by A. C. Fuller
Though we declined his request to stream on our site live, he posted over a hundred videos that show him to be a gifted, fiery speaker. Dixon feeding the homeless, Dixon meeting with community leaders, Dixon attending the summer football games of his high school alma mater, where he played halfback and still holds the record for rushing yards in a season. Though I often find myself disagreeing with him, he never comes across as phony, which puts him ahead of most politicians in my book.
By early this morning, Dixon had climbed all the way to number fifteen, and is already the highest-ranked candidate who represents the political views of the left. Many of them, at least.
Feeling good, I set Sunday aside to do laundry and finish unpacking. Instead, I spent most of the morning listening to music, staring at the ceiling, and coming to terms with how quickly my life has changed.
My phone chirps with a text notification.
Peter: What are you up to today? Thought maybe we could grab brunch.
I haven't seen Peter since the day Destiny O'Neill came to town, though we text almost daily. I'm no expert at reading men, but as far as I can tell, he's been flirting consistently. Just little things, like pointing out good PR we're getting, or commenting that he saw a great picture of me attached to some blog post he read.
But I told myself today was for unpacking, for getting my life in order.
Me: Can't. Unpacking.
Peter: Awesome! You found a place?
Me: Kinda. Decided to stay in the office.
Peter: That's cool. But seriously, an old college friend of mine is in town. Wants to meet you. Can we stop by in a bit? Won't take long and we can help unpack.
I think about his offer for a moment. It's odd that a friend of Peter's would want to meet me, but I need help moving an old recliner up from the office's storage area to my new "bedroom."
Me: Sure, come by anytime.
As I put my phone down, it chirps again, and I expect another text from Peter, but this one is from Steph.
Steph: BOOM! This just posted online. Will run in print edition Monday morning.
Underneath the text, she's included a link to a New York Times article. After almost dropping the phone, I scan the article so fast that I don't retain a single word of what I've read.
I look away, take three deep breaths, and read again more slowly.
Peter Colton Funds Ambitious Political Startup
Colton Industries founder and renowned philanthropist Peter Colton has donated five million dollars to a small nonprofit website, Ameritocracy2020.org, which is hosting an online competition to support an independent presidential bid in 2020. According to founder Mia Rhodes, "We're looking for the most innovative, compelling voices in American politics. But we're also looking for voices that have been ignored by the political process."
To that end, the competition rules stipulate that elected politicians from the Republican and Democratic parties are not permitted to enter, though independents who currently hold elected office are.
The current leaders are mostly fringe candidates, but since the announcement of Colton's donation, an influx of new candidates has raised the credibility of the site. For example, the Reverend Marlon Dixon—known for his criticism of income inequality and racial injustice—has been climbing the leaderboard lately.
But skeptics see flaws in the premise. "Is the two-party system perfect? Of course not," says DNC chairman Martin Romano. "But pulling candidates from the ranks of amateurs is not the solution."
Colton defends the project. "The political system is broken, and technology is the best option we have to fix it. For decades, Americans have complained about a system where money rules, where entrenched power rules, and where innovators like Mia Rhodes are ignored, or outright fought. That ends now."
Time will tell whether the idea will grow fast enough to have any impact on the 2020 election, but with the backing of forward-thinking Colton, political operatives on both sides of the aisle are sitting up and taking note.
So are the few government officials who managed to get elected by third parties or as independents. "I think it's great," said Dwight Lerner, a Green Party congressman from Vermont. "I'd join myself if I had any ambition to run for president."
I wiggle with delight in my bed before finishing the article. It's listed as "Business," which probably means that it will run on page B23 of the print edition, but it's already cracked the list of the site's "top twenty most-shared articles." It's our first coverage in The Times, our first coverage by any of the big, national newspapers.
Though I would have preferred if they'd written more about the site and our contestants, using Peter's fame as a hook is understandable. Of course, I'd love a front page story written by the Times' lead political writers, but, baby steps.
I tap back over to my exchange with Steph.
Me: We rock!
Steph: We really do.
Me: We absolutely do.
Steph: We rock, and occasionally roll.
I begin typing another cheesy response, but look up when Peter arrives in my doorway, flanked by the best-looking man I've ever seen in person.
It's not just any handsome man. It's David Benson, star of the blockbuster series of Atlantis films, and People Magazine's sexiest man alive from a couple years ago.
Leaping from the bed, I avert my eyes from David Benson and throw a why-didn't-you-tell-me look at Peter. "This is your college friend?"
"Mia, meet DB, as we used to call him back in the dorm."
David Benson winks at me and smiles, and I'm more than happy to call him DB.
He grasps my hand with the well-practiced confidence of lead actors everywhere. "Pleased to meet you, Mia. I'm a big admirer of yours."
He plays a badass ex-CIA agent with a New York accent in the Atlantis movies, but in real life he's got a wisp of a Midwest drawl, his vowels just a touch longer than they need to be.
"Wait," I say, "you're an admirer of mine? You're, like, David Benson. I mean DB." I cast glances around my half-unpacked room, wishing I'd folded the basket of laundry occupying the office chair I've been using as a bedside table. I suppress the urge to remind him of scenes from his movies that have been racing through my mind.
