The Choice

by Alice Ward

  “What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “Shouldn’t that say ‘I’m sorry for stabbing you in the back?’”

  Her face fell. “What?”

  I looked at her, incredulous. “I asked you not to give those papers to your father, but you did it the very same day.”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t.” She dug through her bag and pulled them out. “They’re right here.”

  I stared at them, then remembered Jack telling me that they’d be given to the press either way. I pressed the heel of my hand in my eye, trying to understand.

  Keira stared at me in horror as I moved aside to let her in. “Oh, my god. Were you bitten by a vampire? It’s hot as hell in here. And it smells.”

  I shrugged and plopped down on the couch, still trying to work through the puzzle.

  She leaned forward and took a sniff. “You smell.”

  “Thanks.” I pointed at the balloons. “Who are those for?”

  She stared at me like I was insane. “You, dummy.” She stopped. “Wait. When was the last time you checked your phone? Or your mail?”

  I shook my head. It wasn’t an answer because I couldn’t actually remember.

  She dropped the teddy bear on the couch beside me, then ran out into the hallway. When she came back, she was holding a large flat envelope from FedEx. It said PRIORITY LETTER. She ripped it open, pulled out a slip of paper, and inspected it. She smiled, then deposited it in my lap.

  Dear Brooke Ellis,

  Congratulations on your acceptance into the Federal Bureau of Investigation…

  I froze.

  “I made it,” I said hoarsely, but mostly because this was something I’d always dreamed of, and in my dreams, that’s what I’d always said. But truthfully, I was just frozen, my mind too numb to process.

  Kiera leaned over and hugged me quickly, because yes, I smelled. “Congrats, girl. My dad said he put it through last week.”

  I forced a smile. My voice was weak. “Thanks. But why?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “He said you came though.”

  I didn’t understand. Had Jack turned them over in my name? Why?

  Then I knew… someone wanted to make certain I looked guilty.

  So Cameron would hate me.

  Mission accomplished.

  Keira studied me with pity. I guessed Cameron’s name was still etched all over me, like a tattoo. “I saw the engagement announcement in the Inquirer. He’s marrying her.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t seen that, but I knew it was just a matter of time before it became official. “And his candidacy?”

  She shrugged. “He’s still running. Turns out that dirt you brought in bounced right off the legendary Brice suit of armor. I swear, some families are so wealthy, they can do no wrong. He could probably be a serial killer, and they’d be okay with it. I guess it would take another Shadygate to bring down the Brice juggernaut.”

  So it had all been for nothing. I’d exposed him and ruined my chances with him for nothing. No, not nothing, I reminded myself, studying the paper in my hand. This is my dream.

  Was my dream.

  At least he still had his career. I hadn’t permanently damaged that. I was glad. It meant that no matter what, District One would be sending a senator who might not be perfect but who gave a damn to Harrisburg in the following year. “What about the debate?”

  “It’s tonight,” she said.

  Tonight. After tonight, the entire state would love him the way I did. It was inevitable. Because while Owen had done a good job as a state senator, he wasn’t Cameron. Cameron may have looked like a buttoned-up, inhuman douche, but once you heard him talk and speak what was on his mind, you couldn’t help but fall. I had no doubt of that.

  “Are you going to go to support your father?”

  She shook her head. “You know he never wants me with him. He gets too nervous.” She looked around. “Hey, I have an idea. Do you want to watch it together on television? Make it a girls’ night in? If you have any liquor, we’ll make it a drinking game.”

  I nodded and smiled at her, thinking that I’d need to be drunk to watch Cameron and his Silver Tongue thrashing Owen Blakely. “That sounds really good.”

  “Good. You have any Tito’s?” she asked, reaching into the kitchen cabinet where I kept my liquor. She smiled as she pulled down the vodka bottle and two shot glasses, then looked at me. “And please take a shower.”

  I did a pit sniff and winced. “Okay. Deal.”

