Meet You in the Middle

by Devon Daniels

  “That wouldn’t have worked with this guy, trust me. He was all angry snorting bull, insult this, boast that.” I massage the back of my neck, drained. “I guess my chances of getting Hammond on board now are slim to none, and Slim just left town, as my gramps would say.”

  “Well, you knew that going in.”

  I growl, exasperated. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Well, what did you expect from this meeting?”

  “I expected to get through two sentences of my pitch! I expected common courtesy! This jerk-off didn’t even humor me. He shooed me away like I was some annoying little gnat.”

  Reliving Ben’s contempt is pissing me off all over again. The flip side of venting sessions with Stephen: my blood pressure goes through the roof.

  “I’m picturing him like a lumberjack, with a plaid shirt and a hat with earflaps. And a mullet.”

  I snicker at the visual. “You’re not far off. He’s probably some inbred Duck Dynasty type from the sticks. Backwoods Ben Mackenzie: tax reformer by day, hulking redneck by night.”

  Stephen hoots.

  “And he’s the legislative director! He’s literally one of Hammond’s top guys. How do you even get that job when you’re that big a dick?”

  “He probably got the job because he’s a dick. You know how that goes.” Stephen rolls his eyes.

  “It’s so hypocritical. If I were the world’s biggest bitch, I’d never get hired. In fact, I’d get fired. Blackballed.”

  “Sing it, sister. Preach.” He holds his hands up like he’s in church.

  I’m on a roll now. “I mean, no wonder our parties can’t get along. This guy is Exhibit A. He personified every stereotype: egotistical, closed-minded, patronizing. And I thought midwesterners were supposed to be these sweet farm boys with impeccable manners? He was even arrogant about Ohio, for crying out loud. Maybe I’d be more inclined to listen to someone who wasn’t from a flippin’ flyover state.”

  “Actually, I’m from Texas,” a deep voice rumbles from over my shoulder. I swivel my head around just as a massive figure steps through the doorway.

  Oh, sweet baby Jesus.

  It’s him. Benjamin Mackenzie.

  Chapter 3

  Oh my God.

  Heat floods my face. Actually, that’s an understatement—it’s basically melting off, Raiders of the Lost Ark style. Shame-adrenaline floods my system and I’m having an out-of-body experience.

  I won’t be able to walk this back no matter how hard I try. It’s like when you write an email tearing someone to shreds and then instead of sending it to your intended recipient, you mistakenly email it straight to the poor soul you’ve just annihilated. Except this is worse, because I said it to his face.

  I rewind my memory, frantically cataloguing the worst of what I just said. Maybe he only just got here. Maybe he didn’t hear much. I brave a glance at him. He looks angry, his expression as dark and ominous as a gathering storm.

  So, yeah. Unlikely he missed all that.

  I glance at Stephen and his mouth’s hanging open in a large O. We’re like twin Big Mouth Billy Bass fish. You could mount us on a wooden plaque and hang us on the wall and I think we’d be less stunned than we are right now.

  I make a choking noise and start scrambling to my feet, but Ben holds up a hand.

  “Don’t bother getting up. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your bashing session. And to think I was coming over here to apologize for my mood earlier and wish you luck getting your bill passed. Which, by the way”—he huffs a laugh—“you’re gonna need.”

  He turns and disappears through the door he materialized from. I look back at Stephen with wide eyes and a swinging jaw. His face mirrors mine—frozen in shock.

  “I did not see that coming,” he says, a little dazed. “Scratch what I said about this day being boring.”

  Before I can reconsider, my legs propel me off the couch and I dash out the door after him. I have no clue what I’m going to say, but I do know I need to apologize, stat. I don’t have time to put my shoes back on so I stagger out barefoot and immediately slam into the two flagpoles stationed outside our office, which collapse around me in a tangled heap. I bleat like a dying animal.

  At the commotion, Ben glances back. When he sees me flailing on the floor, he takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for an intervention. He casts me a piteous look but grudgingly walks back and holds out a hand to help me up.

  “I’m so sor—”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re about to say sorry,” he cuts me off as I fumble around trying to right the American and New Hampshire State flags. “We both know you meant every word you said. I think we’re way past pretending for politeness’s sake.”

  Apparently satisfied that I’m not crippled, he pivots and strides down the hall faster than a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby, his bag banging against his hip like the lash of a jockey’s whip.

  I limp after him, feeling about as pathetic as a woman who’s humiliated herself in front of someone twice in one day can feel. I banged my leg so hard, I’m sure a bruise has already formed. It’s throbbing proof of today’s epic failure.

  I catch up and grab his arm. “Look, I don’t know how much you heard, but I was just venting—”

  He whips around. “I heard jerk-off, inbred, dick, and redneck. Did I miss any other clever nicknames?” He. Is. Pissed.

  It’s so appalling to hear my laundry list of slurs rattled off that I’m momentarily stunned silent. This is the worst I’ve ever been called out, and that includes when my sorority sister and I got caught whispering during our anthropology final. I’d thought I was going to die of a heart attack under our teacher’s accusing stare, but I’d gladly return to that classroom if it meant escaping this fresh hell.

