“Daddy to the rescue!” he called out, galloping like a horse. “What do we have here? Well, you’ve gone and got yourself into quite a pickle, haven’t you?” He laughed. “Look at Mommy!”
She waved. “Good morning, lovelies.”
The girls squealed and cheered, contentedly attached to Ted, as he fiddled with the door, inspecting the seal, picking at it, and jiggling the whole thing in its frame. (Somehow, observing this effort felt worse than just kicking the thing down.) The non-sleep-deprived Reagan would’ve already been laughing at the whole episode, but this one—the cold, tired, wet, naked one—put her hands on her hips and sighed. “Give me your cold, your tired, your naked. Give me a towel.” With a pop, the door unstuck and Ted opened it proudly, the girls clapping as he tossed a towel at her.
“So I’m gonna need that ride to the airport, after all.”
* * *
The mailman arrived at the same time as the sitter, Stacy, their favorite My Gym teacher, fresh out of college but seemingly even younger. Reagan kissed Natasha’s and Daisy’s soft curls, snuggled their necks in that way that always made them both giggle, then left them playing with Stacy in their bubblegum-pink bedroom.
She stole away to her room and tossed the much-anticipated package on the unmade bed. She lived a mile from the shops at Friendship Heights, two miles from Bethesda Row, and four miles from Georgetown, but damned if she knew when she was supposed to have time for shopping. She hoped one of these rented cocktail dresses fit. At least she hadn’t eaten in the twenty-four hours since being freed from the shower—too busy—though it wasn’t like her. She feared she might be on the verge of another bout of the Norovirus. She barely slept, and her immune system had been shot since having the twins.
Reagan sat at her desk, fired up her laptop and began reading—today was as much an indulgence as it was a necessity. She had until about 6:00 p.m. to get through the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Politico, The Queue, the Washington Post, the Economist, the New Yorker, the Atlantic, Financial Times, the Los Angeles Times, and then for extra color, Us Weekly, People, Vogue, Vanity Fair. Everything she no longer had time to read on a regular basis; everything she needed to feel prepared for a Birdie Brandywine cocktail party.
She flipped on the TV to CNN and poured a 5-Hour Energy shot into her hot coffee, stirred it with her finger—“Ow! Fuck!”—and took a big swig before shooting off a quick text to Jay, her best friend, who was currently in the throes of a romantic upheaval: It isn’t chickening out, if you DON’T do something that would’ve been a mistake. You’re suffering from a case of good judgment. Kudos. xo. With a deep breath, she began speed-reading. As she consumed the words, and the caffeine, she felt herself metamorphosing into her alter ego: a sociable person capable of discussing an array of topics beyond just the eating and sleeping habits of tiny humans. Politics, news, government had once been her lifeblood. She was reminded again—as she had been with the karate—that she had all sorts of skill sets that weren’t being utilized on a regular basis.
3
THIS IS IT, AMERICAN DREAM STUFF RIGHT HERE
Just as Jay shrugged off his coat and the first snowflakes of January, and pulled up the email, which had arrived right on time, the phone rang. “Shit, Helena,” he said out loud when the executive editor’s name popped up. She never called Arts & Culture; too much legit news needed attention, especially this election season. There was a reason The Queue had become the fastest-growing internet magazine/news aggregator/online forum/digital powerhouse/whatever-the-marketing-team-was-branding-it-as-this-week since Helena came on board. He ran his hand through his short black hair and answered, too peppy, “Hey there, Helena!”
A flat “Pop by, Jorge” was all he got in return. Helena was the only person besides his mother who used his full name. And that construction was her trademark: “Pop by, you’re fired.” “Pop by, you’re short-listed for the Pulitzer.” Whether good or bad news, it didn’t matter. And at a site where each story was ranked by traffic—hence “the queue”—it was too easy to see which editors were delivering and which weren’t.
“Absolutely, on my way!” He hoped he wasn’t getting fired. To be honest, he always felt the place was probably a little fast and a little competitive for him, not really his scene—and that’s what he told himself anytime he got harsh feedback on a story he edited or had ideas shot down.
