Party of Two

by Jasmine Guillory

  He hadn’t felt this explosion of joy since the night he’d won his Senate race, a year and a half before. He wanted to jump off the bed and throw his arms in the air; he wanted to run around the hotel shouting. But instead, he took her face in his hands.

  “I love you, too.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him softly.

  “And you don’t have to buy new shoes, I’ll love you anyway. But . . . please do.”

  He tackled her onto the bed, and she laughed and laughed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Olivia got home from work the next Friday, Max was already there. She’d had a late afternoon meeting on the Westside, and by the time she’d battled traffic to get back home, Max had landed at LAX, so she’d told him to just let himself into her place. She’d given him her extra key a few weeks back so he could easily meet her at her house after an event. But he hadn’t given her back her key, and she hadn’t asked for it.

  She couldn’t believe she’d told him she loved him. And she’d meant it then and meant it more with every day that went by. Yes, it hadn’t even been five months since they’d met, but by this time in her life, she was a pretty good judge of character. And she knew she loved Max, even though she never would have expected it. It made her so happy to let herself into her house and know he was there.

  When she walked in, she heard banging coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  “Max?” It must be him; that was his car she’d driven by on the way here. He tended to park a block or two away, and in a slightly different place every time so no one would notice his car in front of her house.

  “I’m in the kitchen!”

  Was he . . . cooking? Max had many strengths, but she’d never seen him do anything in the kitchen other than move takeout from boxes to plates.

  She walked down the hallway and saw him leaning over the counter, a lump of dough in front of him and a rolling pin in his hands.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  He looked up at her and made a face.

  “Well, I was trying to make you a pie. Strawberry rhubarb, your favorite. But . . . I’ve run into some difficulties.”

  She moved closer to the counter.

  “I can see that.”

  He stuck out his tongue at her.

  “I didn’t do a . . . great job of reading the recipe before I started—I thought I’d be able to surprise you with a pie when you got home, but I didn’t realize the dough had to rest in the fridge for an hour after I made it. And now I’m trying to roll it out, and it’s rock hard!” He banged the rolling pin in the middle of the dough again and tried to move it from side to side. It didn’t budge.

  Olivia held in her laughter.

  “Where’d you get the rolling pin?” she asked. “I don’t have one.”

  He gestured to the bag on the other end of the counter.

  “Yes, I realize that now. I bought it, along with a pie pan.” He smiled sheepishly at her. “Also, um. I’m sorry about the mess. I promise I’ll clean all of . . . that up once I’m done with this part. And I swear, I absolutely did not kill anyone in your house this afternoon!”

  Olivia walked around him and saw the bowl of cut-up strawberries and rhubarb next to the sink . . . and the bright red spatter everywhere around it.

  Now she laughed so hard tears streamed from her eyes. After a few seconds, Max joined her.

  “It does indeed look like you committed a murder in this kitchen,” she said as she gasped for air.

  Max smashed the dough again with the rolling pin. Olivia thought she saw tentative movement.

  “I knew conceptually that strawberries had lots of red juice, but I didn’t quite understand what that meant in practice until today.” He rolled again. “Oh, look, it’s moving! Thank God.”

  Olivia opened the fridge and poured herself a glass of wine. This felt like the kind of thing where she should stand back and watch instead of offering to help out.

  Plus, no one had ever made her a pie before. She didn’t even care how it turned out; she wanted to enjoy this.

  “There!” Max said, forty minutes and two glasses of wine later, when he slid the pie into her oven. “It should bake for . . . an hour? It takes that long for pies to bake? Damn, okay, good thing I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

  She grinned at him.

  “And good thing I ordered dinner while you were occupied with the pie. Food should be here any minute.”

  He went over to the sink to wash his hands. That apron looked far too sexy on him, even though it looked like he’d stabbed someone in it.

  “Oh thank God you’re the smart one in this relationship,” he said. He grabbed a sponge to clean up the counters. “I’m starving. Pie making is hard work, you know.”

  Olivia sipped her wine and smiled at him. She couldn’t believe he’d done this, just to make her happy.

  “It looked like it,” she said.

  After the food came, they went into the living room to eat, and he looked around and smiled.

  “You got new bookshelves! No more stacks of books on the floor.”

  She put the food down on the coffee table.

  “Yeah, I’d had them for a while, and I finally put them together last night. I knew I couldn’t prep for the pitch today any more than I had, and I needed to do something to get out all of that nervous energy.”

  Max put the napkins and plates down on the table.

  “How did the pitch go?”

  Olivia put spring rolls onto both of their plates and sighed.

  “I don’t know. I mean, it felt like it went well; I know we did a fantastic job. But that doesn’t seem to really matter—the one client that we got so far from a pitch was the one I thought hated us, and all of the other pitches have felt great and we haven’t gotten them. They say they like us, but they want people with more experience, or a bigger firm, and even though our rates are on the low end, that doesn’t matter.”

