by Anna Todd
The girls have relaxed and so has Nic, and they are bantering like siblings. You wonder if this is what it would have been like to have the three kids you’d wanted. You are technically old enough to be Nic’s mum, though you don’t really want to think about that.
Eight hands make quick work of dinner preparations, and by the time your husband comes home, the roast is on, the table is set, and you’re all making gravy and joking around like Nic is one of the family.
Your man is wary at first, but as the two of them bond over beer, red wine, and cars, you realize Nic has worked his magic on your husband too. By the time you’re carving the roast, they are both making bad dad jokes, and Rani is no longer staring at your guest when she thinks no one is looking. Well, not as much.
It must be hard to have your favorite actor suddenly sitting at your dining-room table joking with your dad and being teased by your kid sister. Rani looks at you from time to time shaking her head, and you don’t know if it’s because she can’t believe you did this or she can’t believe he’s here—maybe a little from column A, a little from column B. And you can’t believe it either if you’re honest.
Hazel has printed out several pictures of Nic. Over a dinner that he is obviously savoring, she asks him to sign them. You have no doubt she has a mind to sell them later, the little entrepreneur that she is.
Luckily your guest smiles good-naturedly, cottoning on to her scheme. “I’ll sign them, and your mum can give them to you when you finish the maths assignment you told me about.” He winks at Rani, who laughs behind her hand.
Hazel groans, “So not worth it!”
“Sounds like a good deal to me.” Her dad laughs.
Hazel’s eyes roll. “Well, you would side with him! Boys!” she huffs.
Dessert, a game of Cards Against Humanity, and suddenly it’s time for his car to come and pick him up.
He’s been at your place since 4:00 p.m. and it’s 10:00 p.m. now—six hours and he feels like he belongs here.
But the car horn sounds and he hugs you all, thanking you for “taking pity on a homesick Brit.” He kisses Rani chastely on the cheek and she blushes.
Then he’s gone.
Though he was only there for an evening, you know you’ll miss him.
Your husband puts an arm around you and hugs you close as Rani and Hazel stand in front of you watching the car disappear up the road.
“No, you can’t adopt him!” your man jokes.
“Maybe Rani . . .”
He shakes his head. “You, my love, are incorrigible.” He kisses your forehead.
But you know he too liked the boy.
Rani is still standing there long after the car disappears.
You put a gentle arm around her. “You picked a nice boy to have a crush on!”
“Yes, and you may be an embarrassment, but I wouldn’t swap you for the world. Though next time you bring home my favorite actor, just give me a bit more warning.” She sighs, shaking her head at you—your family did that to you a lot.
You didn’t hear from Nic again during filming. But then you didn’t expect to.
It became a nice memory, the night Nic Hoult came to dinner.
Cynically, as journos are wont to be, you figured he’d forgotten about your family; after all, he’d meet fans every day, every week. And he was just a nice polite boy; he made you all feel special, but that was the way he was.
However, it’s funny how karma comes back, and out of the blue eighteen months later an official and fancy-looking envelope arrived at your home addressed to Hazel and Rani (who was now in Brisbane at university). A little personal note was tucked inside:
To my Aussie family—thank you for opening your doors and your hearts to a lonely Brit. Your hospitality was just what I needed, just when I needed it—please be my personal guests at the Australian premiere.
You smiled.
It seemed you’d had an impact on him too.
Presidential Kimergency
Kate J. Squires
Imagine . . .
The Oval Office is bubbling with tense energy, like a cappuccino machine about to explode. Chiefs of Staff and other insanely important people cower in the corners as the vice president meekly says, “Mr. President . . . we’re all out of ideas. We’re sorry.”
You grimace, knowing that the commander in chief doesn’t lose his shit often, but when he does, it’s like a thermonuclear detonation.
The president spins slowly on his heels and faces the VP. “You’re sorry?” he says softly, dark eyes glittering. “This situation is of dire national importance, and you’re sorry?”
The secretary of defense crosses her long, elegant legs and waves an unconcerned hand. “I’m afraid I don’t see how this is a national issue, Mr. President.”
The entire room draws a gulp of air. You know the defense secretary was appointed because of her fearless nature and calm demeanor under fire, but still . . .
POTUS leans forward on his desk, knuckles pressing into the mahogany. His suit is edgier than anything worn by the forty-five men who have served before him, but the long black jacket and crisp white shirt are his trademark. The sharp lines of the suit give him an almost mythic appearance as he says, “It’s a national issue, all right. I’m gonna prove that to you, right now.” He looks at you. “Righty?”
That’s your title; it’s short for “right hand.” Once upon a time, you’d have been called a secretary or assistant or gofer. But your boss believes in empowering his staff. He’s often told you he couldn’t make it through his workday without you, that you are his right hand, and the moniker stuck. You’re proud of it. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“Where was I October twenty-first last year?”