He grabbed his iPhone, tucked a pen behind his ear and bolted out of his office, bringing up the email he had just begun reading on his computer: Happy Monoday, J! Here you go... He overlooked the typo. Classic Reagan, she had probably pulled an all-nighter. She’d always loved the thrill of the deadline, ever since he’d met her at Georgetown, back when she would start studying for a final the night before and ace it. Write a ten-page paper the morning it was due and see it go on to be published in the Georgetown Law Journal...as a freshman, and which undergrads couldn’t even submit to. She had even caught the eye of Alexandra Arnold, then a visiting professor and senator on her way to becoming the Secretary of the Treasury. That was Reagan, and she always acted like it was all no big deal.
Jay skimmed the column quickly enough to gauge that there were no major problems (of course) and, still walking, tapped out a speedy response just so Reagan wouldn’t worry (because she would if she didn’t hear from him promptly enough). Thanks, doll. Fab as always. More soon, running! As he strode past the reporters’ labyrinth of cubicles, a tall, lean body fell in line with him. A notepad tapped the small of his back, then came a nervous whisper.
“Shit. Helena,” Sky said.
“I know.” Jay looked up from his phone as they walked together. And now Jay did know: he wasn’t getting fired. But a whole new set of fears crashed over him. He tried to be cool, always a struggle.
“Is this about my tip?” Sky whispered. “Gotta be, right?”
When Sky had brought the news to him, Jay had been the one to get the Politics desk on it and to keep Sky looped in, not let it get passed to some other reporter just because Sky was Arts & Culture. There was always a bit of a Cold War between the news and features departments at The Queue.
“Yeah, could be, absolutely, I mean. Yeah,” Jay said.
“Then, what next?” he asked quietly. Sky was asking if he was up to the challenge.
“Then, this is it, American dream stuff right here,” Jay said, managing some reassurance, but he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of dread in his gut. If Helena went for this, then things would change. But, of course, he wanted this for Sky. He deserved it.
Eyes straight ahead, Jay dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out Sky’s watch. Without a word, Sky fastened it on his bare wrist. He had left Jay’s U Street condo that morning, in his lululemon sweats and earbuds, looking like a paparazzo shot of a celebrity out in the wild: gorgeous without even trying, as he returned to his own studio on H Street in Northeast. He forgot his watch, his phone, some vital personal item, three out of five days a week, but they maintained the somewhat inconvenient arrangement all to avoid walking into the office together. It was a habit that had started after their first night together—floated by Jay, playing the role of the older and wiser of the two—and continued now, mostly because things had been going so well and Jay dreaded boat-rocking of any kind.
“My source was solid. Like, better than solid, know what I mean?” Sky whispered, barely making eye contact as they wove around a pair of Capitol Hill reporters pulling on gloves and hats to go cover hearings, editors returning from their morning coffee breaks and a trio of writers ducking into The Queue’s own yoga studio. The site had been doing so well in the five years since its inception that their three-floor office in Columbia Heights had begun to resemble a mini Palo Alto tech campus.
“Washington Ballet review coming to you at ten,” said Sophie, the long-limbed freelance dance critic, who spent more time in the office availing herself of its amenities than
people who were actually on staff.
“Great,” Jay said, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be in until noon but would be good enough that he could let it slide.
“Hey, Sky, great interview with José Andrés.” Sophie petted the long waves of her ponytail, so thick it looked like doll’s hair. “Jaleo is totally, like, my favorite restaurant. Or, second to Bar Mini maybe.”
“Thanks, Soph,” Sky said, patting his abs. “Put on a few on that one. His new place is killer.” He appeared not to realize that she was flirting with him. Jay had gotten used to this, everyone flirted with Sky. Boy, girl, animal, vegetable, mineral.
As soon as they set foot in Helena’s office, they knew. Jay raised his eyebrows at Sky, who looked like he might be sick. He didn’t get called into the executive editor’s office often or ever. Rocky Haze played on Helena’s laptop. She clicked the keys feverishly, pausing only to signal they should close the door and to push her blunt black bangs out of her face.
