Jamila waved a chicken satay skewer at her.
“You got to him. He’s trying to win you back, by coded messages on MSNBC.”
Olivia laughed out loud.
“Okay, when you put it like that, I sound ridiculous.”
Jamila picked up her fork and pulled the chicken off the skewer.
“I’m not kidding! He was also wearing that same tie he wore when he came to the food pantry.”
Olivia put her fork down.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, he definitely was,” Jamila said. “I’m sorry if it sounds creepy that I remember that, but I always remember clothes. It’s a message to you, I tell you. That man loves the hell out of you, Olivia.”
It felt great to hear that, and it hurt so much, all at the same time.
“Maybe he did. But he’ll be better off with someone who can be a political wife in the way I can’t be. Who is friendly to reporters and can wave and smile all the time and looks perfect at a moment’s notice and doesn’t have anything scandalous in her background, or any radical opinions people can get mad about.”
Jamila tossed a pillow at her.
“Or maybe he’d be better off with you than with that imaginary boring-ass person. And maybe you’d be better off with him than with whatever dull, perfect guy you could conjure, one exactly like you in all ways and therefore will bore you to tears. I’m not saying the two of you didn’t have real problems—what relationship doesn’t? And I’m definitely not saying he didn’t deserve everything you threw at him—he sure as hell did. But I am saying he is absolutely so in love with you that he’d try to show you and everyone who knows you he’s trying to become a better man, just for you.”
Olivia thought about that for a second, then flicked the TV off.
“That’s what my sister says, too.”
Alexa had been trying to get her to give Max another chance, with some bullshit about how she couldn’t give up on love at the first sign of adversity, and that she was clearly miserable without him, and that sometimes relationships took hard work, and no, their fight wasn’t a sign that she never should have dated him in the first place. First of all, yes it was a sign, and secondly, how did her sister know her so well?
“And that’s nice and all, but unless he says any of that to me, it doesn’t really matter, now does it? I haven’t heard from him since I told him to stop sending those cakes. Granted, I’m not sure if any of it would matter at all—I still think we’re too different, no matter how much we both love each other. Maybe if we’d met when we were in our twenties, we’d be able to figure all of this out together, but as it is, we’re just both too old, too set in our own ways to change for other people. And when you add his job to all of that . . . it seems impossible.”
Jamila took a bite of Olivia’s favorite spicy curry and her eyes widened. She jammed her fork into the pile of rice on her plate.
“I’m just saying, don’t be too definite about that, okay? And please stop acting like you’re some old crone, too old to change—you just moved across the country this year! You’re not all that set in your ways!”
Olivia tossed the remote to Jamila.
“And I started watching a show I’ve scorned for years, and now I’m addicted to it. Find it for us, please.”
Jamila apparently got the message that Olivia was done talking about Max, because she scrolled through the channels and found Housewives for them without another word.
When the episode was over, Jamila got up.
“I should go home, I have an early day tomorrow.” She raised an eyebrow at Olivia. “That is, unless you need me? I can stay if you want to talk, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted that.”
Olivia shook her head.
“No, you go home. But . . . I might take a rain check on that? Thanks for dinner. And for coming over.”
Jamila grinned at her.
“You’re welcome. And you can have that rain check anytime.”
After Jamila left and Olivia had put the leftovers away, she got back on the couch and pulled her phone out of her pocket to check her email.
Draft contract was the subject line of the email that popped up. Olivia went to click on it, but stopped, confused. What contract? Was this some sort of spam?
Then she looked closer, and froze. After a few seconds, she opened the email.
I thought about what you said. I thought about it a lot. First, I owe you a huge apology—you’re right that I was using you and our relationship to try to make that crowd like me. That sucked. I didn’t do it consciously, but I did it. I’m angry at myself for that, and so, so sorry I did that to you. I hope you believe I will never do anything like that again. Second, you’re right that we’re very different, and you’re right that if we go on like this, it won’t work. But I love you too much to give up on us. I think—I hope—that I can make you happy; I know you can make me happy. And the great thing is, we can make our own rules for our relationship, and we can figure this thing out together, if we want to. And I really want to. And I really, really hope you do, too. So I thought I’d start. Let me know what you think; you know how to reach me. I miss you.
Love,
Max
That all sounded good—sounded great, even—but she was scared to believe it. Scared to open herself back up again. Scared to get hurt again. She let her finger hover over the attachment.
Then she closed out of her email, dropped her phone and hid it in the couch cushions, and went to bed. No. She couldn’t do this again.
* * *
* * *
Max sat at his big, beautiful, shiny desk in his Washington office and stared at his computer. Emails kept coming in, hundreds every minute, it seemed like, but none of them was the one he was looking for.
He’d sent that email to Olivia Wednesday night, after working on it, and the silly, but—he hoped she knew—very earnest attachment, for over a week. He’d thought the best way to show her how serious he was about this wasn’t just an apology—he’d already apologized, and anyone could say they were sorry and keep doing it over and over—but was something concrete. What could be more concrete to a lawyer than a contract?
