by Claire Adams
I rushed into the bathroom, then. My breaths were coming in strange, scattered stages. I inhaled with my nose, exhaled with my mouth, trying to right my brain once more. I staged toward the sink and thought I was going to get sick. I gazed at myself in the mirror, looking at an unsteady, insane person. The girl in the mirror was not Amanda Martin. She was a strained and haggard woman—someone who needed help.
I brought water over my face and padded my cheeks with my fingertips. I coughed into my fist and felt my body rattle. Who would help me? Who could I turn to? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.
I turned back and leaned heavy on the porcelain, my mind racing. Xavier couldn’t know about this. He had so much on his plate; he couldn’t sit around, worrying about this man. And what would he do, anyway? Wouldn’t Jason discover what was going on and immediately release the photos to the public?
My mind was chaotic, strained. I turned toward the wall and pounded on it once, twice, three times. The tears were running heavy down my cheeks.
And then, suddenly, I realized that I did have a friend. Just one friend in the world. I had a bed and a home and a friend.
I spun out toward the door, knowing that I needed to go home, I needed to go see Rachel. She had been a part of this world, before she’d gotten smart enough to get the hell out. And because of her experience, she’d know exactly what to tell me. She’d point me in a reasonable direction.
I just wasn’t sure if I was actually ready to hear what this “reasonable” direction would be. Perhaps it would involve never seeing Xavier again. And just the feel of Xavier’s lips on my neck, on my cheek that morning had made me weak at the knees, ready to give him my all.
I shook my head, trying to clear the cob webs from my head. I was on the curb, trying to hail a taxi. I was going home. And I could be my own woman—I could be someone beyond Xavier’s other woman.
If I had to give up this beautiful, romantic endeavor, so be it.
Right?
Chapter 10
I rushed home, willing the taxi driver to drive faster, to go further. But I sat in back, biting my tongue and waiting. I couldn’t wait to give this to someone else, to ask Rachel to help me carry it. It seemed like too much, in so many ways. And I knew it was.
I burst up the steps, knowing that Rachel had the day off that afternoon. I felt my bag as it banged against my side. Each step seemed further and further apart. Finally, I reached her floor and tapped at the door, bringing my weight from one foot to the other.
Rachel appeared in the crack of the door. She looked so bright, so sunny. She was wearing a spring dress, even on the grey fall day. And she was holding a broom. “Hello! You’re home early!” she called to me.
I loved that she called it my home. In that moment, I felt really light, really happy. But then, she saw my face, and her frown took form. “What is it, Amanda?” she asked. The reality rushed up around me. She pulled out the kitchen chair and allowed me to collapse in it. She locked the door. “You look so sick. Are you all right?” Her voice had taken on that authoritative feel—the one she’d used to use when she’d worked in politics. It was oddly comforting to me. This was the Rachel I had first met.
I shook my head. “I really need to talk to you,” I whispered. I made a strange motion with my hands. My throat was caught. “I just. I need to talk to you.”
Rachel frowned. She reached around and grabbed the wine bottle, then, and she tipped it back on her mouth, allowing the wine to drizzle down her throat. She handed it to me, and I did the same. Then, she grabbed two glasses and got serious.
“Okay,” she stated as she poured. “Is this what you’ve been so upset about—is this why you called me out of the blue?”
I nodded, taking a long sip from the glass of wine. “I’ve made many, many mistakes,” I began then. “You know that I’ve always treated my career as the most important thing.” My eyes flitted up to her, and she nodded, listening to me with such earnestness. “Well. I worked my way to the top, just like I wanted. I had the interview with the president.” I sighed, thinking about his face. “And truth be told, I’ve always had a thing for him. But in an abstract way, you know?”
Rachel nodded. “I remember you talking about it.”
I smiled sheepishly. “I can’t hide things like that very well. Anyway. We started seeing each other. Just as friends, of course. And then: not like friends.”