“Did you know Haze raps a huge chunk of the Constitution on here?” she said to her screen. “I mean, almost in its entirety? I suddenly have a newfound respect for the American people that they’re into this. They may learn something.” She was Canadian and enjoyed a minor superiority complex about it.
“Haze is actually a pretty smart lady, beneath the tats,” Jay said, jittery. Sky looked too nervous to speak.
“She writes two articles for Foreign Policy magazine and suddenly she’s qualified to be president.” Helena shook her head.
“It’s two more articles than Hank Goodfellow has ever written,” Jay said under his breath, skewering the most popular and least qualified of candidates in the race so far.
“Well, she’s a UNHCR Special Envoy,” Sky said, hesitantly. “United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, you know? She’s pretty up on what’s happening in Syria and stuff—”
“Save it for the copy,” Helena cut him off.
Sky straightened his posture beside Jay, optimism now ricocheting between them.
“So, I thought you were crazy when you said she cut off her hair extensions because she was running for president, but hat tip to you,” she said. “As you may know, there are literally twenty-seven people running for president at the moment, so we are tapped out. You guys are now moonlighting on the political team.”
Jay and Sky looked at each other, a mix of fear and shock reflected in one another’s eyes.
Helena continued. “Travel is hooking you up, check in with them and tell Haze we want some exclusives at the presser since she came to us first.”
“Wow, this is, wow.” Jay dabbed his perspiring brow, trying to smile.
“Thank you, Helena,” Sky said, though she was preoccupied with her screen. “This is, you won’t regret—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She clicked her laptop keys. “I’m forwarding some files to you.” She looked at Jay. “You’ll start getting all the poli team threads. Off you go.”
Jay wanted to go home. Now. He had to find that velvet box hidden in his sock drawer. That brushed platinum ring he had purchased two months ago, while battling a rare case of overconfidence, from Tiny Jewel Box in Dupont Circle. He realized he had spaced out and missed the cue to vacate when she repeated, “Off you go.”
Just before he closed the door, she barked, “Hey! Where are we on Birdie Brandywine?”
Jay peeked back in, making an effort to appear less deer-in-the-headlights than he felt. Birdie Brandywine was the queen bee of Georgetown; she threw the best parties—and also happened to be one of Washington’s most successful political fund-raisers. That story was the last thing on his mind now. “Brandywine. Right. Big Iowa caucus viewing party is tomorrow night, of course. I’m nearly done with the piece. Dropping in colorful anecdotes of the last-minute preparations tomorrow morning. Going back with the photographer then. Flowers arriving. Caterers. But the phone pre-interview is all done.” He spoke in bullet points, expecting to be cut off anytime. Jay generally didn’t have the time to write these days; editing a daily portal left him creatively spent and in need of a generous glass of wine at the end of each day. But for the great Birdie Brandywine, he would make an exception. He felt they were kindred spirits, even though he had only actually spoken to her once. His fantasies revolved around someday presiding over his own salon, like hers, and being the consummate Washington host.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sky—that cobalt-fuschia-striped shirt beneath his slate sweater-vest—already halfway down the hall, a spring in his step. Jay needed to follow him, needed to know what Travel would say, how soon he’d be going. He could barely remember what the newsroom felt like before Sky walked into it—and into his life—a year ago.
“We’ll need the piece by noon tomorrow. Pics too,” Helena said, shaking him from his thoughts. “And make sure there’s a Buck quote.” She looked him in the eye, firm.
“Of course,” he said, lying. Buck Brandywine was notoriously reticent when it came to his wife’s business.
As soon as the door closed, he pulled his phone from his pocket, finished his rambling message to Birdie just as he reached Sky’s cubicle.
“I’m on the first flight out tomorrow!” Sky said, eyes wide, giddy. “Can you believe? Granite State, here I come!”
Jay threw a Hail Mary. “We’re celebrating—Rose’s Luxury, 7:00 p.m. Last supper before you embed.”