  I decide to go on the offensive. I draw myself up to my full height—which, unfortunately, isn’t all that impressive, seeing as how the top of my head only comes up to about his shoulders. My AWOL heels would really help right about now.

  “You were awful earlier and you felt bad. I just said some awful things and now I feel bad. Let’s just agree we both have things to be sorry for.” I’m determined to fix this. Southern etiquette runs deep.

  “I don’t feel bad anymore.” He turns and resumes his furious march down the hall, heading toward the elevator, or stairs, or whichever way is away from me. I trail behind him a few paces. I can’t let it go.

  “You’re the one who was a jerk to me for no reason. I was only reacting to your bad behavior.”

  “I just told you like it is. I didn’t attack you personally.”

  “There’s telling it like it is, and there’s being an asshole.”

  I mentally cringe at my cursing. My mom would not approve. Oh well. She could hardly judge me for this. I’d like to think if she were here, she’d be cheering me on.

  He glances back, steel in his eyes. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ve been insulted enough for one day.”

  We finally reach the elevator and he stabs the DOWN button so violently, I’m surprised it doesn’t pop off. We stand in silence, but after racing to keep up with his long-legged stride, I’m struggling to catch my breath. He notices my bare feet and his entire face wrinkles in distaste.

  “I hope I never get to be this way,” I say, more to myself than to him.

  “And what way is that?”

  “Completely jaded. You want to mock me for being idealistic, fine. Better that than cynical and miserable.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.” His voice is glacial.

  “On the contrary. I only needed two minutes to learn everything there is to know about you.”

  “Is that so? Don’t keep me in suspense.” He hits the DOWN button repeatedly, as if jabbing it fifteen times will make the elevator arrive faster.

  I bite my lip, hesita
ting. This is my last chance to take the off-ramp. I should apologize maturely, wish him well, and hope like hell that chatter about our confrontation doesn’t get around.

  But here’s the thing: I’m not hard to get along with. I don’t cause drama, and I’m certainly not one for burning bridges. But as I stand here and take in his combative stance and restrained anger, I’m transported back to how I felt in his office earlier today. Degraded. Belittled. Dismissed. I recall his condescending expression when he asked if this was my first bill, and white-hot rage courses through my veins.

  So I burn that bridge straight down to the ground and roll in the ashes.

  “Well, you’re a Republican, so that tells me plenty about how you see the world. You clearly don’t care about helping families or children who really need it. Why waste time on that when you can shower your wealthy buddies with huge tax breaks? Pat yourself on the back about your precious tax plan all you want, but we both know you’re just helping rich men get richer and businesses shirk their financial and ethical responsibilities. You’re also rude, patronizing, and unprofessional. Apologizing for your bad behavior would have at least redeemed your character slightly in my eyes, but so much for that. So overall, I’m gonna say you’re the perfect example of everything that’s wrong with this town.”

  I stop, out of breath, and a little stunned I just said all that.

  He looks stunned too. He stares at me, his mouth slightly agape. “Well.” He seems to be struggling to find words. “My bad behavior has nothing on yours.”

  He takes a step toward me and I have to fight the urge to step back. I force myself to meet his gaze, but when I do, I’m struck by a lightning bolt.

  His eyes are a vivid shade of green I’ve never seen before. I hardly know how to describe the hue—like a mix of emerald and jade, wax-leaf trees and mossy grass. They’re absolutely brilliant, practically glowing in their intensity. I start to step forward to get a closer look before I remember he’s the devil and rein myself in at the last second.

  “Since you’ve nailed me exactly, why don’t I do you?” He cocks his head to the side, a sinister smile settling on his mouth. I hold my breath.

  “You’re a ball-busting liberal feminist who’s got it all figured out. You blindly follow the party line and never stop to question the BS you’re fed. Your reaction to every political issue is to scream ‘feminine oppression.’ You’re judgmental and intolerant of anyone who dares hold an opinion different than your own. Just another bleeding heart who has no idea how to come up with effective real-world policy. Free child care, free health care, free college, free everything! Never mind who’s going to pay for it. What could go wrong?”

  He leans closer, and this time I do step back. “I’m sure you’re the type of woman who gets offended if a man deigns to open the door for her. You’re also an uptight, entitled princess who’s clearly never heard the word no. So overall, I’d say you’re the perfect example of everything that’s wrong with women.”

  Whenever I’ve seen a movie where a woman hauls off and slaps a man, I’ve always secretly wondered what it would feel like, just how angry you’d have to be to feel like hitting someone is an appropriate response. I wonder no more. My fingers tingle at my sides.

  He watches me as my fury builds, a wisp of a smile on his face. “You’re right, all that name-calling did help me feel better.”

  The elevator doors finally open and he steps inside, punching a button.

  “How dare you.” My words come out in a strangled growl.

  “Careful, Kate. You’re gonna need my help over the next eight years a lot more than I’ll need yours.”

  “Eight years?” I sputter. “Try four. Three and a half. And the world will end before I ever ask for your help again.”

  He shrugs, his expression smug. “You better hope that’s what happens, because my new mission in life is to piss you off. You want Hammond’s support? You’ll have to go through me to get it.”