Your clear glass tablet rests on your knees and you swipe at the screen, already knowing the answer before you look at his calendar. “You were in New York, announcing the closure of the one thousandth prison and increasing the funds going into public schooling, which was approximately fifteen billion dollars at the time.”
He nods regally. It was a huge double victory; by decriminalizing possession and removing mandatory minimums, he not only reduced the prison population by a quarter, but funneled all the excess spending into education.
“What about the year before that?” he asks.
“October twenty-first, 2021, you were in transit between Australia and DC, after meetings to discuss gun control legislation.” You glance up and beam at him. “As soon as you landed, you began to implement the new regulations.”
You don’t have to add what everyone knows already: that despite huge resistance from the gun lobby, your boss charmed and coerced the bills through the Senate. A buyback scheme was initiated, with millions of guns purchased and destroyed, and mass shootings had dropped by 80 percent. It’s a topic you’re passionate about, having lost your little nephew in a school shooting during the previous administration.
The president’s eyes crease kindly, as he knows how much gun laws mean to you. “And how about my first October in office, Righty? Where was I then?”
It’s a rhetorical question—everyone in the country remembers the date, October 21, 2020, as clearly as people remember the date of Pearl Harbor or the year Columbus landed. Your voice is low and husky with the memory of those dark days. “You were in Switzerland, signing the international peace treaty to end the World War Trump.”
Everyone in the office freezes, petrified by the horrors of what had almost come to pass. When former president Trump had been elected, most of the country found it humorous. The reality star with the ridiculous hair and his promises to “make America great again” was looked upon as a mildly entertaining change to the bland presidents who’d come before him, and the world watched with interest as he took office. But that interest soon turned to terror as Trump immediately expanded military forces in the Middle East, then rounded up every Muslim in the United States and detained them in inhumane internment camps. The prison population swelled to the breaki
ng point as every undocumented migrant and minor offender was incarcerated, and the health-care budget was slashed to fund a giant, chrome-and-gold wall between the United States and Mexico.
The real terror began when Trump declared war with countries around the world on various whims: China, England, Russia—Canada? He launched missiles with the attitude of a bored schoolboy playing with his water pistol, randomly targeting countries that held little to no threat unless riled, and in only months America was at war with over 80 percent of the world.
Hope began to fade, law had failed in many major US cities, looting and rioting were daily occurrences. People lived in fear for their lives. Canada generously opened its border to allow US refugees to escape—until Trump declared defection to Canada high treason and shut the border, trapping everyone inside the mess he’d created.
But out of the darkness came the light.
Presidential candidate West.
When Kanye West first announced his intention to run for office, he was treated as a joke, just another celeb trying to get political—but you saw things differently. You’d read his policy paper, entitled “Run This Country,” a play on a song title from one of his early albums. You’d opened the document, expecting obnoxious grandstanding and uninformed ramblings, and had been stunned to find a logical, ordered policy focusing on equality and education. Son of a Gold Digger, you’d sworn silently. You realized he was the one man who could change the fate of the United States before there wasn’t a country left to save.
You still remember the day your phone rang. It was an unlisted number, and you answered cautiously, “Hello?”
“Hey, this is Kanye West. I got your number. We’re gonna meet.”
Sure, you’d reached out to his campaign office to offer your services, but you never expected a response. You’d laughed, thinking it was one of your friends pranking you. “Oh, sure. Nice to speak with you, Mr. West. I’d love to meet you too!”
“Good, good. Listen, I’ve sent a Maybach to pick you up.”
“Mm-hmm, yeah, yeah,” you’d said sarcastically, until you were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a suited driver, with the nicest car you’d ever seen waiting behind him. You’d gulped, suddenly realizing this call was for real.
Kanye had noted your silence and said, “I need people on my team who wanna help me save our country. Is that you?”
It was. You’ve been by his side as he won the election in a landslide, supported his every move in the chess game of international politics, and made sure that he had everything he needed before he had to ask.
And now President West is standing in a room full of the country’s best and brightest, with no one able to solve the mammoth problem he faces. And you know he needs your help again.
He lets the enormity of the last three years of change sink in to everyone in the room, then says, “You wonder why I view this as a national problem, henh? Can’t none of you guess?”
The secretary of state says cautiously, “Well, obviously, your wife’s birthday has been overshadowed for several years by your political duties, but surely you realize that the fate of our great nation is far more important than personal celeb—”
“No, Mr. Sanchez, it’s you who don’t realize.” President West spins and points to the life-size portrait of Kim hanging in pride of place opposite his desk. She’s ethereal in the picture, her svelte lines draped in violet silk, her face calm and confident. “That woman, she’s not just my wife. The first lady is the reason all of ya’ll are standing here today, living in a free country.”
