by Claire Adams
I wasn’t sure what to say. I felt my throat grow dry.
He continued. “I feel no joy when she says anything. The last time we made love, I was so far away. So far away.” He snapped his finger next to his face. Something in his eyes told me he was already drunk—perhaps a few glasses of scotch into the night.
“Do you—do you want my advice?” I asked him in a timid whisper, unsure of how to handle the situation. I felt the words hang between us like a cloud.
He shook his head. “I just—I don’t fucking know what to do.” He picked up the wine bottle once more and pummeled it to his mouth, guzzling it.
I felt nervous, a bit frustrated. I felt like the president was acting like some sort of inane child. He couldn’t fucking fix his own problems. What was I meant to do?
I stood up tall and I grabbed the wine bottle from his hand, tugging it back. I shook my head vehemently. “What the fuck are you doing? Get your shit together,” I hissed at him. “Do you even want to have a good relationship with your wife?” I asked the question, surprising him. It was clearly not one he had asked himself yet. He wasn’t trying to create a good relationship with her; and yet here he was, complaining about her once more to me. I couldn’t take it. It wasn’t fair to her or to me
He stood up then. He was a bit woozy on his feet, but his eyes were sure and passionate. His dark eyebrows were furrowed. He reached his hand over the desk and allowed it to grip my cheek, my ear. His face came toward me. My heart was beating so fast in my chest. I placed the wine bottle back on the desk between us. It landed too hard.
His whisper came with such warmth, such passion. “No. I don’t want to have a good relationship with her. I don’t.” He shook his head until suddenly, his lips met mine in a moment of frustration, of anger.
In this moment, as our lips met over the great presidential desk, I let go of everything in my mind. Everything that had been holding me back from this beautiful, passionate feeling was let loose, finally—allowing me to feel so free in this moment. I brought my arms around his body, and I pushed closer to him, folding my lips into his more firmly, feeling the vibrancy, the lust for him deep in my soul.
God, that moment. It was the very answer to my searching heart.
Chapter Nine
I pulled away from the President of the United States, my head spinning. I bit my lip and spun back, toward the door. I didn’t hear as much as a murmur from him—no sign of regret, no sign that he wanted me to stay. I needed to get out of there, to return to some sense of normalcy. I pushed into the hallway and began stomping back to the office to gather my things, hearing my heels clatter against the floor. What the hell was I going to do?
Suddenly, as I rounded the corner with my head down, I found myself pushing into Jason, my second-in-command. His wide eyes blinked at me with surprise. “Amanda! I thought you’d left for the day.” His eyes perused my red cheeks, my slim waist. I could feel the way he looked at me, and already it made me uncomfortable. But I couldn’t deal with a drunk second-in-command; not tonight.
“Goodnight, Jason,” I said, trying to push past him.
But he tapped me on the shoulder, following me. “Actually, Amanda. I had a question about the proceedings from the day.”
I felt a tear falling down my face in these moments. I spun around on my heel, glaring at him. I shook my head vehemently. He didn’t seem to notice my confusion, my internal anger. “What is it, Jason?” I finally sighed.
“I just—I saw that you had us scheduled for a meeting in Texas in a few weeks. I wanted to clarify.”
I swept my hand out and then smashed it into my lap, feeling the pangs of pain throughout my thigh. “If it’s in the calendar, it’s in the calendar,” I growled, shrugging. “Now if you’ll excuse me—“
“Wait—Amanda!”
But I could hardly hear him. My mind was racing with thoughts, trying to comprehend the feel of the president’s lips over mine. This was not what I wanted, I thought over and over again. For a moment, sure, it had felt so right. But the moment had passed easily as I pulled back from him and realized what I was actually doing. I was actively ruining both my life and his. I couldn’t work my way to the top by sleeping with the president. I was smarter than that.
I huffed, beginning to gather my things into my bag. I would spend the remainder of the night curled on my couch, drinking wine deep into the night. I wouldn’t come into work tomorrow; it was a Saturday, and no pressing issues were at the helm. Thusly, I could take my first real day off from the office.
