All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  That part is hard to say. I’ve worked hard for this goal. A sexual harassment charge could end my career before it even begins.

  Beatrice rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to turn you in for sexual harassment. You won the election. The campaign is over. That means you’re not my boss anymore.”

  “Well, technically…”

  “It’s close enough. Look. I like you. Obviously, you like me back, so when all this is over, I’d really like it if…”

  All around me, my supporters are popping open bottles of champagne, throwing streamers, and blowing noisemakers to celebrate my victory.

  It’s the best moment of my life.

  And also the most awkward.

  My campaign manager runs up to me, flustered. “Henry! I’ve been looking for you. You’re going to need to give your acceptance speech soon. The reporters are waiting.”

  I flash him a big, confident smile—the one that just helped me win—and act like I’ve been outside practicing my speech, not kissing an employee.

  “Ready when you are, my friend. Bea, I—”

  But when I turn my head, Beatrice is already gone.

  I let him shake my hand. Then I lean in closer to his ear and ask him in a low voice, “But could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “If Miss Barlow is still around, have her check IDs at the door.”

  “But we can have one of the volunteers take care of that. And she’s really been looking forward to hearing your acceptance speech. Why would you want her to miss it?”

  I’m going to have to come up with something quickly if I want to keep her away from me.

  I don’t want her first foray into politics to end with sleeping with her boss—no matter what she thinks she wants.

  And as for what I want…

  “It’s a good networking opportunity for her. If she’s at the press conference, she’s going to be listening, not talking. A ton of high-profile people are coming to congratulate us—the mayor, the editor from the Digest, that cat from YouTube who reads minds—I want her front and center, representing me and my campaign.”

  “I see. Well, I guess I’ll let her know.”

  I exhale with relief.

  Across the room, I can see my campaign manager stopping Beatrice at the door to the press conference area and repeating my instructions.

  She furrows her brow and shakes her head no.

  But he stops her with his hands and redirects her to the front door.

  I feel like such a jerk.

  She locks eyes with me, and for a brief moment, I consider taking it all back.

  I want to run across the room, grab her hand, and pull her up to the podium to have her at my side while I deliver my speech.

  She’d be an amazing girlfriend.

  She’d be an even better first lady one day.

  But I’ve just blown my chances of any of that happening.

  Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

  Beatrice

  The headquarters of what is supposed to be one of the most venerable old periodicals in the capital doesn’t feel especially old or venerable.

  “Ugh, purple, really?” I say out loud for maybe the hundredth time.

  Okay, so the main bullpen of the Digest offices does seem old in a way—or outdated, to be more accurate. The loud, obnoxious wallpaper was installed sometime in the late 1990s, and I can’t help but comment on the room’s rave-tastic stylings nearly every damn morning.

  “So it’s one of those for you, isn’t it?”

  “What the hell does that mean, Monty?” I ask.

  “You know, one of those mornings.”

  Monty’s sitting, as usual, at the desk of some receptionist who hasn’t come in yet. His feet are up on the desk, exposing me to the well-worn bottoms of his loafers, which is also standard.

  “Why do I always stop when you accost me on my way in? Why can’t I just walk on by?”

  “Because you’re polite, Beatrice. It’s an all-too-rare quality these days.”

  “Ah, get your feet off the fuckin’ desk.”

  “Like I said, so polite!” Monty’s shout rings out across the formerly quiet bullpen as I almost break into a run to my office. “You won’t even tolerate rude feet on this old desk! Don’t you agree, Fiona?”

  My boss, Fiona, is standing, facing me as I reach my office. Her usual stylish confidence is overpowering. How freaking weird is it that she’s waiting for me in front of my office.

  It’s clear from her silence and her bright smile that she’s made the wise decision to ignore Monty entirely.

  “Fiona, you’re the only person I’d ever be happy to find lingering in front of my office door,” I tell her.

  “Wow, and I’m your superior, too, which means I must be doing something right,” she responds warmly.

  Fiona, dressed in her usual muted and stylish version of the Washington DC Digest office wear, is really standing right in front of my office door. Like, I’d have to reach around her back just to turn the doorknob.

  “Why, because you’re superior to me?” I jokingly snap at her.

  “I mean I’m your superior at this rag, not superior in general. Don’t go twisting my words, Bea. That’s my job.”

  “Wait, is that all an editor-in-chief does? And you’re admitting it?”

  “You caught me.” Fiona shifts her feet slightly, but stays in front of my door. “I guess I can twist words, but I can’t twist away from the truth.”

  “I’d ask you to twist out of my doorway, but I’m kind of enjoying this.”

  “You are?” Fiona sounds surprised.

  “Hey!” Monty yells at us, trying to join in. “Would you two mind taking it inside Beatrice’s office?”

  Fiona’s eyes go wide with disbelief as she turns slowly in his direction.

  “Excuse me?” she growls at him, wonderfully.

  Monty’s trying to smile through his terror, but to no avail. Fiona doesn’t care if he was joking or not.

  “Oh shit, sorry, Belle, I was just sitting here for a second,” Monty says anxiously.

