I tried to think good thoughts about the earlier afternoon, about kissing the president on his couch, about making plans for our weekend. Unfortunately, the entire time, all I could think about was that Camille was lurking outside, her eyes so watchful and certain that her husband was cheating on her. I hated it—I hated this feeling. I began to cry, feeling the tears course down my cheeks.
Finally, I heard them: the clatter of Rachel’s heels up the steps. I lurched up into a standing position, ready for her to appear on the other side of the wall. And that she did: eagerly smiling at me, swinging her satchel from side to side. She waved her hand toward me, and I felt my heart nearly explode in my chest. “Rachel! God, it’s so good to see you!”
She began talking to me about her day, telling me about various office drama. All the while, her eyes looked at me curiously. I knew that she could tell that I’d been crying; I knew that she had a sort of sixth sense about my emotions. However, she didn’t say anything, knowing that if I wanted to share, I would. I absolutely would.
But I felt that I had been far too annoying about my lack of ability to tell her anything the previous day—when I’d rambled on and delivered nearly nothing of my predicament. And so I bit my lip and started preparing dinner, listening to music, and trying to filter my brain into a sort of happiness. The happiness was lined with fear, with anxiety. But it would have to do for now.
It was so strange how my situation haunted me in such a way. It seemed that everything I did, everything I said reminded me of the fact that my career and my life could come crashing around me at any second. I sliced a vegetable, and the fear of the next few months pulsed through my body. It was nearly like I couldn’t do anything but brace myself for the crash. The crash was certainly coming.
Rachel and I holed up and watched a movie that evening, drinking wine casually and speaking about silly things we used to care about. She knew that I was rooted in political comprehensions, and she was lost in her own work thoughts. But it was good that we could come together, that we could be a team in these evening hours.
Rachel pulled off her sock and grabbed at her toes, looking toward me. “I wanted to tell you I suited up the guest bedroom for you. I didn’t have a bed for it until today. I had the movers bring it in at lunchtime.”
My eyes widened. “No.”
Rachel nodded. “It’s all yours.” She led me toward it, wearing just one sock. She opened the door to reveal a king-sized bed, a broad desk, and a dresser. I brought my hand over my mouth in disbelief. The place seemed so comfortable; it brought an ease over my mind. I brought my arms around her neck and hugged her tightly.
“This is the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I told her. I felt my body shaking a little bit. I couldn’t believe I’d lucked into such a friend—such a friend who would take me in when the world felt like it was coming apart.
She pulled back and winked at me. “Get some sleep, Amanda,” she whispered. “I know you’re going to need it.” She looked at me with a worried expression before turning away, back toward her bedroom. I stood in the shadow of the doorway, looking after her. I was worried that my own personal anxiety had spread like a flood, that it was leaking out to those I loved.
There was nothing I could do anymore. And thus, I fell between the sheets and drifted into a deep and delicious sleep.
Chapter Nine
The following day, we had a campaign meeting in one of the greater rooms of the West Wing. I’d prepared for it for many, many weeks, and I knew it was important: it was the day when we outlined the next several months of the campaign, when we really needed to catch voters’ attention, when we needed to rally as much support as possible.
Naturally, I was nervous. Beyond the fact that I was falling madly in love with the president, of course, I was also embarking on my first very important position as campaign manager. And God, I didn’t want to mess up.
I set up the meeting room in the early morning, placing packets carefully at each seat, arranging pens and pencils and pads of paper throughout just in case anyone wanted to take notes. I brought my hand to my forehead and felt a small bead of sweat dribble out, alerting me of my inherent fear for the following few hours.
Jason still hadn’t arrived for the day. I was dreading his involvement, of course. We were meant to be working together, to be aligned as a team. But instead, he’d been a sort of maniacal leader, a traitor to my very sense of self.
Suddenly, I heard the door open behind me. I froze, my elbows poised high up in the air. I swallowed, waiting. Waiting. Was this Jason? I heard the footsteps behind me, but still no words.
Suddenly, a hand went over my eyes. I lurched forward, frightened. My stomach clenched, and I thought for a moment that if I wanted to scream, my body wouldn’t let me.
“Ah—if you—if you want to take something—“ I sputtered, barely able to find the words.
But then I heard laughter. It was joyful, a bit incredulous. I felt a kiss on the back of my neck, near my ear. I recognized that cologne.
“Xavier,” I breathed. I spun around, removing his hand from my eyes. “You know you scared the shit out of me.”
“And for that I will be eternally sorry,” he said. His face yielded this incredibly bright smile. He leaned forward and caught my lips in his, wrapping his arms around me. The door, I noted, was safely closed; no one was watching. That I knew of.
“You’re here early,” I whispered to him as our kiss broke.
He shrugged. “I knew you’d be here. You little workaholic.” He winked at me, and I brimmed with pleasure. I wanted him to think that I was working hard for him; I wanted him to know that this was my top priority. Because, God: it was. My job was my life.
“You can have a seat in the front row,” I said, gesturing.
He stepped toward it and sat down, leaning toward me with such intensity. “So. Teacher. I have a question,” he said playfully. He lurched his hand in the air and waved it around a bit, trying to get my attention.
I scanned the room, a grin on my face. “Hold on, Billy. I think someone else might have a question—“
He started laughing. But all at once, the play was over. The door swept open, bringing a few of the campaign employees into the room. I nodded toward them and gestured toward the side wall. “We have bagels and coffee, if you like,” I stated to them. They looked at me fearfully. They were in their mid-20s. I was sure I looked like an old, corrupted shrew to them—only 29, and already at the top of the game. “Have a seat wherever you like!” I called.
They were no longer listening to me. I sighed, peering at the president. My eyes gleamed. He snickered at me and leaned forward. “Not the most popular girl in school anymore, are you?”