  He chuckles like this is hilarious as the doors shut in his face.

  Chapter 4

  Three days have passed since my ill-fated meeting with Ben, and I consider myself #blessed that I haven’t had another run-in with the Oaf, as Stephen and I have taken to calling him. Not that I haven’t noticed him around the building—frankly, he’s impossible to miss. He’s tall enough that I can spot him down a hallway and head in the opposite direction, and the handful of times I spy him getting on or off the elevator, I take the stairs. The upside of dodging Ben Mackenzie: My calves have never looked better.

  Luckily, winter session is one of our busiest times of year, so I don’t have much time to dwell on the situation. I’m still working on drumming up conservative support for our bill as well as juggling other legislative research. By the time Friday rolls around, I could weep in relief. Carol travels back to New Hampshire most Fridays to attend to state business, and in her absence the office is as quiet as a church.

  Which makes the morning disruption that much more infuriating.

  I’ve just returned from a coffee run when I spot a manila envelope on my desk marked Kate Adams, SH 708. My regular mail stack arrives in the afternoons, so it must have been hand delivered. I open the envelope and extract a heavy paperback book with a note paper-clipped to the front cover. When I see the name on the letterhead, my blood runs ice-cold.

  Ms. Adams,

  Saw this and thought you could use a brushup. I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting a few passages you may find useful.

  Please don’t hesitate to reach out for help. I have a lot of experience drafting successful legislation, and my door is always open for idealistic dreamers like yourself.

  Yours in displeasure,

  Inbred Redneck Jackass Oaf

  Ben Mackenzie

  I unclip the note from the cover and let out a gasp.

  Legislation for Dummies.

  I flip through the book and it’s a blur of yellow highlighted passages blanketing nearly every page. He’s made “helpful” annotations in the margins like: Try not to insult the people you need on your side; Draft a bill that has a chance in hell; and this gem: Bizarre footwear won’t distract people into voting yes.

  “Stephen!” My shriek can probably be heard from the White House.

  He’s in my office in seconds, breathless. “What is it? Did you find another roach in here?”

  “Worse.” I toss the book on my desk like it’s singed my fingers.

  He picks it up and starts thumbing through it. When I hand him the note he whistles, low and slow.

  “Did you see him come in here? Was he in my office?” I duck under my desk and check for booby traps.

  “Calm down. And no, I think it was dropped off by an intern.”

  “It’s probably laced with anthrax.”

  Stephen glances around nervously. “Be careful how loudly you say anthrax in here.”

  He isn’t kidding. Hart was one of the buildings shut down years ago due to anthrax contamination. Hundreds of staffers were displaced from their offices for months. People who worked here at the time speak of it like they survived the apocalypse.

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “Do you know any anthrax dealers?”

  “Oh, honey, we don’t need anthrax.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to send him back something that’s more obnoxious than this.” His eyes take on a diabolical glint. I remind myself never to cross Stephen.

  “Is that even possible?”

  He exhales loudly. “Come on, where’s your competitive spirit? Are you a fighter or a doormat?”

  I gnaw on the end of my pen as I consider it. I suppose I could come up with something that will get under Ben’s skin. He exposed some of his pressure points during his elevator rant, and I can use them to my advantage. A smile blooms as my brain swirls with possibilities.
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  “Am I right?” Stephen’s devilish grin matches my own.

  “You’re so right. Don’t get mad; get even. As usual, I bow down to your pettiness.”

  “I consider that a great compliment.” He inclines his head and I’m snickering as he leaves my office.

  I spend the next twenty minutes googling around for negative press about the Republican tax plan. I hit pay dirt when I stumble across a recent story highlighting how a schoolteacher earning a sixty-thousand-dollar salary will collect a meager tax savings of a dollar fifty per week. The writer of the piece helpfully juxtaposed that pitiful statistic with the millions in deductions large corporations are set to receive.

  Then I draft my note.

  Ben,

  Thank you so much for the reference material—from your personal library, I take it?

  Since one good deed deserves another, I thought I’d send some background research on your tax plan. That extra $1.50 should really be life changing for schoolteachers! Think of all the things they can buy (I’ve included just a few examples). The $1 trillion added to the deficit is a nice bonus. You must be so proud.

  Yours in discontent,

  Kate Adams

  I fumble around in my desk until I collect a half-empty pack of gum, a small box of staples, a coupon to Subway, and a handful of spare change and toss it all into the envelope. I eye a stray tampon for a minute before deciding to throw it in. He looks like the kind of guy who will squirm at the sight of feminine hygiene products. I cackle like a half-cracked villain as I call for an intern to deliver my retaliatory missile.

  It goes on like this for the next week. On Monday I receive a Wall Street Journal op-ed: WHY LIBERALS WILL BANKRUPT THE NATION IN THEIR QUEST FOR A SOCIALIST AMERICA. On Tuesday—and coincidentally, National Diversity Day—I send him a roundup of tweets ridiculing the Republican Speaker of the House for a photo he recently posted of the current class of House interns. In a sea of a hundred faces, not one is of color.