Best Friend's Ex Box Set

Finally, I swept back toward the fine armoire that sat on the other side of my dining room table. On the inside of the armoire sat all the fine china that had been passed down on my mother’s side,

from my grandmother’s grandmother. It glinted in the afternoon light.

On the inside of the armoire, I found it: the camera. It was blinking at me in the darkness of the cabinet, as if it was saying hello. I sniffed at it, turning it this way, then that. I whispered into it, suddenly, muttering the words: “I’ve got you, here. Yes, I do.”

I suddenly flung the camera into the sink. I turned on the sink and allowed it to die there at the bottom, still blinking at me for several moments before finally giving itself over to death.

Breathing heavily, I was finally able to pulse through the rest of the apartment and find the remaining cameras. I found three in total, and I allowed each of them to die a very wet death at the bottom of my sink. I poured myself a very full glass of wine and drank it alone at my kitchen table, still watching the light from the lamp as it glimmered over the broken glass on the floor. I knew that this was representative of the terror of my situation; I knew that I was currently mid-repair. How long would this fucking situation put me back from my goals?

I would have to be careful in the future. I would have to watch my back. I couldn’t get bleary-eyed with adoration for that man—the President of the United States.

I was smarter than that.

Chapter Three

The rest of the afternoon, I drank heartily from the wine glass before drinking from the wine bottle. I wasn’t sure how to get out of the situation, but I knew I couldn’t miss another day at work. I called in at around 4 in the afternoon and spoke in a strained voice to Jason’s second-in-command, the man beneath both me and Jason—a man named Scott. “Scott?” I said, my voice a bit gruff, a bit strained.

“Amanda. We’ve been worried about you. Are you coming back in this afternoon?”

I shook my head into the phone, feeling frustrated. “No. I’m under the weather, I’m afraid,” I muttered. “Please tell the team I’ll be back with them tomorrow. Please apologize for me.”

Scott affirmed that he would. I imagined him telling these words to Jason; I imagined Jason’s ominous laughter once more—the sheer understanding that he’d put me in my place—that I couldn’t even comprehend going to work, to face that atmosphere.

Ultimately, I fell asleep that night in the kitchen chair with my head on my hand, with my wine glass still half full. I felt the anger and anxiety of the day fall away from me, and I finally allowed myself just a few hours of sleep.

Until suddenly, at 6 in the morning, I stood up out of my slumber, blinking my eyes wildly at the surrounding arena. The kitchen light was still on, and it seemed so ominous above me. I shuddered, looking down at my now-ruffled work clothes. I knew I had to be at work a bit earlier that day because I’d missed the previous day. No rest for the campaign manager, I thought.

I rushed into the bathroom, allowing my clothes to fall to the ground as I walked. The water pounded upon me like a baptism. I closed my eyes beneath it, allowing the steam to calm me. This had been the worst experience of my life. But I was going to come out of it with flying colors.

I didn’t have another fucking choice.

I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my head as I exited the heat, allowing the water to evaporate from my skin. I shivered slightly as I brushed my teeth, allowing my elbow to rotate slowly at my side.

I chose a fine, prim, black suit—something that didn’t create any sort of sexuality, I was certain. It was even a bit bigger on me than my other suits, thus forcing my body to look a bit overweight. I nodded at myself in the mirror, sure that I could go to work, do my job, and then simply come home. Someday—maybe 10 years from now—I would allow myself to feel passion once more. But God. Not now.

I took a taxi back into work, preparing my mind for the day ahead. I didn’t want to see Dimitri anymore; I felt he knew too much about my situation. When I saw him at the entrance to the White House, I skirted my eyes away from him, saying a prim: “Good morning.” I was a ghost to these people, now. I had to be.

I tapped up the steps, toward the brimming West Wing. I could feel Xavier’s presence, even as I walked past the closed Oval Office door. I could nearly see him in there, tapping a pen against his lip (and perhaps thinking of me?) I wondered if anything had happened with his wife recently; I wondered if he had left my apartment only to go hold her in his own bed. The thought of this chilled me to the bone.

Suddenly, after I passed his office, I heard his door open. My very spine seemed to chill. I continued walking slowly, primly, hoping he wouldn’t call out to me. But I could feel his eyes on me.

Then, I heard him: “Amanda.” The word was so sensual from his lips. I wanted to smack him, suddenly. I wouldn’t have been involved in this debacle if it hadn’t been for him—if he hadn’t asked me out. He had the true power here.

I spun around, allowing my hair to wind around my neck. “What is it?” I asked him. I didn’t make eye contact with him, but I could feel his presence before me. His suit was cut so primly; he held his hands in his pockets with such subtle sensuality. His beard was growing in bit by bit on his chin. And he was looking at me with such a worried expression on his face.

“Amanda. I heard you fell ill yesterday at work.”

I nodded, swallowing. “I didn’t feel very well, no,” I murmured. I tried to smile, but the muscles didn’t work. I wanted to flee back to my desk, to continue my dutiful work. All I could think about in those moments was what I was meant to do: promote Jason. Tell the president, perhaps, that he would be a better campaign leader than I was. Tell him that I didn’t feel like I could take on the role anymore, especially after everything that had happened.

But I didn’t want to remind the president of what had happened.

Xavier stepped forward. His eyebrows had narrowed more starkly over his eyes. “Amanda, I need you to tell me if something is wrong. Do you want to talk in my office?” He ducked his head to the right, trying to catch my eyes. But I held firm.

I shook my head. “I have so much to do, Mr. President. I’ll have an updated explanation to you in the afternoon.”

“Explanation of what?” Xavier asked. His voice was leading, as if he were searching for something—an explanation for what was going on between us, instead of the campaign.

I cleared my throat. “Explanation of—of the campaign, of course,” I answered. I smiled at him, still looking somewhere far away from him, down the hall.