Rachel’s eyes grew wide. “He’s married,” she whispered. But she didn’t seem shocked; she was simply stating the fact of it. The root of my debacle.
“I know. That is an issue. But I was just following my heart, sort of being reckless. Which isn’t like me at all. And then: boom. He comes to my place. We sleep together. Things get out of hand.”
“Sure,” Rachel whispered. She poured us both another glass of wine. We were drinking far too quickly, and the room was blurring on all sides.
“But Jason—my second in command in the campaign. He had placed cameras in my apartment. And he caught it all on camera. And he’s blackmailing me, Rachel. He’s ruining my life.” I felt my throat crack. I felt the tears course down my cheek. I didn’t know what to do, who to turn to. I watched as Rachel brought her hand toward me, placing it on my arm, rubbing at the skin with her thumb.
“He’s taking advantage of you. This is completely illegal,” Rachel stated. Her words were precise, a bit angry. Her eyes flashed. “I can’t believe this.”
I nodded, closing my eyes. I wanted someone to whisk this all away, to carry it for me.
Rachel thought for a moment, tipping her tongue up to her top lip. She tipped her head to the right. “Have you seen the president since then?”
I nodded, blushing. “We—we care about each other a lot. He told me that he would leave his wife for me.”
Rachel’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “Well. This is quite a quandary. And you’re worried, of course, that if this is exposed, the president will be slaughtered. And naturally, you’re worried about your own career.”
I nodded. Finally. Someone understood. It was out in the open. It was free.
Rachel considered this. “You love him, as well. I understand that. Don’t you think it’s time to tell him about this, to allow him to help you through this?”
Initially, I shook my head vehemently. I nearly laughed. “No. No. I mean. He’s so busy; he’s the president. He has so much on his mind—“
But Rachel squeezed my arm a bit harder, looking at me with such assurance. “You have a good deal on your mind, as well. Please don’t downplay this in your life. If you’re important to him, then he must care about this. He must help you get out of this. Do you understand?”
I understood. I bit my lip, blinking toward her with big, doe-like eyes. My wine was disappearing before my eyes. I gestured toward it, hoping to cut through the tension between us. “Gosh. I’ve really hit rock bottom here, haven’t I?” The words rang with a strange truth. I shuddered.
But Rachel just shook her head, bringing the wine bottle back toward us. “We’re just two twenty-something girls—not yet thirty!—with so much going on. Someday, we’ll be old, and this will all feel like a dream. At least you’re living. You slept with the president!”
“I’m in love with him,” I whispered, my words emanating with drama, with life. And then we giggled together for a moment, lost in the comprehension that this was it—that us two girls were safe in our little abode at the top of the steps, away from all the rushing Washington D.C. world.
I was so appreciative of Rachel’s words, of course. But I wasn’t sure if I was ready to tell Xavier about my dilemma. I tried to imagine the conversation playing out in my mind, and I couldn’t. When I told him—in this imagined reality—his face grew blank—no nose, no mouth, no eyes. Just grey and pale. Like a shadow of his former self.
Chapter 11
The next morning, I woke in the guest bedroom. The light shone in brightly from the exterior courtyard. To the side, in the bed, lay Rachel.
She was sleeping so peacefully. I remembered, then, that we’d both stayed up in the guest bedroom watching television and giggling together until dawn, never wanting to say goodnight. I laughed at the thought of having a best girl friend at the age of twenty-nine. But things were upside down in this new reality, anyway.
I righted myself and then peered over at the clock on the bedside table. My eyes grew large. “Shit!” I pushed myself from bed and sprang toward the shower, knowing that I was already thirty minutes late for work. I scrubbed at my scalp, at my back quickly, my mind rushing. Shit! I knew that we had a big campaign meeting again that morning—one to right the mistakes of the previous day, of course. I pulsed from the shower and wrapped a towel around my body, shaking at my hair. The water splashed everywhere. God, I didn’t want to go to work this day—I wanted to lounge around, cure myself of this terrorizing headache. Why! So much wine!
