagine Ram surrounded by clutter.

  “I think it does. It’s small, but I don’t need much, and it’s still bigger than the barracks I lived in after I enlisted.”

  “Tell me this: is it very neat? I imagine you must keep a neat home.”

  One of his eyebrows rose. “You imagine, ma’am?”

  I flushed and pretended that fascinating things were happening elsewhere in the room. “I only meant—”

  A fleeting brush of his fingers against mine, which shot electricity to my toes. I didn’t dare look over.

  “I do like things to be neat. It seems like you do too?”

  “Hank was a slob. Just a terror. I relaxed over years of marriage to the point at which I didn’t hyperventilate when I walked into a room to find clothes and shoes and books scattered everywhere.”

  He smiled. And oops, here I was, looking at him again. “Part of Mr. West’s charm?”

  “He had a lot of charm.” I slid my arm in his, more confident discussing Hank. No impropriety whatsoever. “Should I give you a tour of the house?”

  “That would be nice.”

  It was strange to have a man on my arm whose presence I could feel thrumming in my blood, whose scent energized me. I’d taken men to various things in the years since Hank’s death, but I’d been very deliberate about it, turning down anyone I didn’t already know quite well, anyone I thought might misunderstand the invitation. I hadn’t been interested in dating. Not in general, and certainly not with all the additional complications of the presidency to think about.

  And I wasn’t now. I was simply showing a coworker my house. It was much simpler when I thought about it that way.

  Only the public rooms, of course. I explained more than I thought I even knew about the furniture and design, not quite babbling. Ram asked questions that stayed within the bounds of reasonable conversation. He didn’t shy away from talking about Hank, as a lot of people did, even years later, which I deeply appreciated.

  We stopped to talk with Jules (who didn’t miss our linked arms) and Betty (who didn’t miss anything) and here and there with other people who knew us and didn’t require introductions. Elena caught up sometime later, breathless from talking to her idol, and relaxed enough to tug on Ram’s jacket in her excitement.

  “I just talked to bell hooks for half an hour. Oh my god, I’m gonna faint.”

  “Do not faint at the president’s house.”

  She turned to me. “She’s amazing, though, right? Ms. hooks? She’s like…she is so smart. She is the smartest person I have ever actually spoken to in real life.”

  He elbowed her.

  “What?” Classic younger sibling scowl. Then the penny dropped. “Oh, ma’am, except for you, obviously—”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Obviously not. I know I’m not as smart as bell hooks. I’m glad you had fun, Elena.”

  “That was…that was amazing.” She sighed. “Honestly, I can’t even believe that happened.”

  Ram poked her. “Are you crushing on bell hooks?”

  “Shut up! And no. Except kind of. Yes, totally. I would go out with her so hard right now! Also, I just want to sit with her for hours listening to her talk. How often do you feel, like, deeply connected to someone so you want to spend all of your time with them?”

  The question echoed in my head for a second after she said it, and I looked at Ram at the same moment he was looking at me.

  “Not all that often.” His eyes were brown flecked with a color so dark it might have been black, which I’d somehow never noticed before.

  “Yeah, you should get out more, but we were talking about how I just met bell hooks, oh my god.”

  Elena eventually regained her composure (and it was amusing to watch one of the butlers experience giddiness). I made my excuses, though I would have gladly stayed talking with them all night, taking hits off the normalcy of watching siblings interact, a force too powerful to be tempered even by presidential Thanksgiving parties.

  I didn’t see them again before they went home, but for the rest of the night I thought about how comfortable I felt with Ram at my side.

  9

  Betty wouldn’t have said anything, and I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. There were strict boundaries around our lives, and while it was easy to over-rely on my staff, I never wanted to cross those lines.

  I went down to the flower shop early one morning, but there were a few people there, and I lost my nerve. During my retreat back to the office I assured myself that this was for the best, and keeping my mouth shut about Ram was the only ethical thing to do. There was no future there. At least not while I was the president and he was in my protection detail. And I couldn’t be certain t
he entire thing wasn’t my overheated brain, spinning from some mixture of residual grief and the intensity of daily life.