But as I pressed each item into my bag, I felt him coming toward me: Jason. I spun my head up, peering at him with confusion. “What’s up?” I asked him. We hadn’t spoken much throughout the course of our working relationship. We’d shared a few laughs over a drink, of course, but nothing more.
He brought his hands over his chest, then. I was so keenly aware that we were the only ones in the great, empty room. “I was wondering what you were up to tonight?”
I rolled my eyes, still not understanding what he meant. “God, Jason. I’m so tired. I just want to collapse in my bed, you know?” I laughed, trying to make a joke to him.
But his persistence held fast. He stood in front of me while I tried to pass him, and he placed his hand on my shoulder, staring at me, face-to-face. For a moment, I thought surely he was going to try to kiss me, just like the president had.
But then he spoke stuttering, incomplete words. “Why don’t you come out to eat with me?”
I tried to hear the words, to comprehend them. Jason wanted to date me? I raised my eyebrow toward him, unsure of what to say. I heard the guttural stop in my throat. Speak, I told myself over and over. Speak!
“Um. Jason. I really have to go, okay? I’m so tired. Have a good night.” And I swept around him, springing myself from his tight grip. I rushed down the hallway, past the Oval Office, and down the steps. I felt so alone in those moments, like everything I wanted couldn’t be mine.
I grabbed a taxi and asked him to stop at the store so I could buy another bottle of wine; I’d left mine in the Oval Office. “Wait for me, okay?” I asked the taxi driver, paying him a bit extra for the first fare. He nodded, chewing gum. He didn’t give me any words.
I tapped into the grocery, bringing my finger over my eyebrow. I grabbed the first wine bottle from the shelf and tapped it on the counter, shaking a bit as I did it. The man at the counter asked, “Are you all right, ma’am?” And I hadn’t realized that I was a goddamned mess, nearly crying all over the place. I couldn’t comprehend it. God, I needed a drink.
I told him I was fine. And I paid for the wine swiftly before rushing outside and back into the taxi. The man took me home, back to my tidy, safe haven. Once I closed the door and breathed an easy sigh of relief, I collapsed on the couch. All my thoughts were oriented to what had just happened back there with those two men. Was nowhere safe?
I poured myself an easy glass of wine, reminding myself that I couldn’t become involved with the president. I listened to the glug-glug of the wine as it pulsed into the cup, and I felt so sure that as his lips had descended over mine, I’d been happier than I’d ever been in my entire life. I hadn’t had many boyfriends, of course—just the one through college. But I’d never felt such deep passion with him (like the entire earth had stopped spinning, just for us).
I tried to imagine a future in which Xavier and I were together—a future in which the president abandons his wife and takes his re-election campaign manager up with him, to first lady status. I shuddered at the thought. The mere idea of it would put the campaign off the rails, for one. No one liked a presidential cheater, as Clinton proved so well. And where would my career go as a result? People would say that I slept my way to the top, but really, I would be sleeping my way to the bottom. Sure, Xavier had promised that I would have a position at the White House for my career, but he could only promise this as long as he was there. I had to stay committed to both myself and my career—and no one else.
I sniffed, allowing the thoughts to pass through me, allowing the wine to course through my veins. I fell asleep like this, stretched out on the couch with the wine glass situated in my hand, my eyes fluttering every few hours with the romantic idea of that man in the Oval Office before me, his lips reaching out for only me. Only me.
I awoke the next morning with a crick in my neck, one that I couldn’t work out with a few nice stretches. It was still early in the morning, and I realized I had the entire day at my feet—a day during which I could create whatever world I wanted. I didn’t have to go into the office; I didn’t even have to watch the news. Although, of course, I would. Just to see how the polls were doing.