I stood out in the hallway, shuffling into my clothes and preparing for the day. I grabbed my suitcase and began shoving papers into it, feeling so frazzled. I tried to remember everything that we were meant to do for the meeting, every topic I was meant to cover. But the hangover hung over me like a cloud.
I heard the door creak to my right, and Rachel shuffled from the room, rubbing at her eyes. “What happened last night,” she teased in a croaking voice. “God, we’re not in college anymore. Do you want me to call you in sick?”
I laughed, feeling the strain of it hurt my back, my sides. “Everything hurts,” I murmured. “I have to go to a campaign meeting. I’m already late.”
I shuffled into the hallway and down the steps. A taxi was poised at the intersection outside the apartment building, and I pummeled into it, spewing the words: White House. I thought I was going to throw up.
But by the time we arrived to the White House, I had applied my makeup, brushed through my hair. I was feeling a bit better already. I sniffed and paid the taxi driver a bit extra than normal, thanking him for the use of his mirror. He said he did it all the time.
I rushed into the White House and flung myself down the hallway, knowing that everyone would be lined up at their tables, looking up at Jason—or perhaps Xavier—expectantly. Waiting and searching and waiting for me.
I took a deep breath and then shoved the door open, blinking out over the crowd. Standing next to the computer was Jason, who was wearing a typically wrinkly shirt and a pair of black, wrinkled pants. He turned his nose down to me and scoffed. “Look who decided to show up,” he stated, his eyebrow raised.
I smiled. A few of the people on the campaign team whopped and hollered from the innards of the crowd. I waved. “Sorry, sorry. I have no excuse beyond my aching headache.” I winked at a girl in the front row. In that moment, I realized that the president hadn’t arrived to the meeting yet, either. I turned toward Jason expectantly. “What have you covered?” I asked him.
Jason smacked his hand on the board. “We can’t cover anything! The president hasn’t showed his face in here yet, and you’ve only just arrived. We’ve been sitting here, scratching our asses!”
Only a few people snickered in the first few rows. I felt embarrassed for him, even though he was the one holding my entire livelihood over my head. I swallowed and tugged at my skirt. “Okay, Jason. Let’s get started. Shall we?”
The campaign team cheered for me as I righted myself up toward the front and began where I’d left off the previous day. I gestured wildly, made a few jokes, and generally made Jason steam where he stood, so incredibly angry that I was successful, the life of the party. And he was just the maniacal douche bag, ready to ruin my life through ill means.
“Do you have any questions?” I finally asked.
A few of the campaign members raised their hands, asking about the president’s stance on one thing or another. I realized that it was strange that Xavier hadn’t arrived yet to watch over the meeting,. I bit my lip.
“Jason. Do you want to take over from here? About our press release about the tax reconstruction?”
“Giving me the fun parts, huh?” Jason teased. But I wouldn’t laugh at him; I wouldn’t give him anything.
I scurried toward the door and opened it, ready to go find Xavier. But suddenly, I met him—face-to-face outside. I gulped almost audibly and touched my hair, feeling like a nervous middle schooler.
“Xavier,” I gasped. I opened the door a bit wider, and his eyes met with mine with such zeal, such life. In that moment, I wanted to kiss him, to have him take me right there.
He entered the conference room, interrupting Jason’s spiel about taxes. He held up his hands and greeted the crowd. Each member nearly stood with their adoration with him, clapping their hands for this man they were going into battle for.
“You’ve all done such an excellent job this week. Which is why I want to make sure you all have a decent time off. Please. Everyone. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon. This is one of the last beautiful days of the year. And I’m certainly not going to miss it.” Xavier allowed them to see his stunning smile.
The campaign workers cheered and began scurrying from their chairs, toward the door. Jason stood, deflated, by the computer, tapping at the power point over and over. I smirked at him, if only for a moment.
As the people began to exit the conference room, Xavier leaned toward me. “I was actually hoping we could have a private meeting. Just you and me,” he whispered. “I have a few things to go over with you.”