  I stumbled into the shower as Kiera went around, opening windows and trying to air the place out. It was early June, and right now, while I stood under the spray, I knew Cameron was busy preparing for his television debut. I wondered if he was nervous. I wondered if he was happy about marrying Bernadette. I wondered if he ever thought about me.

  As much as I wished I could keep him out of my head, I wondered so much, I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Cameron

  As I sat in the green room, waiting for the debate to begin, I took a deep breath.

  In another twenty minutes, I’d be live in front of the greater Philadelphia area, some six million people, on ABC 7. Snippets and news bytes from the debate would be played across the region throughout the evening, and the debate in its entirety would be available online.

  I was so prepared, I could’ve done this debate in my sleep. I’d practiced every answer a thousand times, every gesture, every facial expression. Though everything had been rehearsed, I’d practiced ways to not look so rehearsed, to look more natural. I had it down pat. My father could not fault me for a thing.

  And yet, something just felt off.

  I wasn’t worried about my competition. Owen might bring up the campaign contribution snafu, but I had an answer for that. I knew, without a doubt, that I would outperform the older man. Blakely was a good debater, but in all the polls and statistics, I’d been coming out ahead. I was younger, more attractive, and a better all-around speaker. Even the Democrats had to give me that. Even Owen had to give me that, which was likely why he’d hired Cassandra.

  I clenched my fists and closed my eyes. No matter how many times I told myself I wouldn’t think of her, I always did.

  I imagined that fifty years from now, I’d be lying on my deathbed, thinking of her.

  I poured myself a glass of water as Owen Blakely strode into the room, hand extended for a handshake. I grasped it firmly as he clapped me on the back. “Good to see you,” he said, that smile of his never reaching his eyes. Like hell. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “You’re engaged?”

  I nodded. “Yes, yes. Thank you.”

  “When’s the big day?”

  “Sometime before November,” I answered.

  Of course, that was what had to happen, since “voters preferred married candidates three to one.” I nearly gagged at the statistic.

  I thought of Bernadette and the way I’d left her before I’d come into the back of the studio. She’d been the image of poise and perfection in her smart red suit and would be sitting in the front row during the debate, my “support.” It was such bullshit. Over the past week, whenever I looked at her, I couldn’t summon any emotion other than pure hatred. When I thought of her, I imagined the days of wedded hell, stretching into eternity. I thought of the thousands of torturous nights, sleeping beside her in bed, of occasionally fucking her so we could produce our heir and spare, all while I dreamed of Cassandra.

  Beside Bernadette in the front row, would be my father. He would be even less encouraging, ticking off any time I made even the smallest misstep.

  “Well,” Owen said jovially since there was nothing else we had in common to discuss. “May the best man win, huh?”

  The best man. I nearly laughed in his face. I’d thought about calling him out for siccing Cassandra on me. My father’d had me meet with that private investigator, and though there’d been dirt, I’d
told him to can it. Even if Blakely had sunk to that level, it didn’t give me the license to. Maybe that’s how wars like this were won, but if so, I didn’t want to fight them.

  And maybe I wasn’t the best man for this job. But I was still a good man. A man of convictions, who wouldn’t do anything just to come out on top. At least that was the way I had been. Now, with the help of people like Bernadette and my father, I probably wouldn’t be that way for long.

  And that was when it hit me — tying myself to Bernadette wasn’t just the death of bachelorhood. It was the death of who I really was. It was saying goodbye to what made me human, and the first step to becoming a political machine.

  You’re a man of morals and convictions. You care about others, not just about yourself. That’s rare in politics. Don’t ever change.

  I nodded and gave him my politician’s simpering smile. “Yep, see you out there.”

  He stepped out of the room, and I paced back and forth, running over my opening remarks for the millionth time. “Hello, thank you all for having me here. My name is Cameron Brice, and I’d like to tell you a little about why I’m up here, asking for your vote. I want to make this world a better place. Not just for me, but for all of us, and for generations to come.”