  “Is that code for ‘they want to hire white men instead’?” Max asked.

  She glanced up at him, surprised and pleased she didn’t have to spell that out.

  “Sometimes, definitely. Probably most of the time, even. Which I should be used to by now in my career, but still feels crappy.”

  “That’s because it’s fucked up,” Max said. He put his hand on her knee. “How much . . . Are you . . . I mean, do you need . . .” He stopped, and she laughed.

  “If you’re trying to ask if I’m okay financially, I am, really. Ellie thinks I’m irrational for stressing this much—she says we both knew it would be slow going in the beginning, but we started with a few anchor clients and we have money coming in and we both saved up a lot before we started this.” But she’d feel like such a failure if she had to dig even deeper into her savings. “And she’s right, but I guess I didn’t quite realize how uncertain it would all feel. Like all of it could disappear in an instant. I thought I’d feel more comfortable once we got our first new client, but it was for such a small case it didn’t make me feel much better. If only we could get a case from a bigger company—all we need is to get our foot in the door. I know we’d do a great job; we’re both excellent lawyers. We’ll see what happens with the pitch from today, but . . .” She shrugged. “I’m not feeling that optimistic.”

  Max dished noodles on her plate and handed it to her.

  “Here. Your favorite spicy noodles will help—the spice high will make you feel like a superhero.”

  One of the things she liked so much about Max was that he didn’t try to give her a pep talk unless she asked for one, and he didn’t try to reassure her that everything would be fine. He just handed her spicy noodles. Which was exactly what she needed.

  “Thanks,” she said. Which felt inadequate, for the noodles and the pie and the sympathy, but she knew he understood.
r />   He picked up a spring roll and turned to her.

  “So. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  That never meant good news.

  “Okay. What is it?” She braced herself.

  “I know we talked about this some a while ago—not specifics, but just in general—but that was when things were different and I feel like things have changed, so I wanted to ask about it again—”

  Okay, now she needed him to cut to the chase. He was usually way more articulate than this. Was he breaking up with her?

  “Max. What are you getting at?”

  He rubbed his face and put his plate down onto the coffee table.

  “I guess I’d better just say it: have you given any more thought—or any at all, actually—to us going public about this?”

  Oh. Not a breakup.

  The opposite of a breakup, really.

  “Oh. I didn’t expect . . . that’s not what I thought you were . . .” She laughed out loud. “Max Powell, please do me a favor and never say ‘I have to talk to you about something’ again to me like that. Because I thought you were about to break up with me.”

  Max sat back, his mouth wide open, then leaned forward and grabbed her hands.

  “First, I’ll never say that again. Second, breaking up with you is the last thing I want to do.”

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  “Same here. But . . . you want to go public?”

  He squeezed her hands.

  “I understand if you’re not ready for that yet, just say the word, and it’s fine. But the thing is, I was thinking all week about last weekend. How we ran into that reporter, and part of me—a lot of me—wondered if it really would be the end of the world if she recognized me with you. And then I killed it in my speech—not to be arrogant, but. . .” He grinned at her, and she grinned back. “And when I finished, and I knew it had been great, I looked around the room, and I realized I was looking for you out there. Even though I knew you weren’t there, I wanted to be able to introduce you to people I’ve known for years, and meet your sister with you by my side instead of with knowing glances on both of our parts. And . . . it was more than that. Those things are a lot sometimes, and I wished so much that you were there. That I’d have you with me for a boost, or a smirk, or some sympathy.”

  She hadn’t realized until right now how much she’d hated staying back in his hotel room while he was at the fundraiser. How much she’d wanted to be there with him, see him make his speech, introduce him to Alexa herself.

  “And the thing is . . .” Max looked straight into her eyes. “That thing Wes said, when I first told him about you, and he was skeptical, and he said to make sure it was something real before anyone found out about us, for your sake as well as mine—this feels real to me. Does it feel real to you?”

  She looked down at their joined hands.

  “Yes,” she said in a low voice. Sometimes it felt like she’d made this whole thing up, especially when she randomly turned on the TV or the radio and there was Max. But whenever she was with him, the connection between the two of them felt so real, so solid, it overwhelmed her.

  “Good,” he said. “Do you . . . What do you think?”

  Beeeep.

  They broke apart, startled. Then Max laughed and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “It’s the pie! I set my alarm for it. I’ll be right back.”

  Olivia stayed where she was as Max raced into the kitchen. She was grateful for the extra time to figure out how to answer his question. A few minutes later, he came out with a big grin on his face.

  “Well, the good news is that it looks like a pie, anyway. The bad news is we’re supposed to let it cool for a while, which I didn’t quite realize.”

  He sat back down on the couch and looked expectantly at her. She took a deep breath.

  “This does feel real to me,” she said. “And in a perfect world, we wouldn’t have worried about that reporter, and I’d be there with you at that fundraiser, and to meet my family, and all of that. But . . . how big a deal do you think this is going to be? I don’t really have any concept of how this will all work, or how many people will care.”