“About the campaign?” I asked him, blinking wildly and smiling at him in that girlish way.
He nodded, placing his hand lightly at the small of my back. “Yeah. Of course. The campaign. I totally care about that right now.”
I allowed my head to drape back; I allowed myself to laugh for perhaps the first time in weeks—to truly laugh. Behind Xavier, I saw Jason looking on with a black expression on his face. “You can’t ruin me forever,” I thought all at once.
The president led me down the hallway, continually looking behind him to make sure no one was watching. When we skirted around a side hallway, he reached down and grabbed my hand, looking at me with these boyish eyes. “This is my very favorite, secret room of the entire White House,” he whispered.
The butterflies rose up in my stomach, nearly strangling me with my nervousness. I could hear my heels trample beneath me with every step, and thus I reached down and removed them, walking in stocking feet through the most beautiful building on earth. I swallowed with fear.
Finally, he pushed open a door at the end of a long, blue hallway. The door led us into a small, four-seat movie theater with a long, skinny table before the seats. The place was designed in the spirit of the 1940s—or perhaps during the 1940s. I spun toward him and squeezed his hand, allowing the door to close behind us with a commanding seal.
“This is it? This is your favorite secret room?” I whispered.
He nodded, laughing. “This is it. And I have a very special movie for us to watch today.”
My eyes brightened. I realized this was a date—a spontaneous date in the middle of the day, for the two of us to laugh, to cuddle, to eat. I needed this time of relaxation with him—to root myself in why I liked him once more. “What is it?” I whispered.
“Well. It goes with the theme of the food, of course,” he stated.
He led me to the large, luxurious movie theater chair and allowed me to lean back into it, holding my arms on the armrests. I sighed and closed my eyes, smelling years and years of presidential popcorn emanating from the seat. “This is beautiful,” I murmured.
He clapped his hand, then, and all of a sudden—the large wall to our right opened to reveal two waiters. One of them held a great big pot of steaming cheese, while the other held a large pot filled with breads, vegetables meats. I clapped my hand over my mouth and jumped up and down in my chair. “Fondue!?” I asked him. And he nodded ravenously, rubbing his hands together.
He leaned toward me and kissed my cheek as the server came toward us and poured us two glasses of wine.
“I want this day to be special for you. I’ve sensed you’ve been a little bit—stressed out lately.” He shrugged. “Probably with the campaign and everything?”
I thought for a moment, remembering Jason’s lewd face, the way he’d looked at me with that dark expression. I wanted to tell Xavier in that moment. But I didn’t want to ruin it.
I began dipping the bread and vegetables in the cheese. I lifted a piece of bread toward Xavier’s mouth, and he chewed it gladly, closing his eyes. “God, that’s good,” he murmured, licking his lips slightly.
And it was. The cheese sort of molded over my mouth in this initial creamy, gooey texture. The cheese was stinky—French. Which linked so well with our movie.
“An American in Paris,” Xavier declared as the movie began—that old, 1940’s classic. My mouth opened, and I started laughing, cackling a bit like a young girl. I couldn’t believe this was my life.
“They probably watched this movie in this very theatre, all those years ago!” I whispered to him, turning toward him. My eyes were big. “Thank you, Xavier. This is the most beautiful day.”
“You make me very happy, Amanda,” he whispered then. “I want you to know that.”
The movie took off from there, and I leaned onto Xavier’s shoulder, getting caught in the magic of that faraway day. I imagined us, briefly, as husband and wife—traveling through Paris, through Rome. I imagined us gazing off into our future together, creating a life together that we made up as we went along. It was beautiful, so freeing from this stance at the White House. Constriction was everything, here.
Suddenly, I felt Xavier’s arm around my shoulder. He leaned down to me and whispered in my ear. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
Confused, I furrowed my eyebrows and followed him toward the side room of the theater. An American in Paris continued his twirl, one twirl after another beneath the Eiffel Tower. The magic of it made my skin glow.