The Politics of Love (A Romantic Comedy)

by Ines Saint

  "My sister's calling me."

  "I don't hear her calling you." The tenor of his voice was so low, it reverberated in her chest.

  She smiled a little. "That's because you don't know my name."

  They'd stopped dancing, the rain coming down just a little bit harder.

  "That's right. I don't."

  As they continued to stand there, Kayla realized he wasn't going to ask for her name. She realized she didn't want to tell him anyway and didn't want to know he who was, either. He was looking at her mouth and sending her nerves into a tizzy. His hand reached up to smooth a strand of her hair behind her ear, and her heart lurched. It was too much. Her whole body screamed she was not ready. Ready for what?

  She dropped her arms and looked down. The last notes of "Strangers in the Night" died away, and he released her, too.

  "Bye," she said, unable to think of anything else to say. And then she turned, picked up her skirts, and ran.

  Chapter 1

  September, Pittsburgh

  Kayla sprinted through the streets of Pittsburg, eager to get home. Michelle Moynihan, Second City Symphony's concertmaster, had left her a voicemail asking her to call back as soon as possible but she didn't want to talk to Michelle with the sound of traffic and the buzz of dozens of conversations surrounding her.

  She took the steps to her apartment two at a time, fumbled with her keys, and opened the door. Before she called Michelle back, she needed to get a grip. It was a well-known fact within their world that orchestras never bothered to call with a rejection. She leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and put her palm against her chest, willing her heart to slow down.

  When she opened her eyes, her gaze landed on a picture of her and her father that had been taken after her very first recital. She'd done everything he'd told her to do. She had striven for dream plan A but had worked equally as hard to have a more practical plan B in place, just in case. After eight years of constantly studying, working, and daily practice, it seemed like plan A would come true.

  Kayla knew how fortunate she was and was dizzy with happiness at the thought of moving back home to Chicago to play with a renowned orchestra. Thoughts of renting a loft near Tania's Albany Park condo and buying a cute used car also whirled in her head. A dream job, family nearby, a nice place to live, and a car!

  But two minutes later, the thoughts stopped whirling. They collided with reality and came to a screeching halt.

  "It's not you, it's us." Kayla picked up on the earnest, genuine note in Michelle's voice but it didn't make her feel better. She was sitting on her bed, listening to Michelle reject her. "I wanted to catch you before the auditions committee called, wanted to talk to you first and explain."

  "The auditions committee is going to call, too?" Kayla struggled to keep her voice steady. All she wanted to do was end the call and have a good cry. No reason to hear the sympathetic thanks, but no thanks, twice.

  "Yes—to offer you the newly-created substitute position." Michelle paused. "I was afraid you'd reject the offer on the spot because it doesn't pay much, only a $6,500 stipend for ten months, but I wanted to let you know it's really a great opportunity in disguise."

  Kayla bobbed her head robotically at Michelle's hurried speech. Inside, different emotions were playing out. Substitute position? She'd still be part of the orchestra, and she'd be home! But... only a $6,500 stipend for ten months?

  She forced herself to untie the knots in her stomach and consider her options. With student loans to pay off and not much money saved up, she was only being offered a small stipend by the orchestra. She couldn't stay where she was because the education department was cutting music funds and her current position was on the chopping block. The full-time teaching position she'd been offered at an elite private school in New Jersey was her best bet.

  Michelle continued, "Our funding is stable, and we've largely escaped the financial crises plaguing others across the country but healthy reserves are a must, and we need to bring in more resources."

  Understanding dawned "It's a financial problem, and you're not hiring anyone full-time?"

  "Not quite..." She sighed. "We're hiring Julia Hamilton, but we really want you, too. It's difficult to explain."

  "Julia Hamilton?" Kayla repeated, feeling the walls of her already too-small studio closing in on her. Funding crisis. Julia Hamilton. She fell back on her bed, her thoughts racing. Julia Hamilton was, in a sense, Chicago royalty. Her mother owned a string of trendy, boutique hotels and her father had played for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for over thirty years. Julia was a technically outstanding violinist, but Kayla felt her performances lacked emotion.