  Today’s his lucky day, though. Before any more drama unfolds, he’s saved by the Belle—literally.

  After spotting the receptionist, whose desk he’s occupying, Monty vanishes down the hall and into his office before she can mutter “Uh, it’s okay.”

  Fiona and I chuckle. Poor Belle continues to look confused.

  I take a step back away from my door.

  “So, anyway, I’m getting the feeling I shouldn’t go in there now,” I say.

  “Oh, no, Bea…I mean, yes, actually. Yes, you should. But with me—hey, I’m twisting my own words, now.”

  “Are you nervous about something?” I ask.

  “Why don’t we take a step inside your office?”

  Resisting the urge to take an anxious look around to see if anyone overheard that ominous question, I keep my eyes focused on Fiona’s. As she twists the doorknob behind her, she gives me a smile that’s almost as awkward and fake as Monty’s a few moments ago.

  Fiona gracefully moves backwards with the door as it opens into my office, getting another chuckle from both of us. Mine sounds nervous though.

  Fiona moves and the door closes itself. It’s finally time for me to speak.

  “So…what the, uh, fuck?” I note that Fiona does not look bothered as she sits down at my desk. “And why are you smiling?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she says blankly.

  “About the smiling?” My heart’s slowing down from its dead sprint while I sit down across the desk.

  “About the smiling, about me waiting by your door and surely scaring you half to death by leading you into your goddamn office…”

  “Sounds like you’re just realizing all this now,” I comment.

  “You’ve zeroed right in on the human element as always. That’s why you’re still the toast of this fucking town.”

  “So, it’s not nothing,” I say.


  Fiona points at me, smiling, looking just a little more giddy than nervous. “Oh, like I said, nothing. Just a call for you, not long past seven, when I had to answer the phone my goddamn self.”

  “You still get in that early?”

  “That early? I haven’t been home in over twenty-four, my dear,” Fiona informs me.

  All my nervousness, curiosity, and growing impatience are undercut by a creeping sense of guilt.

  “You should’ve gotten your own goddamn Pulitzer,” I tell her.

  Fiona throws her head back and lets out a loud laugh at the Art Deco ceiling tiles. “You mean in addition to yours?”

  “Hey, I earned mine.”

  Fiona shakes her head, laughter still in her eyes. “They don’t give out Pulitzers for hard work, my dear sweet Bea.”

  “No?”

  “We could spend all morning tearing into a semantic debate, or I could just tell you who called.”

  “Okay, fine. Just tell me who fucking called already. Then we can have a larger philosophical debate about how I won that medal and a few months’ rent.”

  I’m enjoying the view out the window behind my desk—I never really stopped to look at it. I’m also enjoying the weirdness and mystery of this morning, to the point I almost don’t want to know what the hell’s going on.

  “It was…I guess you could say it was a building that called you,” Fiona allows.

  “Of course it was. What else would it be? Are you okay? How long have you been in the office, again?” I ask.

  “A mansion, specifically.”

  My heart’s starting to pick up the pace again—not quite back into a sprint, but a nice jog turning into a bit of a run.

  “What architectural style was this mansion?” I’m trying to play along and not let my nervousness get the best of me.

  “It was…it is mostly neoclassical, with a bit of”

  “Palladian?”

  “Bingo,” declares Fiona.

  My heart’s off again like it’s starring in fucking “Chariots of Fire.”

  This is not just any mansion she’s talking about. This is maybe the most famous mansion in the country. And it’s where he lives.

  Suddenly, I’m not really noticing the view anymore, and the room’s starting to feel smaller. I slightly lean over my desk, and Fiona comically leans towards me as well.

  “The White House?” It comes out as a whisper.

  I know it’s the fucking White House, but I’m still hoping I’m wrong, somehow.

  “The very same.” Fiona whispers back.

  Fuck.

  The most famous mansion in the country and its most famous resident are both reminders of a part of my life I’m still trying to forget about years later.

  “But who would be calling me from there?”

  Maybe it has nothing to do with him. Lots of people work in the White House.

  “Olivier’s office, supposedly.” Fiona answers, whispering even more quietly.

  I sit straight back up in my chair and start talking loudly and clearly. That’s the Communications Director.

  “Communications? What do they want with me?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, but I don’t think they’re watching now, so you can relax.”

  Yeah, my mind is on the president again, and not because he’s the president. It’s because I still haven’t forgotten the way he treated me when I last knew him—well, before he was a president of anything.

  Trying to get out of my own mind, I focus on what Fiona might be thinking.

  “Are you nervous?” The question just escapes me, and I’m not even sure what it means.

  Luckily, Fiona looks less confused by it. She even gives another little laugh up at the ceiling.

  “I’m not afraid of anyone pinching you from the Digest. You know, no one else is gonna run a piece like that one last year, the one that got you that medal and that few months’ rent.” Fiona’s getting into serious mode now, standing up at my desk. “You won’t get that impact—that impact you deserve, anywhere else.”

  I stand up to match my editor in chief’s energy.

