“Hey, lady,” I greet her, then cringe at the lifeless tone of my voice. Nobody likes a Debbie Downer.
“I was clearing off my desk and found this mixed in with a stack of my files. Don’t ask me how I ended up with it.” She hands it to me and keeps talking. “So a few of us are heading over to Hamilton’s for drinks, if you want to . . .”
Her voice fades away as I recognize Ben’s all-caps scrawl across the front of the envelope, and my heart leaps. Did he send me mail?
“How long have you had this?” I cut her off, my voice tingeing on desperate. “Do you know when it got delivered?”
She frowns. “I’m not sure. A week ago, maybe? Could have been two? That pile has been sitting on my desk for ages.” She pauses at the look on my face. “Crap, was it important?”
I take a deep breath, donning the everything’s fine, nothing to see here mask I’ve been sporting all week. “No, don’t worry about it. Uh, I can’t make it tonight.”
She eyes me with concern. “You sure? You look like you could use a night out.”
I almost laugh. I haven’t breathed a word about Ben to Tessa, but she has no idea how badly I wish I could just go out and forget about him.
I force a smile. “I’m sure. Next time.”
She narrows her eyes, unconvinced. “Okay, but next time I won’t take no for an answer. I’m dragging you by the hair whether you like it or not.”
After she leaves, I stare down at the envelope on my desk, my heart beating a million miles an hour. I splay my shaking fingers over the letters of my name, as if I can touch him through the pen strokes slashed onto paper.
I muster up every ounce of courage I possess and open the envelope. When I slide out the contents, my heart nearly stops.
It’s the Kate file.
An involuntary sob escapes as I flip it open. Stacked inside are a bunch of computer printouts, each a few pages long and stapled. A note is paper-clipped to the top.
Kate,
When you told me you’d never date a Republican, I knew the day would come when I’d need to make my case. So I started building one.
I know you have concerns, but for now, I have enough confidence for the both of us.
Ben
Tears blur my eyes as I unclip the note and see the headline on the top printout: RELATIONSHIP SURVIVAL TIPS FROM POLITICAL OPPOSITES.
I leaf through the rest: POLITICS CAN MAKE STRANGE BEDFELLOWS. HOW MIXED POLITICAL MARRIAGES SURVIVE ELECTION SEASON. HERE’S WHY YOU SHOULD DATE A REPUBLICAN, EVEN IF YOU’RE A DEMOCRAT. (The one that makes me laugh out loud? REPUBLICANS ARE HAVING MORE SEX THAN DEMOCRATS, SURVEY FINDS.) There are ten or fifteen articles in total, including profiles of several prominent power couples with opposing political views: the unlikely marriage between a conservative strategist and a liberal news commentator; a former first lady who quietly donated to progressive organizations while her Republican husband was in office; the conservative media mogul who married an activist movie starlet.
I spend the next half hour devouring everything in the file. The articles delve into the psychology behind “politically mixed” relationships, citing communication, common ground, and mutual respect as the keys to making it work, but it’s Ben’s handwritten notes scribbled in the margins that take my emotional state from precarious to downright unstable.
On avoiding getting into unwinnable arguments, he’s written: Now you know why I don’t want to debate you.
On not judging each other’s character for a difference of opinion: I respect your opinions, even if they’re not mine.
On healthy debate being good for your sex life: Desperate to find out. That one’s double underlined.
I check the date of his note and want to weep—it was sent a week and a half ago, the day after I gave him a hard time about his refusal to engage. Before our fight. Before I ruined everything.
I flash back to the moment in his office when I first discovered this file, so long before he confessed his feelings, and my breathing goes shallow. The thought of Ben researching ways to make our relationship work—before there was even a relationship to speak of—makes my heart shatter into a thousand tiny shards of glass.
I set the last article aside with shaking hands, my chest feeling like it’s been hollowed out. I glance across the atrium and when I see Ben’s office is dark and deserted, regret and raw panic begin to claw at my throat.