  That was all true, yes. My father’s best speechmaker had written it, and I’d said it so many times that the words failed to have meaning to me anymore. I slowed, going over the words. “My aim is to gain your trust, to prove to you that ‘trustworthy’ and ‘politician’ are not terms that are mutually exclusive. I want to be open and honest with you.”

  I stopped, letting the words sink in.

  Cassandra was right. I was a fucking liar.

  I’d built my campaign on honesty, on my willingness to be open to the public. But did I live that?

  Hell, no.

  I followed my father’s lead. Went the expected route. Said everything I was supposed to say. I was already the perfect political machine.

  But what if I followed my heart instead? What if I said what I felt, instead of what was scripted?

  The door opened, and one of the producers poked her head in. “Mr. Brice? We’re about to start.”

  I nodded my thanks and clapped my hands together.

  Showtime.

  I followed the producer down a long, sparse hallway to the wings of the stage. From there, I could see the two podiums posed at either end of the stage, and heard the audience murmuring for the beginning of the debate. I smiled calmly at the producer, who busily wired me for sound and explained what I needed to do, and how the debate would run. This wasn’t news. I’d known since the debate was scheduled that we’d have two minutes for opening remarks, then ninety seconds each to answer the questions the moderator posed. Across the stage, I could see Owen being instructed the same by another producer. I smiled at the woman. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

  She looked surprised that I’d asked. “Um. Well, Holly, sir.”

  “Thanks, Holly.” I reached out and shook her hand, then leaned forward and said, “Between you and me, I think I’m going to need a couple of stiff drinks after this one.”

  Her face relaxed and brightened as she smiled. “Good luck, sir.”

  A disembodied voice announced, “Here are your candidates for state Senate, first district, Philadelphia, Republican Candidate Cameron Brice, and Democratic Candidate Owen Blakely.”

  We both strode out. There was a mark at the center of the stage where we smiled and gave each other the same exact handshake we’d given each other earlier. I said, “Great to see you,” and he said something similar, but I couldn’t hear over the applause.

  It was all bullshit, anyway, my first lie of the night.

  As I climbed up the podium, I saw the flash of red. I knew Bernadette’s plastic smile was above it, and beside her was my father, waiting for me to recite those same bullshit platitudes.

  And I couldn’t fucking stand it.

  “We’ll now let each candidate begin with an opening statement,” the moderator said. “Mr. Blakely?”

  Owen nodded, then gripped the edge of the podium — a bad move in the debate, as it showed tension — and gave his speech. It wasn’t a terrible speech. But it wasn’t entirely truthful. He talked about how we needed to come together in Harrisburg and how he was the man to make things happen, something he’d been doing a bang-up job of thus far, considering he was one of the reasons why the government shut down until last January. I nodded politely, smiling, and took a sip of my water, waiting until his two minutes dwindled. When the buzzer rang, he was still talking, but he quickly finished his point and conceded the floor to me.

  The cameras focused on me. The light was hot on my face, but I felt strangely cool. Relaxed.

  Ready.

  “Hello, thank you all for having me here. My name is Cameron Brice, and I’d like to tell you a little about why I’m up here, asking for your vote. I want to make this world a better place. Not just for me, but for all of us, and for generations to come,” I said, affecting my signature move. I never used the podium. I wandered. I walked about, making eye contact with every face in the front row.

  Then my eyes fell on Bernadette. She was smiling that thin smile, her hands clasped in front of her, that giant diamond engagement ring winking at me.

  I paused for a moment, and my eyes shifted to my father. His smile was similar. Fake.

  “My aim is to gain your trust, to prove to you that ‘trustworthy’ and ‘politician’ are not terms that are mutually exclusive. I want to be open and honest with you.”

  Then I looked away from them, and I took a deep breath.

  “But I can’t be open and honest with you if I say the words that I prepared for tonight. Before I can be honest with you, I have to be honest with myself.”

