“I…I don’t understand the question,” I somehow say. The truth is I understand the question completely, but I’m stalling for time. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck to say!
“Let me rephrase again,” the reporter says, obviously aware that he is the center of attention at this point. “Are you having an affair with the Mayor’s son, Lance Anders?”
Now the photographers just let their fingers fly and if it was ten thousand suns before, the glare is just too strong now. It hurts my eyes.
I need to fight back.
“I don’t think that’s a fair question…” I start. But again, I’m interrupted.
“It’s a fair question because it begs the question as to whether the child you’re carrying is from a sexual relationship with the Mayor’s son,” the reporter cuts me off.
“Stepson,” I say and quickly add. “He’s not related to the Mayor.”
There’s a pause and I see the reporter smile. He’s got his story.
And I’ve just well admitted to sleeping with Lance while married to his father.
This situation is now out of control. I’m about to be burned at the stake—figuratively, but hell, maybe even literally.
“Is the child Lance’s?” a random reporter shouts out.
“How long have you been having sex with Lance?” another reporter yells out.
“Did the Mayor know?” yes another reporter asks.
They’re all clamoring for the juiciest story in years. And I just handed it to them on a silver platter.
How could we not have prepared for this question?
And then I see him.
Michael. He’s standing at the back of the crowd, but I can recognize him.
Did he set this up?
Did he set me up to crash and burn? Is this some twisted game to win the election and get rid of me?
I can tell I’m panicking on the podium. I’m frozen.
I have a lawyer who’s with me, but that’s it. I don’t do public appearances. I don’t have a PR person or Chief of Staff. Kenneth set everything up for me.
Where is Kenneth?
I’m about ready to faint, when I hear another voice.
“Jesus fucking Christ, do you think you guys could learn some fucking manners?” the familiar voice says out and I snap my head to the right.
Dressed in an impeccable suit that hugs his body like a glove is the 21-year-old love of my life and father of my child. Lance Anders.
He apparently didn’t bother to listen to his father or to me and he’s here anyways.
“If you’re done picking on my girlfriend, I’ll take the rest of her questions and tell you whatever you want to know,” he says with the confidence of just being a superior human being to most men. Then he turns to me and says, “Don’t worry, I’m here now. Everything is gonna be all right.”
And I just know that no matter what happens, I’m going to be okay.
We are going to be okay.
Lance