I grabbed some of my running supplies and I sped downstairs, stretching my neck in a sort of semicircle. The sun shone brightly on me, even in the 7 a.m. morning. Most D.C. people weren’t awake yet, choosing to spend their Saturday mornings sleeping next to their lovers, in their cozy beds. But I was so different, I reminded myself. I had so many different ideals, so many things I wanted for my life.
As I sped toward the nearby park, I felt the blood pumping heavy in my veins. I would make it out of this strange, half-hearted love affair with Xavier. I wouldn’t go to lunch with him anymore, unless others were there and it involved the campaign, of course. I wouldn’t put my life or his marriage or our careers in jeopardy just because of this deep passion pulsing in my gut. It wasn’t worth it to me.
I rushed along, feeling the wind in my face, through my long brown hair. I’d continually felt a desire to run the past few weeks, but I’d spent every waking minute at the office, poring over ratings, writing speeches, and arguing with one employee or another. I was a tough boss, and I was earning their respect very slowly, very surely. I was just a 29-year-old woman—someone their daughter’s age, perhaps.
But God, was I so much more.
I rounded the corner and found myself face-to-face with a young couple, both of whom were holding hands and walking through the park. They looked like they’d been up all night. Their faces were brimming with such lust for each other. They gazed into each other’s eyes, speaking only in whispers. I wondered what that love was like, in a small way. I wondered if I was missing something. As I sped by them, I suddenly lurched to a stop and peered back, watching their slow and subtle movements through their morning. It was like, for them, time had stopped; they were unworried about their careers, about their futures. They were continually wrapped in that non-spinning world—the one that I had joined for only a second, there in the Oval Office.
I shuddered and spun back around, back into the world. I revved forward and allowed myself, only for a moment, to consider a world in which we were meant to be together—in which we were normal, beautiful people who were allowed to make our own choices and live our own lives.
But what kind of life was that, anyway?
Finally, I reached my home once more, feeling the sweat pulse down my body. I removed my clothes swiftly, tossing them on my shining wooden floor. I rubbed at my back, at my side. The pangs of stress lingered on, making me feel older than my years.
The water that gleamed on my body was so fresh, so vibrant. I rubbed at my scalp, feeling my hair as it oozed down my back and my muscles. I captured it with shampoo and felt it liven beneath my fingertips. I thought, gruffly, about what Xavier was doing right then. Was he, himself, in the shower? Difficult to imagine a president in the shower, thinking about the strain of the world he controlled—all the lives that were lost across the great country, every day. Weird to think that the president was able to take a moment for himself, to allow himself such feeling.
Of course, as I washed my face, I remembered that he had sought that feeling in me, through that kiss. I was his escape, I knew, from the reality of his marriage, from the reality of the terrible power he’d claimed above everyone. I wondered if power was really all that it should be; I wondered if everything he’d sacrificed was worth it to him.
The rest of the day, I lived in a sort of dreamland of emotion, of feeling. I gave myself this day to think about him, I decided. And then, every other subsequent day would be null, would be rooted in career prospects and campaigning. I wouldn’t even allow him to think I ever considered him a prospect. I practiced looking at myself in the mirror with dead eyes, and I promised myself that I would only look at Xavier this way—with no inner turmoil, with no feeling.
I propped myself back on the couch with a movie and popcorn. It was late in the evening at this point, and I realized that I hadn’t called anyone or spoken to anyone the entire day. I considered calling my mother for only a moment—that woman who all but ruled Philadelphia with her bake sales and her quiltmaking (what a different and strange child I had been for her!) But I imagined something in my voice would give away my adoration for someone; something in my voice would render me weak. She could smell the weakness, I knew.
I sighed, taking a small bite of popcorn and diving into the old, ‘30s film. I liked living in this world, if only for a moment. I knew it was silly: the passion that drove each character to fall in love over the course of two hours.
Suddenly, a heard my phone begin to buzz in my portfolio—a portfolio I hadn’t opened and a phone I hadn’t checked all morning. My heart constricted in my chest and I rushed up, nearly spilling the popcorn all over the floor. I tapped toward the portfolio and knew, suddenly, that if Xavier was calling—if it truly was him—then I had to answer it.