"I get that a lot," DB says. "I'm a big Ameritocracy fan. Check your site. I registered to vote over three months ago."
Doubtful, I glance at Peter, who says, "Seriously. DB texted me the minute he heard I donated money."
Don't get me wrong, I was never the girl who had posters of Hollywood hunks on her wall, but this makes me swoon. DB is known for political activism. To hear he's a fan of the site means a lot. Plus, he's just as charismatic in person as he is on screen, and I want his approval. I'm smart enough to notice that, but not smart enough to make it not true.
"I saw the piece in The Times this morning," DB says.
"The New York Times?" Peter asks.
"No, the Santa Clarissa Times," DB says. "If I'm not mistaken, that's the first coverage of Ameritocracy in The Times."
"It is," I say, still reeling.
"Congrats," Peter says.
"That's gotta feel good," DB adds.
I want to say it feels incredible, and follow up with something suave like, "Not as incredible as welcoming you to my bedroom." But it's not my bedroom, and that's way more forward than I'm comfortable with. He probably hears similar lines from women like Destiny O'Neill twenty times a day, and I don't want to end up in the same universe as Destiny O'Neill in DB's mind.
Instead I say, "It's nice. It'll help grow the site." I gesture to the bed. "Please, have a seat."
"No way," Peter says. "We're here to help unpack."
"Yeah, give us orders."
I barely resist the urge to blurt a double-entendre as I look around the room. A bra sticks out from a drawer, which only intensifies my impulse to get them out of here so I can clean up. "Well, there is a chair that needs moving. The blue recliner in the storage room."
"One flight down," Peter s
ays to DB. "We're on it."
They disappear, and, after cramming the rogue bra back in the drawer, making my bed and stashing my laundry under it, I text Steph.
Me: Peter and David Benson—yes THAT David Benson—are in my room.
Steph: What the what? Seriously?
Me: Seriously.
Steph: Why?
Me: Because I no longer live in a reality I recognize.
Steph: Tell me everything.
The sounds of their grunts and footfalls travel up the stairs as Peter and David approach with the chair.
Me: Gotta go.
Steph: Text me later and TELL ME EVERYTHING.
Peter and DB are in my doorway with the chair. "Where do you want this?" DB asks.
"In the corner." I watch DB's tight grey t-shirt bulge as he squats with the chair.
Unsure what to do next, I rearrange books on the shelf. "So, how'd you first hear about the site? And please, have a seat."
Peter flops on the bed. DB takes the new chair.
"I'm active in L.A. politics," DB says. "Been a strong Democrat since college. After failing for my first five years in Hollywood, I thought about going back home and running for mayor in my hometown. Then I got the first Atlantis movie and, well…"
I stop shelving books and sit next to Peter on the bed. "And you became the hottest movie star on the planet."
"He's too modest to say that," Peter says.
"Who's your favorite candidate?" I ask.
"Can't you track that on the backend of your site?"
"We can see who individual voters are voting for, but we have too many users for me to track anyone individually. Even if I knew you were on the site, which I didn't."
"Justine Hall," he says.
"Really? You struck me as a Marlon Dixon kind of guy."
"I would be," DB says. "But I can't get over his stance on abortion. I get that he thinks of it as a moral absolute. But I figure that men have been forcing their moral absolutes on women long enough."
Peter laughs. "Are you sure you don't prefer Justine Hall because she's smokin' hot?"
"Everyone I meet all day is smokin' hot, and half of them are assholes," DB says, waving a hand dismissively. "Myself included. I really think Hall would be good for the country. Political experience, which is more than Dixon has. And I like her 'whatever works' approach. I feel like I've had enough ideology, y'know?"
Justine Hall is Steph's favorite candidate, too.
She joined the competition just over a month ago and immediately became the candidate with the highest elected position. As a left-leaning independent, four years ago she was elected mayor of Denver in a ridiculously close three-way race, a race she never wanted to enter.
For the first fifteen years of her working life, she was a Unitarian pastor, working in the poorest communities of Denver. After that she became a successful community organizer, working with city officials to create drug programs and homeless shelters, but she had no ambitions to run for office herself.
She was widely respected and viewed as above partisan politics, so members of her church banded together with her husband and practically forced her to run. They gathered the signatures to get her on the ballot, and she got the hang of politics quickly.
She won the mayoral race with only 36% of the vote, but gained popularity quickly after proving to be a strong executive. In her first month, she negotiated better healthcare for all city employees, and she united business and environmental groups by creating the best incentives in the country for clean energy job creation. She leans further left than I do, but she's one of the most serious candidates in the field.
Peter's right, though. She is smokin' hot in a too-busy-to-care-about-my-looks kinda way.
"I won't deny she's beautiful," I say, suppressing a twinge of jealousy. "And she has a shot. Not sure how serious she is about Ameritocracy, though. She doesn't post much, doesn't make many statements."
"She's busy running the city of Denver," DB says. "You watch. I bet she hits the top ten before your rally. I plan to come, by the way."
"That would be great," I say. "That'll probably double the number of reporters who show up."