I gather the file and my things in a rush, somehow managing to stave off my Category 5 meltdown until I burst through the door of my apartment. I head straight for my fridge and liberate a bottle of wine, then end up staring at it on my kitchen counter while memories of all the times Ben’s saved me from myself wash over me. He would hate that I’m self-destructing like this.
Finally, I cave and call my mom. The story pours out of me in fits and starts, through wracking sobs and gasping hiccups. When I finish, I’m met with silence.
“Well, what do you think?” I release a shuddery breath. “You think I’m a complete idiot, I’m sure. I think so.”
“No, I think you’re wonderful.”
I laugh sardonically. “I’m clearly not wonderful.”
I abandon the wine and move to the couch, flopping down and hugging a pillow to my chest—then throw it to the floor because in yet another indignity, it smells like him. “What are you thinking over there? I need earplugs for your silent judgment.”
“I’m thinking Ben’s got your number. Which, I might add, I knew after one minute of watching you two together.”
“Would you like a medal?” I mutter.
She sighs. “Katie, you’ve waited your whole life for a man to show up for you, and what do you do when he does? You run the other direction! It doesn’t take a psychology degree to see what’s going on here, sweetie.”
“But can a relationship even work with such different belief systems? I mean, sure, we like each other now, but once the newness wears off and we don’t agree on any big issues, then what? I’m terrified of getting invested in something that’s just going to crash and burn.”
“You’re so focused on protecting yourself from future disappointments, you can’t see what’s right in front of you! Look, do you respect Ben?”
“Of course I do. He’s brilliant and compassionate and kind, and that’s why I can’t understand how he can support the things his party is doing!”
“Do you agree with every position our party takes? I know I don’t. Life isn’t so black-and-white, Katie. It’s messy and gray and complicated. Ben isn’t just one thing, and neither are you. Wouldn’t you rather be with someone who complements you? Someone who isn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with you? Stop focusing on what could go wrong and start focusing on what’s right. Or left.” She pauses. “Get it? That was a political joke.”
“I got it.”
“The point is, you can disagree with someone and still love them. They’re not mutually exclusive.”
When I don’t respond, her voice softens. “I know you have this mental checklist with all these boxes just waiting to be ticked. Follow this roadmap, end up with the perfect life.” She laughs ruefully. “But maybe leave yourself open to some of life’s surprises. They turn out pretty great sometimes.”
I’m the one who goes quiet this time as a fresh round of tears forms. And just when I thought my tear ducts had dried up.
“Mom, you don’t get it. He’s so perfect. He’s always saying and doing just the right thing while I make mistake after mistake. How can I ever live up to that?”
“And he’s the one with rose-colored glasses? He’s a man, Katie, he’s not perfect. You just think he is because you’re in love with him.”
Silence stretches the line.
“You’re not denying it. That’s a step forward, at least.”
I take a deep breath. “I do love him.”
It’s th
e first time I’ve said it out loud, and it’s like a fog lifts. I’m in love with Ben. Of course I am. Why did it take me so long?
“Then you need to tell him,” she says gently. “He deserves to know. When will you see him next?”
“I don’t know, never. I’m never leaving my apartment again.”
“Katie . . .”
I sigh. “We’re all supposed to be going to this big fancy reception tomorrow night. I was going to bail on it.”
“Ooh, it’ll be like a movie! You can meet him at the ball!” Great, I’ve unleashed Hopeless Romantic Bev.
“It’s not a ball.” I think that over. “Okay, it’s kind of a ball.”
“So get yourself all dolled up, get your hair blown out, wear a dress that’ll knock his socks off, then stroll in there looking like a million bucks. He’ll forget the whole thing ever happened.”
“But what will I say?” I wail.
“Just tell him you were on your period. He won’t ask any follow-up questions.”
“Mom!”
She hums. “How about . . . you complete me. Or, we go together like peas and carrots. No, wait, I’ve got it. I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her!”
“Mom! I cannot use movie lines.”