  “It’s not about what I deserve. I’m just another tiny piece of the giant puzzle. And maybe I don’t fit. But maybe nobody really does, but I need to keep shouting at myself as much as anybody to remember to hold onto humanity and compassion as tightly as I can. Because as we keep witnessing time and again, the one thing that…”

  I notice my editor-in-chief, standing, looking at me, smiling affectionately, waiting patiently.

  “I didn’t just pound on the desk, did I?” I ask.

  “No, but I think you were about to.”

  “Fuck it. Did the old mansion leave a message?”

  “The White House left a number, yes.” Now that she’s finished delivering the news, Fiona’s on her way out the door. “You can get it from Belle.”

  “You handed the call off to her?”

  “Of course not. I texted you that shit. Come on.”

  “Oh…funny joke.”

  “I’ve had better,” Fiona says as she turns the doorknob. “But I know how delicate these things can be.”

  Collapsing back as I got the chair, I claw my phone out of my purse. The text is there, right on my screen—a phone number and nothing else.

  He probably has nothing to do with this, and besides, I don’t give a damn that he’s reached the highest office in the land.

  On the other hand, I do give a damn that we haven’t spoken since that night he was first elected senator. And I wasn’t even invited to the fucking victory party.

  “Fiona?”

  And I wasn’t even invited to the fucking victory party.

  “Sure,” Fiona sighs, almost ready to open the door for real. “I can do one more question before getting back to the grind of this hugely important publica—”

  “What do you think this is about?”

  “If I had any idea, I would tell you. Whatever happens though…well, I trust you.”

  “Trust me?” I ask.

  “If there’s anyone in the universe as we know it that will make the right decision and do the right thing, it’s you.”

  My editor-in-chief is out the door before I can respond. And before I can think about it any longer, I tap the phone number, prompting my phone to call it.

  And it rings.

  “Fuck.”

  And it rings again.

  “Yeah?”

  That’s how my call is answered, with an impatient male voice, which makes me feel like I have the wrong number.

  “Good morning. This is Beatrice Barlow from the DC Digest.”

  “Oh, right. Okay, this won’t take long because it can’t—sorry if I seem curt. We’re just on a tight schedule as always.”

  “Who is this, may I ask? Or what capacity…”

  “I’m on the White House staff. Everyone here is a huge fan of your work, Miss Barlow, specifically your piece about the connection between famine and conflict.”

  “Oh. I remember that one.”

  “You should, it won you the Pulitzer,” the anonymous staffer responds.

  “That was supposed to be a joke, sorry.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “But, yes, I did get a few months’ rent and a nice medal from that.”

  “You also drew parallels in a frank way that put a long, long overdue human face on issues of hunger, of impoverished farmers, of the short lives that are marked by endless war, of the connections between famine and conflict and stability and power…”

  “I remember, I wrote—”

  “Please allow me to continue gushing for a moment, Miss Barlow. It wasn’t a book you wrote. It was an article—a compelling, accessible article that brought so many issues so clearly to the forefront, issues that can be easy to ignore or deny, but which are ignored at the peril of every living thing. Well, as you said, you wrote the thing, Miss Barlow.”

  This mysterious staffer likes to talk more than he lets on, but at least he hasn’t
mentioned the one subject I’ve been hoping to avoid.

  “I appreciate it. And at least he hasn’t mentioned the one subjuct…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch…”

  “Okay, this call is getting behind schedule. You made it to the top of this list.”

  “What? Oh…”

  The list this mystery staffer is referring to is the short list of the official White House biographer-to-be. After the Pulitzer win, my life was flooded with seemingly meaningless letters and phone calls from all sorts of organizations.

  The biographer thing just got lost in the flood. I never thought it would lead to anything. I didn’t want it to, either.

  “In actuality, at this point, Miss Barlow. Congratulations.”

  Fuck, he’s just assuming that I would want the job.

  “Just to be clear, you’re offering me the White House biographer position.”

  “The Official Biographer position, Miss Barlow. Not only have you worked in politics before…”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. The blurb after your article in the Digest, also the internet—we do try to vet people, like any employer—and I also work for the president, remember. Although you might know him better as a senator.”

  “Senatorial candidate,” I correct the mystery staffer.

  He’s right, though. It’s no secret that I worked on Thatcher’s senatorial campaign.

  “Before I jump off this call, Miss Barlow, I must speculate that you enjoyed working on a winning campaign, did you not? Especially with an idealistic young candidate who seems to share so many of your passions.”

  “Political passions, maybe. I don’t really know how he felt…”

  The Mystery Staffer’s confusion can be heard loud and clear through the silence on the other end.

  Yeah, I fell for him. Before he was president, or senator.

  And he fell for me, too.

  Before, for whatever fucking ready, he fell back.

  Far away from me.

  The fanboy mystery staffer hangs up, leaving me with a lot to digest indeed.

  Henry

  The Resolute desk isn’t the favorite desk that I’ve ever had, but it’s close.

  The size is a bit much for my taste. There’s too much empty space—space that’s supposed to either remain empty-looking and powerful, or be filled with family photos.