  But orchestras needed outside patrons, funding, and support. And someone like Julia Hamilton could bring all three to the regional orchestra.

  "Are you still there?" Michelle asked.

  "I'm here." She sat up. Should she chase a difficult dream with everything she had or should she settle for a bland, but easily attainable reality? Taking a deep, calming breath, she asked, "And you were saying something about a substitute position being a great opportunity in disguise?"

  "Yes! Even though it sounds like a raw deal, there's a really great chance you'll be asked to become a regular member at some point..."

  None of what Michelle said sounded especially promising, but Kayla pushed the thought away. Her decision was made, and she needed to focus on making ends meet. Things like moving in with her mother, taking on private students, and finding part-time work... With a sigh, she realized a long, hot shower is what she really needed.

  The moment she climbed out of the tiny shower stall, there was a knock on her door. She rushed to pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, went to the door, and peeked through the peephole to see her boyfriend, Brandon. He'd been acting strange the past few weeks, and she worried the long-distance thing was taking its toll. Still, she was happy to see him, and she opened the door to let him in, eager to tell him everything and get his opinion.

  No hug. No kiss. Only a half-hearted hello. Two long strides and he was sitting on the comfortable old armchair by the window, his legs apart, hands folded between his knees. Frowning, Kayla swung the door shut.

  "We need to talk."

  Her heart fell, and she went to sit on her bed. "Is everything alright?"

  "No. This isn't easy." He wouldn't look at her.

  "You're breaking up with me." Awkwardness filled the air when he didn't answer. "You're going to give me the 'it's not you; it's me' speech, too," she said, more to herself than to him.

  "What do you mean 'too'? Have you been seeing someone else?" He finally looked at her, a flash of emotion in his eyes.

  Her heartbeat picked up. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he wasn't breaking up with her. "No! Second City Orchestra called and..." She paused and with a shake of her head said, "Something is bothering you. What is it? Can I help?"

  "No." He sighed and looked down again. "I guess I came to give you the 'it's not me, it's you' speech. In person."

  Struck dumb by the words, Kayla could only stare as Brandon stood up and went to look out the window, effectively avoiding her eyes and directing his words to the world outside instead of to her face. "You're not into me, Kayla. You're not attracted to me."

  "Of course I find you attractive—"

  He turned to look at her, eyes blazing. "But you're not attracted to me, and I need you to be. I need intimacy in a relationship. We've talked about this."

  Dread filled her. He needed more. And she didn't want to lose him. Did that mean she was ready to take the next step?

  Strange anxiety tangled up with the dread. She kept waiting for this great wave of desire to carry her away and make her lose her mind, but it never came. It never had. Not with any boyfriend except maybe her first; Robbie, who was now her best friend and had a steady boyfriend of his own. And even then, it had been more about fulfilling a mutual need for love and intimacy than anything else. A sweet, fumbling experience they both still laughed
about, and both still treasured. Could she have something like that with Brandon? Intimacy with sweet feelings, if not passion? With a little more time, a little more friendship, she knew she could. "I—I told you it would take time, and you said you were okay with that. We've been together for four months, and I guess that must seem like a long time to you, but—"

  Brandon raked both hands through his hair and interrupted her. "Please understand where I'm coming from. I play at all these jazz clubs, and the mood in them is... conducive. There are willing women, every night, and every night I reject them, hoping that after four months, you'll finally be ready."

  Anger filled her. What did he want, her congratulations? "If you think that telling me all about your disease-infested groupies are going to get me into bed, then you are seriously delusional. You sound like an ass."

  "Disease-infested groupies?" Brandon shot her a wary glance, and she shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her bedspread. He walked away from the window, squatted in front of her and took her hands in his. "I didn't come here to fight. I really mean it when I say I just don't think you're attracted to me."

