The Next Mrs Russo

He rolls his eyes so epically that I’m surprised he can still move them. “Oh, my God,” he says, pushing at my shoulder. “Stop stalling and get out of my car. Your governor is waiting.”

I bite my lip. The kid’s right. It’s time to face the music. I dust a few remaining cupcake crumbs off of my dress and step out of the car.

I’m roughly six feet away from Warren when I lose my confidence and falter, pausing and offering a weak, “Hey.”

“Are you insane, Audrey?” He steps towards me then stops himself before he reaches me, throwing his hands up. “Clearly you’re somewhere on the crazy spectrum, I get it, but what the hell happened tonight? Why didn’t you talk to me before taking off? No.” He pauses and exhales a frustrated groan, running his hands through his hair. “No. This is my fault. I’m sorry,” he says, meeting my eyes, the words simple and honest.

I blink in surprise. He’s sorry?

“This is my fault. I should have talked to you before mentioning you in my speech. Of course I should have done that, but I got carried away. Everything has been going so well between us, I guess I made assumptions that we were on the same page. You’ve been living in my house for weeks and… yeah.” He trails off, his frustration with himself clear. “I forget to communicate with the people who matter the most, assuming they can read my mind. Which they can’t. You can’t. But that’s my baggage and you don’t need to hear about that right now.”

He’s pacing on the sidewalk outside my brownstone and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Warren Russo look less controlled. He’s still Warren, so it’s a very composed kind of agitation. I’d find it very, very sexy in other circumstances.

“But I can’t have been misguided about us,” he continues, meeting my eyes again. “Can I, Audrey?”

I’m not going to cry. I mean, I’m not going to cry again. I just need to calmly explain that we’re not a good fit.

But standing there, unable to tear my eyes away from his, all “calm” goes out the window.

“Warren, I love you”—I hurry the words out, not entirely in control of them, because surely I should not have led with that—“but I can’t be your girlfriend.”

“Why is that?” He’s calm again, taking a step towards me, hands in his pockets while he watches me, waiting on my response. He’s clearly ready to formulate an eloquent objection to whatever I think the problem is, sure that he can resolve any problem. But he can’t.

“I have a very dark past, okay?” I say, forcing the humiliating words out of my mouth. “We can’t be together because I’m bad news. I’m a career-ruiner. And you were born for public office.” It really needs no explanation. Everyone knows he was meant to lead. “And sexy press conferences,” I add, which is probably unnecessary.

It’s clearly not what he was expecting. He blinks at me, shaking his head. “A… dark past? You’re the least dark person I’ve ever met. Ever.”

“Warren.” I sigh. He’s not going to believe me unless I stop sugarcoating it. I’m going to have to lay it all out there, humiliating as it is. “I’m a convicted criminal.”

“No,” Warren says slowly, his head tilted to the side as he observes me. “You’re not.”

“I am! I was arrested! I have a mugshot!” I lower my voice when I say the words ‘mugshot,’ because they still shame me. Then I dig out my phone and find the pictures, because clearly he needs proof. They’re in a hidden album because I never wanted to look at them again, but I kept them to remind myself of the ramifications of making Very Bad Decisions.

“I’m not proud about any of this,” I say, because really, how did I let it get this far? “I should have ended things weeks ago, but I was living in a fantasy bubble and I didn’t want it to end. But tonight, my ex was there. Thomas. And seeing him solidified that I’m nothing but a liability to you.” I hand him my phone so he can see it all for himself. “When I broke up with Thomas… or, er, when Thomas dumped me, I got drunk and vandalized a bunch of artwork. And there… that mugshot there? Well, that’s me.”

I watch Warren flip through the photos, all the way till the end, an extremely unflattering photo of me with my eyeliner running standing in front of a grownup height chart. Or whatever they call that sad wall at the police station that they stick you in front of for the photo.

“So now you know,” I tell him. “I didn’t run away because of you. I ran away because of me.”

The words burn, and I’m glad that Miller drove away already. I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want him to realize I’m not mentor-worthy.