Authors: Claire Adams
He tapped his chest with his long, thin
fingers. I held the doorknob loosely in my hand, listening to his words as they
fell through my ears, making me feel so open to him. I wanted to wrap my arms
around him and kiss him, feel him, love him. But instead, I saw Jason’s
laughing face in my head.
“Thank you, Xavier. I—“ I started shaking
my head. I wanted to words to come churning from my mouth once more, but I
couldn’t find them. I wanted to tell him that I felt the same way—that I’d
always felt that we were right for each other, from the first moment we’d
spoken.
Instead, I spun around and left the Oval
Office. I tapped down the hallway, feeling like the world was spinning around
me. This tumultuous White House offered so much: so much drama, so much lust,
and so much potential for love. But I had to put my head down. Continue to
answer phones. Do Jason’s bidding. I had to continue doing what I’d always done
before.
I couldn’t fall in love with anyone.
Especially not Xavier. Especially not the most powerful man in the world.
No. Especially not him.
Chapter
8
I went home a bit later, feeling beat from
the day. The mental and emotional fatigue from Jason’s continuous game was
making me feel off my game. I slumped in the back of the taxi on the way back,
not even bothering to laugh at the taxi driver’s jokes as we flew across the
city.
“You White House people never laugh,” he
murmured in his Mexican accent, driving swiftly.
I knew, in that moment, that I had turned
into everyone else—even when all this time I had thought I was different. I
knew that everyone worked for someone else; I knew that everyone was a pawn in
someone else’s game. I just used to consider myself higher up on the food
chain.
I arrived at my home and sat at the
kitchen table, not wanting to get undressed after what I’d learned about
Jason’s two extra cameras. I peered around the room as I poured a glass of
wine. I began talking:
“Hello, Jason. How are you tonight? You’re
doing well? Would you like a glass of wine? No?” I felt my quivering voice as
it emanated through my throat. I felt like I was going insane.
I sat deeper in the chair and began to
drink deeper, longer. I hadn’t bothered to turn on the television, and I could
only hear the traffic as it coursed by my apartment building. “I have to move,”
I said again. “I have to get out of here.” For a moment, I considered this with
greater certainty. If I moved away, I would rid myself of these cameras that
lurked like beasts throughout my apartment. I swallowed. The wine was so bitter,
and I loved it; it made my blood flow looser through my body.
I stood, peering into the armoire once
more. Perhaps there was another camera? I began to search for it, opening old
teapots and peering into the old china, smelling old age and years and years of
dust. I needed to clean, I knew. But I’d been too bogged down with work for the
past—oh—seven years; I had completely forgotten how to be alive.
I set all the teapots against the wall and
continued to graze through the armoire, searching for the small cameras. I felt
like I was growing increasingly crazy as I went; I felt that I was on a mission
to find something that could never be found—something that was futile. I
swallowed and leaned back, feeling desolation take hold of me. I reached for
the wine and closed my eyes, listening as the traffic dissipated as the people
finally arrived home to their wives, their husbands, their children. For the
first time in possibly ever, I wished I didn’t live alone. I’d always wanted my
own place during college, even when I’d been the president of the sorority. I’d
lived alone all throughout my twenties. It just seemed natural: it was my home.
It was my place.
But I was nearing thirty. I wanted to come
home to something besides my wine bottle, my subtle hangover. I wanted to clean
something besides years and years of dust and decay on my grandmother’s old
teacups.
I stood, a thought lingering in my mind. A
long, long time ago—back during the old campaign trail, I’d had a friend. I
know. It seems crazy. Me with a friend. I’d been using people like my pawns for
so many years, that I didn’t know what true camaraderie was like anymore.
Rachel and I had begun as competitors, of course. She and I had had many of the
same skills, and the same people on the upper-level staff had treasured us. But
one evening, after a particularly terrorizing day at the office, she’d leaned
toward me and asked me, off-handedly, if I’d like to get a drink with her.
“Me?” I asked her, laughing a bit.
“Yes. Amanda. I am asking you if you want
to go with me. To get a drink,” Rachel said sarcastically, grinning at me. Her
teeth were perfect; her red hair was immaculate. In many ways, in that moment,
I realized I was jealous of her. I hated that feeling: the realization that
everything I had been doing against her had been simply churned from a sense of
jealousy. That I didn’t feel I was good enough for something: that was
preposterous, back then.
I thought for a moment after her question,
biting my lip. I looked at the paper and remembered the man I was meant to meet
that evening—the congressman I’d been sleeping with at the time. I remembered
his smoggy breath, the way he banged against me on the wall, fucking me out of
my comprehension of myself, of my life.
I went with her. Of course I did. She was
sending me an olive branch, and I wasn’t stupid. In many ways, I wanted to keep
my enemy close. But that was just an internal vessel in my everyday life. If I
was going to be the best, I had to know how the other people on the upper-end
behaved. Drank their whiskey. All that.
Rachel was hilarious. She brought such joy
to my life. That evening, that very first time we were together, we laughed and
giggled into the night over margaritas, our eyes flashing in the lights of the
bar. She asked me if I’d ever been in love, and I told her I never had been.
She told me it was good I was in this industry; this industry where lust and
greed drove everything. We agreed on so many things.
After the campaign was over, she came
toward my desk. This was several months later, and I already felt like we were
sisters, nearly. I tossed my head to the right and placed my hand on my waist
in sort of mock surprise. “Well, Rachel Gray. To what do I owe pleasure?” This
was my continual banter. I brought my purse over my shoulder and readied myself
for the evening. “You going out celebrating with me, or do I have to go by
myself?” I smiled.
But Rachel looked serious. “I need to talk
to you about something,” she whispered.