  "But we're so great together," Kayla reasoned, grabbing onto his hands. "At least, usually we are. We're both musicians, we like the same restaurants, the same music, the same movies. My more optimistic nature balances your occasional gloom and doom..." Her voice trailed off when Brandon began shaking his head.

  "You're describing friendship, Kayla, not the kind of passion you should feel for me."

  Kayla looked into Brandon's soulful brown eyes. Of course, she thought he was attractive. But out of nowhere, an image of intense blue eyes flashed before her. Rattled and conscious-stricken, she dropped his hands. He leaned in and kissed her softly, and she felt slightly comforted, but not on fire. How could one stranger's gaze be hotter and more moving than her boyfriend's kiss?

  It hit her then that the answer didn't matter. Comfort is what she wanted, not fire. Fire left destruction in its wake. In very different ways, it had left parts of her sister and mother in ashes. That's not what she wanted. But she still wasn't comfortable enough with Brandon. It wasn't fair to him.

  Still, his change of heart seemed sudden. He'd been whispering tender words over the phone only two nights ago. "You're really breaking up with me because you don't think I'm attracted to you? There's no other reason?"

  "What I'm saying is, I think we should take a break. Maybe in three or four months, you'll start to miss me, and you'll want to throw yourself into my arms because you can't resist me instead of opening the door as if you've got other things on your mind."

  Kayla slowly nodded, wondering if she could ever wake whatever was dormant within her for Brandon. He needed passion, but she needed a deeper emotional connection first. He hadn't once asked her what the other things on her mind were. Their break up had revolved around his needs and her faults. And she wasn't in the mood to point it out. "Alright, Brandon, let's take a break. Let's both try and figure out if we're capable of giving the other what they need."

  Kayla closed the door behind him and tried to make sense of her whirlwind morning. Twenty minutes ago she'd been sure she had both the career and the man she wanted. Abruptly, everything had changed, leaving her bewildered and alone.

  At least, in a few days, she'd be home. Home! Right now, she wanted nothing more than to be eating her mom's famous sweet, coconut tembleque, with her older sister's fiercely protective arms around her and her niece beside her, making her laugh. She texted them the good news that she was moving back home, and left it at that. The nitty-gritty would bring them down, and she only wanted to share the good news with them at the moment.

  Then she called her best friend, Jess Nowak. Jess was pragmatic and realistic, and she'd understand why Kayla was feeling ambiguous. When she didn't pick up, she left a message and decided to start packing, to give her hands something to do. For once, she didn't feel like practicing.

  Her thoughts wandered to the months ahead as she steadily worked. Would she and Brandon work things out or break up for good? Would she be a regular member of Second City Symphony, or would she be applying for teaching positions and auditioning for orchestras in other cities?

  Before she could gauge how she would feel about the negatives, Jess called. And she had an idea.

  * * *

  One week later

  A stack of papers fell with a neat smack on Jake Kelly's desk. "Internal polls," Jess Nowak, his friend and press secretary, said.

  Jake tried to keep his frustration in check. "I already went through them. I'm still behind in a number of key constituencies, but I've made progress. The community meetings are working. Eighteen communities down, fifty-nine to go before February 5th. We've got time," he summarized. On hearing Jess sigh, he looked up and tried to address her valid concerns. "Look—the challenges different people face to fulfill their different needs matter. That's why certain polling matters to me. But I truly believe that most people are looking for solutions, and if they understand that I want them to participate in coming up with good ideas that, instead of being along party lines, are in line with what each neighborhood, constituency and the city as a whole needs, then I think they will respond to that. That's why I want to meet with them, to learn from them and form connections that will help later on."

  Jake's best friend and campaign manager, Marcus, stifled a sigh and looked out the window before meeting his eyes. "You're right. But reality is reality... And your father's real estate projects haven't been forgotten. He would've razed an entire working class neighborhood if they hadn't fought back." Jake shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his late father, and Marcus's voice softened. "Every one of his deals benefited the wealthy and hurt the rest. People are having a hard time separating you from you him," he explained, and Jake knew the harsh words hadn't been easy for him to say.

