Cindersmellya

“We need the media to focus on Jocelyn,” Michael apparently told Lance. “We have one chance to come clean and get them on our side. If it looks like we’re trying to play them, this could spiral out of control. And being there with her makes this whole thing look way more orchestrated than we want to let on.”

Of course, Michael was orchestrating this. Of course every detail had been gone over with painstaking detail. Literally, the election for mayor of the greatest city in the world is lying as the stakes.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Lance asked this morning as we dressed. There had been a savage protectiveness to his lovemaking in the shower, as he bent me against the wall and took me from behind as the water pelted our bodies. “Or stand by you when you go on in front of the press?”

“Michael said it was for the best if neither of you guys…” I had started but Lance wouldn’t let me finish.

“Fuck what anyone else says, Jocelyn,” he cut me off. Then he brought his arms around me and made me take a step closer. “All that fucking matters to me in this whole world is you. Fuck everything else.”

Honestly, just him telling me that at that moment made me realize that no matter what, I had to be brave and get this done. Because this was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. So what if he was 15 years younger than me? So what if he had been my stepson? All my life, I’d gone from man to man, being told how beautiful I was that I never really knew what it meant to be cared for by someone. Michael gave me neglect and contempt under a shield of status and power.

Lance gave me love. He gave me his body. And I wanted to give him my soul.

That’s literally all I’m thinking about as I get onto the podium. How after this, I want to go bury my face in Lance’s chest. How I’ll be able to do that without having to worry.

Maybe we’ll get some lunch at The Spotted Pig. I hear they make a great burger. Maybe after that some shopping. Bergdorfs? No, I know just the place. Saks Fifth Avenue. Maybe we could go back to the dressing room where it all started…

The flash of a photographer brings me back down to the here and now. I need to focus. There won’t be any lunch with Lance if I don’t do this. There won’t be any dressing room shenanigans if I mess it up.

“Thank you for coming today, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, looking down at the prepared notes I have. I’ve memorized them, but it helps to look down. The press in the front grow silent. I can see a large crowd assembled behind them. Ordinary New Yorkers, coming to see what the big deal is. Hoping to find a moment in history. I continue. “I will have a prepared statement, after which I will take any questions from the media.”

More photographs. People must be speculating what I’m going to say. Well, I’m about to drop it. I wonder who will be left after the dust clears.

“As many of you know, I’ve recently found out and am overjoyed by the fact that I am pregnant,” I say into the microphone and take a deep breath. “Despite reports and statements made to the press, I am here today to set the record straight. Michael Anders is not the father of my child.”

If I had told them that I was a Martian who had been secretly gathering data about the human race in preparation for a future invasion, people may have looked less stunned.

In fact, there’s maybe a second or two where the photographers are too stunned to do anything but look at me. Of course the cameras are rolling, but the flash bulbs literally die down.

And then they come back. With a vengeance.

It seems like the brightness of a thousand suns descends onto the steps of City Hall as the photographers furiously begin to take pictures. I can hear the reporters right behind the photographers decide to dispense with my earlier rules and shout out questions. I feel overwhelmed.

But there’s only one way through this.

“Like all marriages, Michael’s and mine faced troubles,” I begin and seeing that I’m continuing, the camera flashes begin to die down. The reporters also eventually stop shouting questions, realizing they won’t be getting answers. “Unfortunately, the problems we faced seem at this point to be insurmountable.”

I pause and look to the audience. They’ve settled down a bit. Their still chomping at the bit, waiting for me to finish, but they’re giving me the courtesy now.

“I have moved out of our townhome for the time being, in an effort to allow Michael the utmost concentration in his bid for re-election,” I say into the microphone. “At the end of the day, it was the job that came above all else for him. While it was bad for our marriage, I believe it will only lead to good things for our city. While he may not be my husband, he shall continue to have my vote.”

The last bit was put in by Michael himself. Slick. Way to turn every last thing about our sham marriage into a political point. Even as I announce how I’m leaving him, this is bound to get him a few points in the polls with people who think how dedicated he must be—that he’s willing to sacrifice everything.

“Michael and I are thus planning an amicable separation,” I conclude. “With a termination of our partnership to be decided at a later date.”

If I could, I would divorce him today. But Michael wants to do it quietly. A year or two into his next term. Lance and I will have to stay under the radar, but at least we’ll be able to openly see each other. We won’t be able to get married though. His child won’t have a father.

It’s the price we have to pay for our love, I guess.

> “That concludes my statement, and I am now ready to take questions,” I finish and close my eyes for a second. Here it comes.

There’s a cacophony of voices but eventually one emerges.

“Ms. Anders, who is the father of your child?” a reporter for the New York Herald asks.

I’m fully prepared for this question and we’ve rehearsed it a thousand times. “At this time, I’d like to protect that information and would ask you to respect my privacy as I transition to becoming a private citizen,” I say calmly. I can’t show them if I get flustered. That only feeds the beast, apparently. “Next question?”

“Mrs. Anders, any date on when you and the Mayor plan to finalize your divorce?” a reporter from the Tri-State Gazette asks out.