  I didn’t look at him, but I could just feel the smile sliding off my father’s face. He knew the speech as well as I did, knew the exact moment I’d gone off script.

  I clasped my hands together in front of me. “It was all about how I’d try to unite the parties, how I’d work for all of us, and all these promises that sound good, but I’m not so sure that we can pull off.” I looked over at Owen. “I’m sure if you asked Owen, in his heart of hearts, if he really believed he could do all those things he promised, he’d be skeptical too.”

  Owen smiled a plastic smile and reached for his glass of water.

  “But these…” I checked the timer. “One minute and thirty-seven seconds aren’t about Owen. They’re about me. Who am I?” I smiled, feeling more relaxed than I ever had. “I’ve seen the news. I’m a douche. An ego. I have a stick up my ass. I’m only concerned with power, with forwarding the lives of the rich.”

  People in the crowd had begun to mutter. My father was now stone-faced, drawing a finger subtly across his throat, silently begging me to shut the fuck up.

  “I don’t know what I can do to assure you that’s not the truth, but I have the interests of everyone, every person on this Earth, in mind. My job on this Earth is not to judge, as I leave that to a higher power,” I said, pacing to the other side of the stage. “In my running for senator, I always aimed to serve, not to lead.”

  More murmurs.

  “Also, if I’m being perfectly honest, here’s another thing about me that might not be evident from my dress and my demeanor, but may become clear to you when you see some photographs that might begin circulating shortly.” I looked at Bernadette, whose face had gone totally white. “I love sex.”

  Now the murmur of the audience turned into a collective gasp.

  The buzzer sounded, and I looked at the moderator, who looked about as dumbstruck as I’ve ever seen a person. His eyes were wide, and he cleared his throat. “All right,” he began. “Interesting opening statement, Mr. Brice. Now, if we can get on with the questions…”

  Owen piped up from behind the podium. “Actually, I think that Cameron had more to say? I really would love to hear the rest of his speech. Can we allow him an
other two minutes? Please, take it from my allotted speaking time, if need be.”

  Owen always did try to come across as eager to lend a hand to his fellow man, something that had never been so obvious until I’d started to commit political suicide. The moderator contemplated, and then looked at me. “Do you have more to say, Mr. Brice?”

  I nodded and smiled to my waiting audience.

  I sure as hell did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Brooke

  Our drinking game started the same way it had dozens of times before, with a shot to get things started. Kiera had always been able to drink me under the table, but this time, I had good reason to get shit-faced.

  A very good reason. I needed to forget, to do whatever I could to erase him from my mind.

  We’d made a rule that if either of the candidates had a red tie, we’d do a shot. But when the candidates strolled out, and each was wearing a red tie, I did two shots.

  Kiera lay on the couch, wearing the wifebeater and boxers I’d loaned her that matched my own. She looked at me. I had my massive unicorn slippers propped up on the coffee table and was holding the bottle of Tito’s at the ready. “Chill. You’re going to be under the table before they finish their opening statements.”

  I wasn’t paying attention because my eyes were fastened on the screen. If I could’ve been licking the television set without Kiera noticing, I would’ve been. Cameron strode out there, looking confident and more delicious than I’d ever seen him. Never before had the incongruity between us been more obvious, with him there in that expensive tailored dark suit, and me at home on my ratty couch, in a ponytail, boxers, and unicorn slippers. The camera was supposed to make people look different, to add pounds, but it only made him look hotter, more presidential. I could sense Kiera watching me for my reaction, so I tore my eyes away from the screen to inspect my exciting fingernails.

  But the second she looked away, I was right back on him.

  “Your father looks good,” I said to her, even though truthfully, he’d been completely overshadowed by Cameron’s presence. Anyone would say the same. Owen Blakely was short, round, and gray-haired, where Cameron was tall, broad-shouldered, well-dressed, and shone like a model on the cover of a glossy magazine.