  I wouldn’t have said it before I was elected, but there’s something to being married in this job. You need someone you can trust at the end of the day to debrief with, and I missed that. It’s not the same talking to friends, even close ones. Familiar intimacy is something I didn’t realize I needed until it was gone.

  Betty—being Betty—came by the second floor while I was eating dinner “to change out some arrangements,” i.e. check up on me.

  I withstood her time-wasting futzing with the flowers until I couldn’t bear it, then invited her to the family kitchen for a cup of tea.

  We stood around the island and I asked her the thing I’d decided not to ask her. Both because it wasn’t all that polite, and it was certainly crossing the line between employer and employee.

  “After your George, did you find other men attractive? Did you ever feel for someone else what you…felt for him?” I bit off my apologies, since there was no point in asking a question you dearly wanted answered and only pretending to take it back a second later.

  “Oh, I feel things, but it’s not the same. It’s different when you love each other when you’re young, I think. A different quality of love. Not better, or worse. But different.” She sipped her tea and nodded almost absently. “A different journey when the two of you grow together. When you’re older, you come to each other fully formed. Like I said, not better or worse. Why, ma’am? You conducting a survey of sorts?”

  “Not a survey, no.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  I squared my shoulders. “Don’t you take a tone with me, Mrs. Sanderson. I’m no wayward child who needs scolding.”

  “No, you’re not. And if we were just two women having a conversation I’d say it’s been time enough, and Mr. West would have never wanted you to be alone a second longer than you wished, and I’d tell you I was happy that you were feeling something for someone.”

  Warmth spread through me until I replayed the first part of her sentence. “But we’re not just two women having a conversation.”

  “We are not, Madam President.”

  “I know it’s bad when you start calling me that. After all this is over, will you call me by my name, Betty? Just once?”

  She smiled slightly. “Probably not, ma’am.”

  “You don’t think I should…I mean, I don’t think I should say anything to him. I’m the president. It would be a nightmare for any man, and this one especially.”

  “And he has a job to do that you telling him something like that would only get in the way of.”

  I froze, caught between flat denial and relief that I didn’t have to be so careful with my words.

  Betty held up a finger. “Oh, you don’t have to confirm it, I have eyes. You know nothing can happen with him in that position.”

  “I know.”

  “And even if he wasn’t, they’d come for him for other reasons if you started seeing each other.”

  I’d been trying not to think about that. “Yes. I’m sure the phrase ‘don’t like the optics’ would be involved. But catering to the world’s transphobia isn’t a reason not to do something.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “You’re saying something.”

  She straightened up, all seventy years and five foot four of her. I realized suddenly that I had no idea if she’d even voted for me. “Ma’am, I don’t doubt that if you wanted to pursue a man, you’d find a way to do it.”

  “But I shouldn’t. I know.” I didn’t want to slump. I wanted to show Betty Sanderson, who’d seen me in very dark times, that I wasn’t going to pout just because I couldn’t ask a man out on a date. “I’m probably making it up anyway.”

  She snorted. “Now you’re just talking nonsense. If he was any more captivated by you, he’d have to step down for a conflict of interest. Oh, he hides it well—when you’re not in one of those pretty dresses, anyway—but he’s no fool.” She finished off her tea. “We’ve found ways of coordinating things in the past. You let me know if there’s anything you need, ma’am.” With that, she nodded and left me.

  Specifically, left me standing in my kitchen wondering about the legacy of men in my office asking the residence staff to “coordinate things” for them, and pondering if I really wanted to join their number. It was at least true that I wouldn’t be cheating on anyone, but it wasn’t the way I wanted to live.

  And in the age of Twitter and cell phone cameras, I doubted it could be gotten away with long anyway.

  No, if I was going to date someone, it would have to be above board. Except the person I wanted to date was entirely off limits. I could hardly approach him and ask him to give up his career for the chance we might enjoy each other’s company over a cup of coffee.

  We would enjoy each other’s company over coffee. I knew it. And I thought Ram did, too.

  10

  Springtime was my favorite season in DC. Late spring—after the cherry trees blossomed, but before the heat and humidity set in—was the time that most reminded me of home. Sometimes I’d sit on the patio outside the Oval Office in the evenings to do my stack of reading, underlining things or making notes, thermos of herbal tea at my side.