She heaves a sigh. “Fine, just tell him you’re sorry, you’re an idiot, you’ll make it up to him forever if he’ll let you.”
She pauses.
“And then tell him I said hi.”
Chapter 29
I do as she says.
I apply a set of those amoeba-shaped de-puffing eye patches before bed, then another set in the morning. I make an appointment for a blowout, and for once, I instruct the stylist to go as big as she wants. Let’s give the Texas boy some Texas hair.
In a stroke of divine intervention, I actually have the perfect gown already hanging in my closet, having purchased it a couple of years ago with the hope I’d find a worthy occasion. It’s navy and floor-length, with a plunging V-neck that’s mirrored in the back. It hugs my body like a second skin, as flattering and timeless as anything I’ve ever owned. It’s too revealing for a typical work event, but for a night of hobnobbing with the Hollywood glitterati? It’s just right.
I don’t have much nice jewelry to speak of, but I add my grandmother’s cross necklace for luck and a pair of small diamond earrings that were a graduation gift from my mom, and I’m ready. Stephen and I had planned to go together, and when he arrives to pick me up, he gasps.
“You let your hair out to play,” he exclaims tearfully, clasping his hands to his heart like a proud dad.
I laugh, relaxing a little. No matter what happens with Ben, I’ve already won the night. Stephen’s approval means more than a thousand straight men’s.
As we pull up to the Willard, I feel a surge of nerves and adrenaline. Between my mom’s, Stephen’s, and my own pep talks, I’m ready to race up these hotel steps like Rocky.
The hotel is a mob scene. Wall-to-wall photographers and reporters with blinding lights and video cameras pack a red carpet rolled out at the entrance. I have to physically drag Stephen away from the step and repeat. Once we’re inside, we’re shepherded through the lobby with a horde of other revelers and funneled into a sprawling ballroom. Tuxedoed servers mill about passing hors d’oeuvres while a ten-piece band loudly covers pop hits from decades past.
Every time I turn around, I run into someone I know: fellow staffers, members, lobbyists. Stephen and I manage to link up with a group of our coworkers and check in before deciding to circuit the room and get the lay of the land. Only a couple of minutes have gone by before he clutches my arm in a death grip and whispers hoarsely, “Bradley Cooper!” and suddenly, I’m alone. I look around, wondering how I’ll even find Ben in this bedlam, when the crowd parts and there he is.
In a tux. Dashing and devastating. He’s James Bond, but I’m the one who’s shaken. His broad shoulders can barely be contained within the confines of his jacket, making every man in the vicinity look puny and undersize in comparison. He’s like a Disney prince on steroids. Sexy with a whiff of danger. Prince Charming meets Gaston.
But it’s not quite the fairy tale I envisioned because when I look closer, I see he’s with Corinne.
They’re deep in conversation, his head bent close to hear her over the music. Of course she looks stunning, even taller than usual in sky-high heels and with bloodred lips I can see from across the room. A toned, tanned leg peeks out from a high slit in her black gown, and she’s looking at him like he hung the moon.
At that exact moment, he turns and catches me staring. He starts, like he wasn’t expecting to see me and doesn’t know how to feel about it. He must read the dismay on my face because he casts a guilty look at Corinne. I lift a hand in a halfhearted greeting, then weigh my threshold for humiliation. If I sprint out of here, how much worse would it make things, really?
Before I can decide, he leans over and whispers something in her ear, then heads toward me, fighting his way through the crowd. I dimly register the sour look on Corinne’s face before the crowd swallows her up and I don’t see anyone but Ben anymore. I notice he’s gotten a haircut and feel a pang of self-doubt. While you were home crying, he’s been going about his day, business as usual. Not a good sign.
I smile nervously as he stops in front of me.
“Hey.” He leans over to kiss my cheek and my stomach does a somersault. “You look beautiful.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off my face.
“Thanks, so do you. Guess you finally found time for that haircut.” I reach up and brush my fingers through his hair before I remember: He’s not yours.
“What do you think? Not too short?” He palms his nape self-consciously.