“Seriously? Do we have time to wait in that line?”
“7:00 p.m.!” Jay said over his shoulder. Thinking, thinking: should he do it tonight? Yes? No?
* * *
The next morning, Jay settled into a firm, ivory sofa and quietly studied Birdie Brandywine’s living room. He couldn’t help but gawk at the larger-than-life photo of a very young Birdie, golden hair blowing in the wind, and youngish Buchanan “Buck” Brandywine in jeans and plaid button-downs, sitting stately atop a horse like some kind of throwback Ralph Lauren ad. Together, the toast of Washington and pride of their native Great Plains.
A triple-shot latte from Leopold’s Kafe sat untouched on the glass coffee table. This was Birdie’s regular order from her favorite coffee shop: Jay had done his research. He had gotten one for himself too, which he now regretted, having nervously guzzled it on the chilly walk through Georgetown to her historic brick, Federal-style mansion on tony, tree-lined N Street. By the time he had reached her charming emerald-painted door, he’d been a sickly, jittery combination of hungover and overcaffeinated. Not the way he’d wished to arrive at the Brandywine home, but at least he had been on time.
Though he was excited to meet Birdie in person for the first time, Jay couldn’t stop thinking about Sky. Their celebratory dinner the night before had been near-perfect and yet, ultimately, a failure, hadn’t it? It would have been a brilliant send-off too, if not for that one unasked question of Jay’s. What was wrong with him?
That couple in front of them in the endless line outside hadn’t helped matters: they had just gotten engaged, and Jay didn’t need that kind of pressure when he himself had a velvet box in his pocket, like a concealed weapon he was too terrified to actually wield. Of course Sky had made friends with them, and they’d found out that the guy had somehow dropped the ring off the top of the Capitol just before what should’ve been an epic proposal. While waiting in line for their table, the editor in Jay had sprung into action and posted the guy’s video of the proposal on The Queue, with a call to help find the diamond. By morning the story was ranked No. 3.
His heart sped. He already missed Sky, who would be at the airport by the time the interview ended and wouldn’t be back until next week. He wouldn’t be there to duck out for dinner after work, or at Jay’s place when he woke up, forgetting his watch on the night table. Jay’s thumb hovered over Sky’s name on his speed dial. Their union felt so dependent upon proximity and momentum, like certain laws of physics or, for instance, Hank Goodfellow’s curre
nt poll numbers, and he needed to hear his voice. Jay was about to push the screen when a familiar voice came from the doorway. He recognized it from years of news programs.
“You must be from The Queue.” Buck Brandywine strode in after thirty minutes, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.
Jay stood to shake his hand, speechless in the presence of a Society Pages unicorn.
“Buck Brandywine. Welcome.” Skin the color of leather, hair the shade of straw. He seemed far younger than his fifty-six years, and looked like he belonged on a ranch, which, of course, was exactly where he had famously grown up before arriving in Washington to work for a senator, jumping to the White House, and henceforth becoming a political legend.
“Yes! Jay. Hi! Mr. Brandywine, sir,” he found his words at last. “Great to meet you. Thank you for having me today, it’s an honor. Your home is stunning.”
“Thank you. I know my wife is looking forward to showing you around.” Buck perched on the arm of the sofa, motioning for Jay to have a seat. “She’s the brains of this act, you know. I wish I knew how she did it. For me, getting a party of this magnitude off the ground is like trying to launch a rocket from a lily pad. But she just loves it. We get all these folks in here, ambassadors, cabinet secretaries, administration types, and they never want to leave. Here’s a story for you, Birdie would have my hide for telling it, but I once woke up the morning after her Iowa party in—what was it, ’96?—to find the CIA director passed out on the couch, wearing nothing but his skivvies. His wife got fed up early in the party, went home. He was drinking whisky all night, fell in the pool, got hauled out by the ambassador of Paraguay. I made him hair of the dog, loaned him some clothes and drove him home myself. Lived over an hour away, all the way out in Middleburg, Virginia, horse country.” He shook his head.
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