  He gripped her hand.

  “I really don’t think people will care all that much—maybe enough for a few news stories, if it’s slow, but I think that’ll be all.”

  She trusted him, but . . .

  “Some people might really care that you’re dating a Black woman,” she said.

  He pulled her close.

  “Some, definitely, but then, I couldn’t give a fuck what those people think anyway. But I completely understand if that makes you hesitant, especially in the current climate.”

  She thought about that for a moment.

  “It does make me hesitant, but I don’t want to give assholes like that power over my life.” She pulled back so she could see him. “You’re sure about doing this? Really sure? It feels like . . . a big step.”

  He looked her straight in the eye.

  “As sure as I was when I heard your laugh at the bar, and knew I couldn’t leave without talking to you. As sure as I was when I saw you across that luncheon and knew I couldn’t let you leave my life again. I’ve been sure about you since the moment I met you.”

  She could feel tears come to her eyes, and fought them back.

  “Damn it, Max! Whenever I try to get serious and cautious, you say things that go right to my heart and it always makes me want to throw caution to the wind. Please never ask me to jump out of an airplane; you’ll hypnotize me with that damn cupid’s arrow of yours, and before I know it I’ll be falling to my death.”

  He kissed her softly on the lips.

  “I promise I’ll never ask you to jump out of an airplane.”

  She smiled at him.

  “But . . . can you give me some time to think about this?”

  He nodded.

  “No rush. I’m just greedy—I want more time with you, and this feels like the best way to get it.” He kissed her on the lips again. “Now, I know it’s not cool enough to cut into it yet, but . . .” He beamed at her. “Want to come see my pie?”

  She jumped to her feet.

  “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Max checked his phone when he walked back into his office after a very frustrating judiciary subcommittee meeting Thursday morning. His heart jumped when he saw a text from Olivia, and then fell again when it was just a picture of the empty pie dish, with something about how she wished she had more pie. Yes, he was thrilled she’d liked his pie—even though they both agreed his crust needed a lot of work. But did she want to go public or not? It was already Thursday—he’d brought that up to her a whole six days ago! Sure, he’d told her that there was no rush, and technically that was true, but “no rush” clearly meant something very different to Olivia than it did to him.

  The thing was, he’d completely understand if she said no, she wasn’t ready, she didn’t want the attention yet. But he hated being in limbo; he just wanted a yes or no. And it didn’t look like she was going to give him one anytime soon.

  Would she not bring it up again for a month and then finally say no? If they were going to have a future, they’d have to do it eventually; couldn’t eventually just be now?

  He wished he’d said that to her last Friday night, but it felt too late to open that conversation back up again.

  He didn’t even respond to her text about the pie; he was too frustrated. Instead he threw himself into meetings with his staff to plan the town halls, meetings with other senators and their staffs to talk through strategy for the environmental bill they still had hope of passing before the end of the session, and then his prep for another hearing the next day. All that helped occupy him enough so that by the time he went back to his office at seven, he’d al
most forgotten why he’d been in a bad mood that day.

  He pulled out the briefing book Lisa had made for his committee hearing the next day. The witnesses were all going to be heavy on the science, and he needed to be prepared with questions that didn’t make him look brainless.

  He only got halfway in before he glanced at his phone again. And was rewarded.

  In the car for the next hour or so, depending on LA traffic—give me a call if you’re not too busy.

  Now he felt bad for not answering her text from earlier that day. He knew Olivia took time to make decisions; he didn’t need to be petulant and not respond to her.

  He picked up the phone.

  “Hey, I just saw your text,” he said when she answered the phone. “Perfect timing, I needed a break. How’s your day? Where are you off to?”

  “Hey,” she said. “I’m actually almost there, so I can’t talk for long, but . . . I’ve been thinking. About what you said last weekend about going public.”

  He was suddenly completely alert.

  “Yeah? Are you . . . What have you been thinking about it?”

  Why did it suddenly feel like his whole world depended on her answer?

  “I’ve been really on the fence,” she said. “I just didn’t know how it would all work, or if it would make everything too difficult, and . . . I don’t know, I’ve just been scared about it.”

  “Okay,” he said. He felt like she was leading somewhere, and he had no idea if it was somewhere good or bad.

  “But then, last night, I went to grab food with Jamila, and she asked me how things were going with that guy I’d told her about, and I hated that I had to talk around everything when I answered her. I wanted to tell her all about you, and I couldn’t, and it made me feel like I was lying to her.”

  Max felt hope start to rise inside of him.

  “Uh-huh?”

  Olivia went on.

  “And then she said I should bring him to the food pantry some night. And I realized I really wanted to; I’d love to bring you there and introduce you to some of the other volunteers to see the great work they do, and the incredible community they’ve built, and everything we’re working on for the future. But there’s no way we could do that the way everything is right now—we might be able to go on a hike together without people figuring out who you are, but not something like that.”