He looks mature and polished, not like the ruffled teddy bear I’m used to. I can’t decide which Ben I prefer. Both are exceptional to look at.
“No, not too short,” I manage, swallowing the lump in my throat. “So how’s Corinne?” I can’t help my inflection when I say her name. It just . . . naturally does that.
His mouth twitches. “Probably pissed that I left her back there.”
“Oh.” I realize I’m not being very nice, so I add, “Shoot.”
“Your concern for her is heartwarming,” he says dryly, then glances behind him. “Well, I should probably get back to my date.”
“Your what?!”
“Wow, you have completely lost your sense of humor.” He grabs my wrist as if to take my pulse, then checks his watch. “Time of death: eight thirty-seven p.m.”
I shake off his hand, then immediately wish I hadn’t. “I’m glad one of us is having a good time with this,” I mutter.
He sobers. “I’m not having a good time. Just trying to bring back your smile.” There’s concern in his eyes. “How have you been doing? Since . . .”
I’ve already decided: There will only be honesty going forward. As pathetic as the truth might make me look, I’ll never lie to him again.
“Not great.” Understatement of the century. “Pretty miserable, actually.” I feel a pricking at the back of my eyelids. Do not cry.
“I gathered as much.”
“How? You haven’t checked on me.” I hear the accusation in my voice and wince. “Sorry, forget I said that.”
His eyes flick over me uneasily, like I’m a ticking time bomb. “Of course I checked on you.” He starts to say something else, then thinks better of it.
I should have known. “So Stephen’s been your mole this whole time. I knew it.”
He half smiles. “I have a vast network of spies.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. I’m having the same problem. I’m desperate to touch him but can’t, and since my dress doesn’t have pockets, I have no escape hatch. We stand there awkwardly, neither of us able to achieve the p
roper ratio of body language to words for small talk.
What are you waiting for, Kate?
“Listen, do you think we could talk?” I blurt.
He eyes me warily, as if gauging whether I’ll make a scene if he says no. “Uh, sure. Just as soon as I finish everything I need to do here.”
My stomach sinks. I want to resolve this now. My grand gesture is burning a hole in my nonexistent pocket. “What do you mean?”
“I have a bunch of people I need to talk to tonight. Speaking of which, I need to get back to it. Why don’t I plan on—”
“Mackenzie, there you are!” A voice booms behind me and I jolt. A partially balding man in spectacles sidles up and claps Ben on the back, and I nearly growl in frustration. I’m so hopped-up on adrenaline, I could rip this guy’s head off.
As if he can feel my ire, the man turns to me. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Bill Laughlin. And you are?” He gives me an overly friendly look, his eyes flicking down my chest and back up.
Ben subtly shifts between us, partially blocking me with his body. “Kate, Bill is Senator Hammond’s chief of staff. My boss.” His eyes bore into mine, and I receive his silent message loud and clear: Be discreet. “Bill, this is a colleague and friend of mine, Kate Adams. She’s one of Carol Warner’s staffers,” he explains, and I detect a note of warning in his tone.
Colleague. Friend. The words slice through me like a knife, stem to stern. So this is what it feels like to be publicly forsworn. It’s unexpectedly devastating.
I do my best to disguise my distress and reach out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Bill. You guys look busy, so I’ll leave you to it.”
I start to edge away and Ben brushes my hand. “I’ll find you later?”
“Sure.”
Well, that didn’t quite go according to plan, but he didn’t slam the door in my face, at least. I decide to take it as a victory. All part of my new optimistic mindset, visualizing positive outcomes. Thanks, Mom.
I take a page out of Ben’s book and spend the next hour glad-handing my way around the room. Though making small talk isn’t my favorite part of the job, I find that swapping stories of celebrity encounters provides the perfect icebreaker for every member and staffer I need to touch base with tonight. After all, who doesn’t want to brag that they just stood behind George Clooney getting a drink or heard Tina Fey tell a dirty joke?
Meet You in the Middle Page 28