I raised my eyebrows and leaned toward
her, unsure. I felt my purse fall from my arm.
She had been crying. I knew that. We
didn’t generally discuss our feelings, and I felt a bit uncomfortable with it:
like she was standing before me, naked.
“I have to quit,” she whispered finally.
Her voice was lined with such passion, such anger.
I drew my head back, surprised. “What?
Quit? Quit what, Rachel? You missed the boat. The campaign trail is over.
Xavier is in office.” Already I had that drive for the man in the presidential
position. But he didn’t know it, yet. He was out of reach.
But Rachel shook her head once more. “I
have to quit politics. All of it. It’s too much for me. I’ve been—I’ve been
pretending to be someone I’m not. And I can’t do it any longer.” She sniffed.
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t imagine how
this incredibly smart, vivacious woman before me could suddenly quit her career
like this. “You’re making a huge mistake, Rachel,” I blurted. I’d had these
thoughts before, even by then. The work load was difficult, and sometimes it
did truly feel that you had to sleep your way to the top. “You need to go home
and have a glass of wine and get some fucking sleep,” I whispered curtly. I
didn’t have time for this—for this abandonment. I didn’t have time for these
childish feelings. Both Rachel and I had so much to do. We were going to work
our way to the top, together.
But she shook her head once more. She
bowed it, biting her lip. “I’m sorry, Amanda,” she stated then, sounding like a
mouse. She spun around on her heels and she left, clacking down the hallway.
I waited for her after that. I waited for
her to call. I was far too proud to make the call myself, of course. She’d been
my best friend, but I didn’t actively miss her. I became swept up with my job,
with my life. I assumed, in many ways, that she’d gotten over it all and found
another job of her own. I assumed she was back on top, flipping her fine red
hair from left to right and gabbing with her new girlfriends. I didn’t need
her, I thought then. I didn’t.
But there on the floor of my kitchen, in
front of my armoire, I felt that I needed a friend more than anything else in
the world. I swallowed and reached toward my phone. I’d kept every contact in
the thing since the dawn of my political career, of course. I couldn’t afford
not to. People continually cropped back up, their smiles sure and their arms
outstretched, needing something from you. You had to pretend you knew them; you
needed them. They did the same for you.
I tapped her number into the phone and I
held it against my ear, sighing. I couldn’t believe I was dipping so low.
Finally, on the last ring, I heard her
voice: “Hello?” It still held that efficiency that I knew so well from those
years before, but it was also a bit softer, a bit friendlier. Like she’d been
waiting for me.
“Rachel?” I murmured into the phone. I
heard my voice—so clumsy. Like it needed her. I hated that I needed her.
“Amanda. Is that you?” The voice was
hesitant, unsure, and a bit confused. She didn’t know what to think of this
call; I didn’t, either.
“Yes,” I said, laughing a bit too loudly
into the phone.
“How do you still have my number?” she
asked, laughing.
I was confused by this. Of course I had
her number. “You know I keep all the numbers, Rachel. Just in case.”
“Ah, yes,” she murmured, chortling a bit.
“I didn’t quite realize that you were still in the business. I stepped away all
those years ago and I forget how things are.”
So she’d actually quit, just like she’d
said she would. I felt befuddled. I cleared my throat. “What a thing.” This was
something my mother used to say. I had hated it, always thinking she sounded
like a plain woman. I supposed she was, truly.
“Why are you calling?” Rachel asked.
A pause hung between us. I let it go on
too long, nearly forcing her off the phone. But then I spoke up. “Listen,
Rachel. I just. You’re the only person I could call. I have a small emergency
at my place. The gas is leaking, and—and they have to do some repairs.”
“That’s terrible!” Rachel lurched, still a
bit confused. Why would I call her, I was sure she was thinking. I was sure she
had a million people she could have called in this situation. But she had taken
herself out of this game so long ago; she didn’t have to play with fire, like I
did.
“Right. So I need a place to stay,” I
whispered into the phone, cringing at myself. I could hear the desperation.
Rachel “ohhed” into the phone. “Of course
you can stay here.” She glided into it easily, as if she hadn’t had an
incredible, over-exerted though process in the back of her mind. “I have
everything for you. A guest bedroom, even. Please. Come.”
“Thank you, Rachel,” I murmured, leaning
my head back with such relief. “You’re really saving my life.”
She had no idea just how true this was.
Chapter
9
After a half-hour taxi ride, I sat at
Rachel’s kitchen table. She was across from me, looking a bit tired, if
interested. She had poured us both a glass of wine, and I spun my glass round
and round, trying to avoid the topic of why I was there.
“I like your place,” I finally sputtered,
listening to the soft jazz in the background. The place was a good deal smaller
than mine. She still lived alone. “You seeing anyone?” I asked her. This was
what women were meant to ask other women. This was what I was sure.
She laughed—that familiar, tinkling laugh.
“Actually my boyfriend and I just broke up. About three weeks ago.”
I placed my hand over my heart, then. “I’m
so sorry.” It was truly strange that Rachel had even been seeing anyone. She’d
been the one who’d stated that no one was meant to fall in love in our
political business. “I thought you said no dating in politics?” I said then,
taking a sip of my wine.
She shrugged her slim shoulders. I
wondered if she was aging better than me. “You know, I did say that. And then I
got the fuck out of politics.” She snapped her fingers, not in an unkind way.
“I had to get out of there. It was toxic.”
I nodded, thinking about Jason. There was
so much I could tell my friend, then. She could smell it on me.
“It’s been a long time,” Rachel finally said. “I haven’t seen you since—after
the campaign? Is that right? Your career’s really taken off since then.” Her
voice sounded impressed, but I didn’t know if it was a fake kind of impressed.
I couldn’t tell if she hated my guts or felt jealous of my success.