  And if I was more likely to do this when I knew Ram would be standing nearby, well, no one ever noticed, or mentioned it if they did.

  I couldn’t, of course, offer him a cup of tea, or a seat beside me. And I didn’t let my imagination stray down that path, which would have been foolish.

  One does not resent the presidency. Not ever. But one comes to secretly resent some of the restrictions of that position, and most of those small pains are about the isolation of it. So few people understood my job, and every one of them was a man who’d been companionably married during his time in the White House.

  As the home stretch of my second term drew closer, I began to look forward to a life at least partially relaxed. One in which I could invite a man to sit beside me.

  On one particular night I was marking up a briefing packet about green beans (that’s not code), huddling in my sweater. Even after years in DC, I was unprepared for the evening temperature drop. I felt Ram’s presence, and although he would never leave his post to hover, his energy had a distinctly hovering feel to it.

  I finally looked over, annoyed at myself for being cold, annoyed at whoever thought green beans needed a three-page summary instead of a one-page. “Yes?” I snapped.

  He blinked as if startled, which one could understand, since I’d broken a peaceful silence to demand he explain himself. “Ma’am?”

  “I can feel you not-saying something from here, Ram. Whatever it is, spit it out.”

  For a moment, I thought he’d deny it, but he didn’t. “One moment, please, ma’am.” He said something I didn’t catch into his radio and resumed his stance.

  Irritation was turning into the kind of rage you feel when it’s been building up, a pressure cooker ready to explode.

  The door behind him opened and an aide stepped outside with my jacket. “Here, ma’am. Do you need anything else?”

  “No. Thank you.” She withdrew and I shrugged into it, rearranging my layers while Ram pretended nothing had happened. My earlier annoyance bled away, leaving me grateful, abashed, and mostly…touched. By his attention. By the fact that even though people were constantly watching me, very few of them saw me. And Ram did.

  I didn’t want to respond too revealingly—throwing my arms around him and kissing him came to mind as possibly an overreaction to a man grabbing my coat for me when I was shivering, or at least finding someone else to grab it—but I didn’t want the moment to pass without saying something. I gestured to him. “Don’t you ever get cold?”

  “Ma’am, it’s sixty degrees out.”

  I shivered. “Don’t I know it.”

  He smiled, and the pleasure of inspiring that smile curled through me. “I do not need a coat in sixty degrees.�
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  “In my defense, I wear a coat when it’s sixty in California, too.”

  “And that’s…your defense? Ma’am?”

  “Oh, hush, you.”

  Now I was smiling—or maybe beaming—and he was still smiling, and we were looking at each other, something easy and almost gentle between us. Not flirtation, not really. Mutual enjoyment. With…space. For more than that.

  Or at least that’s how it felt to me.

  “Thank you for having a minion fetch my jacket,” I finally said, when the silence was drawing out too long.

  “It was a tactical decision, ma’am. Explaining how I’d let the president get hypothermia on a mild night in May seemed like it was going to mean a lot of paperwork.”

  I wanted to say, Thank you for teasing me. Thank you for sharing this moment of two people who can almost act normal together. Instead I gave him a severe look. “I was slightly chilled. Let’s not blow things out of proportion.”

  “Of course, Madam President.”

  “If this ends up in the tabloids, I’ll know who leaked it.”

  “If the tabloids run a story that you were slightly chilled?”

  If I thought I could have gotten away with it, I would have thrown my highlighter at him. “One of these days, when I’m no longer in office, you and I are going head-to-head, and we’ll see who’s cleverest with the comebacks, Agent Ruiz.”

  This time it was a smirk. “I look forward to that, ma’am.”

  11

  In early September of my seventh year in office we held a family sports rally. It was a bit of an homage to Hank, and a massive thank you to all the people in the administration who’d carried on his work with pride and passion even after he died.

  Also, it was a damn good time. It wasn’t quite the annual Easter egg roll at the White House, but we’d gotten kids from birth to eighteen to play games and participate in demonstrations alongside the adults in their lives (Hank, raised by an aunt and uncle, had always been careful when he could to avoid exclusively saying parents, and I’d adopted that custom whenever I could).