He eyeballs everyone as he says, “Kim was the one to encourage me to get into politics. She’s the person who believed in me—before anyone else did—before I even believed in myself. She has been my muse, my angel, as I’ve battled my way through international politics and war rooms. She nurses my mind back to health, puts the passion in my body, steadies my emotions.” His voice trembles slightly and his eyes are gentle on Kim’s face. “I couldn’t have accomplished anything without her, which means this country, this world, might be very different if not for her. And she’s never uttered a word of complaint for her missed birthdays. This year, the mother of my children, my goddess, my everything, she’s getting a reward. So, think, people! What do I give to the woman who has it all?”
And like that you all had circled back around again; for the last two hours everyone’s been desperately trying to come up with a suitable birthday gift for First Lady Kim with no luck. Money isn’t an object; both Kanye and Kim have their own personal fortunes, so much so that the president donates his salary straight to an arts school for underprivileged children in Chicago.
“There’s that idea about buying a racehorse,” bleats one of the other entourage members.
Someone else ventures, “Or name a school after her?”
“No, no, no!” The president rubs his chin in frustration; not many people realize he was in a terrible car accident when he was younger; the metal plate in his chin plays up when he’s vexed. You’ve always been sensitive to it. “Buildings can be torn down, animals can die! I want something that stands the test of time—a gift worthy of a queen! She’s as important to this country as Washington or Lincoln, and if I can’t show her that”—he folds forward over his desk, broken—“then I’ve failed her.”
The room has fallen into a sacred silence, but his words echo inside your brain. Washington. Lincoln. The test of time . . .
An idea strikes you. “Oh!” you say out loud without thinking.
Kanye glances up at you sharply. “What is it, Righty?”
Every face in the Oval Office swings in your direction. You swallow thickly, unused to being the center of attention. “Well, I have an idea. But it’s kinda epically insane.”
The leader of the free world grins at you. “Epically insane ideas are the only kind worth a damn.”
RIDING BACKWARD IN HELICOPTERS doesn’t bother you like it used to; your boss rides in choppers more often than cars these days, so if you hadn’t gotten over your fears by now, you’d be out of a job.
Beneath you, the gorgeous Rocky Mountains roll gently in glorious green lines. You still marvel that Kim and Kanye hold all of this land privately. The president purchased it from developers several years ago, and he has decreed any not-for-profit group or family can camp or hike there to their hearts’ content.
You are all bound for the northwest corner, but no one in the chopper knows that except you, President West, and the pilot. Little Nori and Saint are pressed against opposite windows, oohing and aahing as the clouds whiz by, their behavior flawless despite the early hour. The birthday girl snuggles in beside her husband, her face content.
Kim is looking incredible as usual. You’re still always floored by her ability to rock every look she’s required to, whether that’s at a formal political ball in a Parisian palace or a heavily photographed trip to the mountains with her family. Today she’s wearing white fitted jeans and a gorgeous cashmere sweater threaded with pale silver. She chats easily to you over the headphones. “Hey, Righty! How’s Nix doing? You two still strong?”
Your goofy smile gives away how infatuated you are with the love of your life. Kim introduced the two of you at a charity gala; Nix was a rising R&B singer with incredible eyes and a smile that stole your heart. The two of you haven’t spent a night apart since—just one more reason to be grateful to First Lady Kim.
“We’re amazing,” you reply.
“Thirty seconds out,” says the pilot, and you watch Kanye sit upright, nervous.
He turns to his wife, love and passion burning in his eyes. “Baby . . .”
You know he has a big speech prepared because he’s been practicing it in front of the mirror for days. He planned to shower her with beautiful words of gratitude, to tell her exactly how much she means to him, to the country, to the world.
But emotion has caught up with him. Instead of the speech, he kisses her ardently. “Happy birthday, Mrs. President.”
But the most striking aspect is the pose of the carving; it was based on the Paper magazine photoshoot—the one that broke the internet—because it’s a personal favorite of both Kim and Kanye. Kim’s rocky behind protrudes into the stream of the waterfall, where, rather than champagne, the dancing stream of water bounces merrily off her derriere before descending again. It’s just enough to be sassy and unique, and it perfectly encapsulates the First Lady’s vivacious spirit.
Kim gasps, clasping her hands to her mouth, while the children cry, “Mama! Mama, it’s you! Mama, you’re in the mountain!”
“It was Righty’s idea.” Kanye nods in your direction. “I wanted to give you something that would last forever, just like I know our love will.”
“This . . . This is . . .” Kim has begun to cry, her mouth open in a moue that doesn’t mar her beauty. “I can’t believe you did this!”
Kanye touches her face with tenderness. “Everyone who ever comes here will be inspired by you, just like I am. Is it . . . all right?”
Her fierce kiss is his answer. “It’s incredible. But my best gift is being married to you, Mr. President.”
Teary, you look away to give them their privacy. Outside the helicopter, the sun is rising over the mountains, casting the massive sculpture in a vibrant pink glow.