I had to.
I brought my hand around the vibrating beast and tugged it up, feeling all the clutter on the inside of my bag hound around my fingers. I gazed at the number for a moment, with the name: JASON. I smiled at it and placed it on the table, allowing it to buzz and buzz and buzz until it exhausted itself. I imagined Jason somewhere in one of those grubby apartments, yelling into the phone. I hoped it wasn’t for work, of course. But even if it were work, it could wait. It just could.
I stretched my arms over my head and yawned, feeling aches and pains coursing throughout my body. I licked my lips for a moment, reaching back toward the popcorn and targeting my eyes back into movie world.
But the phone began to buzz once more, suddenly. I growled, spinning back around, ready to answer it just to tell Jason if he ever hit on me again, I’d report him. By God, I would.
But the name was different.
This time, the name read: MR PREZ.
I placed it down on the table and allowed it to buzz once, then twice. I felt aches throughout my entire body. I shuddered, so worried. Why was he calling? Was he calling me to reprimand me about the other evening—about running out on him?
Finally, I picked it up. I swallowed and let out a meek: “Hello?”
“Amanda. Miss Martin. How are you?”
I sputtered for a moment. “I’m fine,” I forced myself to speak.
“I noticed you didn’t come into the office today.”
I rubbed my temple, feeling it pulse beneath my fingers. “I had a lot on my plate, you know.”
“Right,” he said quietly. I could hear him sitting on that squeaky chair in the Oval Office. I pictured him putting his feet on the desk—something he only did when he talked to someone he felt comfortable with on the phone. “Listen. I was wondering if you had changed your mind about having dinner with me. Just a business dinner, of course. Something very professional.”
I thought for a moment, remembering the dream world I had created in my mind over the previous few hours. I gazed up at the television screen as it illustrated two 1930s characters speaking wildly, tossing their arms through the air.
“Just a professional dinner, correct?” I asked him then.
He nodded. “Professional. That’s it.”
I bit my lip for a moment. “You know. I think it could be beneficial to have a dinner together. I have a good deal of information to go over with you about the campaign.”
“Do you?” The president sounded so thrilled as he spoke—if a bit amused. He knew he had co
nned me, in some way, into saying yes to dinner. He knew his kiss had worked. For this reason, I mildly hated that I’d allowed this to occur.
But I couldn’t go back on it now.
“You’ll meet me at the White House.” It wasn’t a question; it was a command. “We’ll dine in the formal dining room.”
My heart nearly stopped beating in my chest. I knew the White House formal dining room was top-notch, offering the most beautiful dining experience in the world. I swallowed. I hadn’t even entered the place before. I had barely looked inside on my many walks past it. It was, in my mind, simply off-limits.
“What time?” I croaked, feeling the scratchiness of my throat.
“You’ll meet me at 7:30,” the president said, utilizing his arrogant, orderly tone. “I’ll see you there.”
He hung up the phone, then, leaving me in a lurch at my dining room table, feeling the pangs of an illicit relationship take forth before me. I could already see the disastrous consequences of it; I could already feel the terror of it coursing through my veins.
But to have his lips upon mine just one more time; perhaps I could do it. I could.
Just once.
Chapter Ten
The next evening, I leafed through my closet, searching for the perfect gown for the evening with the president. I knew it had to be a professional dress—something that would be appropriate in the eyes of the Secret Service. Finally, my fingers traced the lace sleeves of the black dress I’d worn to a previous gala—something that was formfitting but not low-cut. Something that left a good deal of my body to the imagination. This, I knew, was essential.
I called a taxi and walked quietly out into the darkness. The night had come earlier each day since the middle of August, and already I felt that summer had passed me by too readily. I’d been hovered over a desk for too much of it, searching for the perfect solution to all presidential problems. Searching ever for the right career path for myself, as well.