He laughs. "It'll certainly bring out reporters, but maybe not the kind you want. I don't think TMZ and The National Enquirer are your target news outlets."
I laugh. "All press is good press."
DB's phone rings. He looks at it, winces, and steps out into the hall.
I cross my legs on the bed and face Peter. "Can't believe David friggin' Benson is your old dorm buddy."
"I hope it's okay that I brought him. He really is a big fan."
"I know. I can tell from his…from what he said."
"Then why do you look so skeptical?"
"It's just odd to have Peter Colton and David Benson sitting around, helping me unpack, you know? I can't believe this is my life."
"You belong in this world."
I hold his gaze as his smile intensifies. It's his I-know-something-you-don't-know smile, and it's working. I fall into his eyes, and have to steady myself on the bed. I don't know exactly what he means by "this world," but it's one that includes David Benson and him in it.
That's hard to ignore.
"Sorry to interrupt," DB says from the doorway. "That was my agent. I've gotta run to the airport. Emergency voiceovers for the fourth Atlantis movie."
Peter stands. "Need a ride? I'll call my car back."
"Nah." DB waves Peter away. "Got an Uber on the way." Turning to me, he says, "Great to meet you. Keep up the good work, and good luck unpacking."
With that, he's gone, and I'm alone in my so-called bedroom with Peter.
After an awkward half hour—during which I folded my laundry and sent Peter down to Bluebird for the lamp I bought at Pier One yesterday—I offer to drive him home. As expected, he tells me he can have his driver come, but I'm genuinely curious about where he lives.
Unless I'm crazy, he's been flirting with me ever since that day Destiny O'Neill arrived, and it makes me nervous. I always gain confidence when I'm behind the wheel of my beloved Bluebird, so that's where we end up.
Peter runs a hand over the cream-colored leather seat. "Ah, the famous Bluebird."
"This is her. The one thing I own that I actually care about."
"Wouldn't have pegged you for a muscle car woman, but now that I see you in her, it works."
It's seventy degrees out, so I retract the top and tie my hair into a ponytail.
"You spent thirty grand on the electric conversion?" he asks.
"Yup."
"That's a lot. With the work my company is doing in solar, that's gonna be ten grand in a few years."
"Wasn't really my money," I say, pulling onto the main road of Santa Clarissa.
"What do you mean?"
"Got it from my father."
"We don't talk about your father." Peter's face is guarded, as though he's worried he's crossed a line.
We pass Baker's Dozen and Mama Mia, where Malcolm bought me the dress on my first day in Santa Clarissa. I throw on my sunglasses as the bright sun flashes across the car. "No, we don't."
My hair is wild, my face windburnt but cool from the night air. The black sky is full of stars.
"Here." Peter gestures down a long stone driveway that leads to the largest house I've ever seen.
For the last four hours, he's given me a guided tour of the area. We saw Stanford University, the Google campus, and the house where Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak built the first Apple computer. We stopped for snacks at a gas station where we could charge Bluebird, and neither he nor I looked at our phones the entire time.
At a security booth, Peter waves at a bored-looking man before the wrought-iron gate swings open. I ease Bluebird into a circular driveway and turn off the engine.
The house is stone, with a large central section and two distinct wings to the north and south, each with a turret. Vines climb up the sides toward windows too numerous to count.
<
br /> Turning to him, I say, "So, you hired an architect and just said 'Hogwarts'?"
"I like the old styles," he replies, but he doesn't sound even slightly interested in his house. His eyes are fixed on me and he's wearing that megawatt smile.
I'm uncomfortable, so I say, "You smile like you know something no one else does."
"I do." He inches toward me.
I lean away, but not because I'm threatened. I just like my space. "What's your secret?"
"I want to kiss you."
"Why?"
He looks puzzled, and I blush. Steph tells me that I'm terrible at picking up on signals, and she's right. It's odd, really. I knew he'd been flirting with me, but my mind didn't connect it to physical reality. I couldn't believe it was anything more than banter. Even as he scooched towards me, I figured he was just…I don't know what I figured.
The exterior lights from his mansion shine down in what I can only describe as "romance movie lighting." His hair blows in the warm evening air, and well…there's the whole Antonio Banderas thing.
I want him to kiss me. But I'm conflicted, and not sure why. "We work together," I say.
"We don't."
"Maybe it's that…I don't…I don't want to be described as 'Peter Colton's girlfriend' in the caption of some magazine photo three weeks from now."
He leans away. "That's what you're worried about?"
"One of the things."
"Mia, please. Did you see the way DB looked at you? You're a powerful, beautiful woman. A magazine is just as likely to call me 'Mia Rhodes' boyfriend.'"
That's a lie. It's sweet, but it's a lie.
Even with all the press Ameritocracy received lately, I'm nowhere near as famous as Peter, who is approaching household-name status in the way Bill Gates did in the nineties and Mark Zuckerberg did in the last decade. But the fact that he said it thaws me and, for the first time, I see myself through his eyes. Through DB's eyes.
The reality of the day, of the last two months, hits me all at once. This is happening.
I lean forward—or maybe it's more of a lunge—and kiss him. He pulls me in as I press him against the passenger side door.