  "It's an unfortunate history that has helped shape people's image of you," Jess agreed, not-so-subtly weaving what seemed like her new favorite word into the conversation.

  After a few beats of silence, Jake met Marcus's eyes. "I'm more than willing—I'm eager—to correct misunderstandings about my person because I know people need to trust me." He shifted his gaze to Jess. "That's why I want to personally knock on every door. I want to talk to people. My numbers are up in the neighborhoods I've visited. Let's concentrate on what's working."

  "The problem is many won't even open their doors, and neighborhood leaders won't host meetings if we don't fix your image," Jess argued. "Playboy born with a diamond-encrusted—and possibly stolen—spoon in your mouth. How do you expect the majority of the people in this city to listen to you with an image like that?" she asked, more gently. "I know you don't want to do things the traditional way, but impressions do matter. We form impressions, in part, as a defense mechanism, to protect ourselves. You need to take highly visible actions that, in general, show people who you are, so they can begin to trust you."

  Playboy... Had avoiding messy relationships turned him into a cliché? "How can you be sure that's how people see me?" Jake asked, masking his sensitivity to the issue with a hard look. He shook his head and walked to the window in front of his desk, focusing his attention on the large, restored brick mansion directly across the street where the first of his two nonprofit centers were housed.

  Filip Nowak, Jess's grandfather and the man who'd been like a real father to him, was sitting on the sun-spangled front steps, sharing a bag of chips with a few local kids.

  Jake usually felt comfortable in his office, the blue-grey walls, white molding, plush black leather seating, and a tempered glass conference table and desk all inviting him to focus on work. But today he wanted to be outside, under the warm sun, instead of in here, worrying about his image.

  A third and fourth generation Chicagoan, Jake felt his city was as much a part of him as his family. He loved Chicago's dramatic history, storied cultural diversity, rich architecture and most of all, it's vibrant communities—no two neighborhoods
were alike. His entire adult life had been dedicated to giving back to the city that had allowed him to hide out and disappear, and learn and discover when things had been too miserable at home. He'd taken plenty of heat from his father, first majoring in Social Policy and then focusing his efforts on mixed-use, mixed-income redevelopments to revitalize distressed neighborhoods.

  Right now, though, he knew there was only so much he could do with his organization and developments if the city's government wasn't working to its full potential. The next step was to work on the inside, as the city's mayor. But he couldn't get there without enough votes. And he wouldn't garner enough votes if he didn't fix his image.

  Sucking in a frustrated breath, he turned from the window and blinked when a cell phone was placed inches away from his face. "I love you, but you need some tough talk. This is how I'm sure," Jess said before hitting play. "Meet Charles and Edith Mallard."

  A grainy video popped up on the small screen and Jake watched a confused elderly couple sway in and out of focus before beginning to speak, the man too close to the speaker. "He seems earnest when he talks about his ideas, but in general, his demeanor is cold and distant. Every week I see a picture of him out with a different woman, and that tells me something about his level of commitment to people in general." Charles put his arm over his wife. "How can a man who can't commit to one woman at a time commit to a whole city?" The time on the video ran out just as the man's wife was going to speak and her frozen image stared back at Jake, her lips puckered in what seemed like disapproval.

  Jess hit a button, went back to a thumbnail screen, and expanded another video. "Miriam Gutierrez," she said, and an older woman with short, reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes got closer to the camera, hesitated, and began to speak. "I just don't connect with him. He's too... perfect. Too plastic. Some people like that, but I prefer someone more human."

  "And this is—"

  "I get it," Jake interrupted just as Marcus held up a page taken from the society section of The Chicago Tribune. The paper displayed a full-color picture of him wearing a tuxedo and escorting a leggy, busty beauty, who, he knew, had more than a little 'plastic' in her.