But it was now Friday morning and he hadn’t heard from her. Of course, he’d wanted an immediate response and a “come over this weekend so we can sign it together and then stay in bed all damn weekend,” but a simple “I love you and miss you, too,” would have been an excellent start. Honestly, at this point, he’d be happy for a “thanks, looking this over now,” or something equally cold. But he reminded himself again, as he’d done once every ten minutes for the past two days, that Olivia needed more time than that.
Had he overstepped by sending her that email? Should he have tried to talk to her in person instead? But he didn’t want to show up on her doorstep again, or at her office. Those both felt like shitty things to do to her, even if she did want to see him again, which was questionable now. Maybe always had been.
He was staying in Washington all weekend, for the first time all year. Sure, partly it was because he was booked on one of the Sunday morning shows, so it didn’t make sense for him to fly to California on Friday and back here on Saturday. But if he’d still been with Olivia, that wouldn’t have stopped him. He’d hoped, after he sent that email, he’d have a reason to fly back to California this weekend.
He sighed and spun around to look out the window. Apparently not.
At some point, he was probably going to have to tell his staff they’d broken up. He was pretty sure Kara suspected; partly because he’d never doubt her ability to see through him again after how quickly she’d realized he was dating someone, and partly because she’d asked about Olivia twice that first week back and not again. He hated that his staff had to know anything about his relationship failures, but that was his fucking life as a senator, wasn’t it? He’d probably tell Kara
at some point and have her spread the word, but that didn’t feel any less humiliating.
There was a knock on his door, and Kara poked her head in.
“Sir, your ten thirty appointment is here.”
He glanced down at his calendar.
“It’s blocked off in my calendar, but I thought this was an appointment with you—do I have any briefing papers for this?”
Kara grinned at him.
“I don’t think you need them, sir.”
She threw open the door, and in walked Olivia. She had on a dark gray suit, a blue blouse, and black high heels. She looked incredible. And, most of all, she was here.
Max stood up and gaped at her.
“Senator,” she said, with a nod to him. “Kara, thank you.”
Kara winked at Max and closed the door.
Max couldn’t stop looking at Olivia. He just wanted to drink her in. Just being in her presence made him happy. He’d missed her so much.
“You’re here,” he said. And then he wanted to kick himself—why didn’t he say something more articulate, more romantic? Something that made it clear to her how much he loved her, and how serious he was about working through this with her?
She walked toward him, but before he could move around his desk to pull her into his arms, she sat down in the chair across from his desk.
She reached into her briefcase and pulled out some papers.
“I got your initial contract, and I had some edits to it. I thought it made the most sense for us to talk in person.” She looked down, and then up at him. “First, I have a question. Do you mean this? All of this?”
Hope rose in his chest. He wanted to jump up and come around the desk to embrace her, say he’d do anything to get her back. But he knew that was the wrong thing to say—he knew if he said that, she’d think he wasn’t serious. So instead, he looked right into her eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
She closed her eyes for a second and nodded.
“Okay,” she said, and pushed a few sheets of paper across the table to him. It was his side of the draft agreement he’d sent to her, with her edits and additions.
I, Maxwell Stewart Powell III, agree to the following:
I will never put you on the spot in public.
I won’t push you to go to events with me, I won’t even suggest it, except for the very important ones; for those I’ll give you as much warning as possible. And I will always make it clear you can say no.
You can suggest that I, Olivia Grace Monroe, come with you to any event you want to, but you should make it in the form of a question. And don’t push me to say yes if I hesitate.
You don’t ever have to be a part of my job; our relationship is not a political move or talking point, and I will never publicly make reference to you without your prior knowledge and approval.
I won’t push you for last-minute plans, because I know you hate it; just because I live my life like this doesn’t mean you need to as well. And I will give you plenty of time to make any decision. If you say no, I will stop trying to convince you.
You can suggest last-minute plans—your spontaneity is one of the reasons I fell in love with you, and I don’t want to kill that part of you. Plus, sometimes they’re excellent (e.g., Disneyland, Hawaii). I, in turn, will be more open, but I’ll say no when I need to.
I will stop and think whenever I’m either furious or very excited, and will try my best not to say the first thing that pops into my head.
I will check in with my staff anytime we think their advice on dealing with the media, etc., would be helpful so we’ll know the smoothest path to take.
Or, so we can make an educated decision to take the harder path.
I will always order more than one dessert.
I will love you for the rest of my life.
I, Olivia Grace Monroe, agree to the following:
I will be open about my feelings to you when I’m anxious or scared or worried, even though that is hard for me. I understand that I don’t have to fake it till I make it with you.
I will be open to talking to the press when you or your staff believes such a conversation will be helpful for your career, as long as I get significant assistance and prep in advance.
I will talk through my decisions with you, instead of just leaving you hanging for days or weeks or months—we are a team and I trust you to listen to me.
I will always support you in your pie- (or cake-?) making ventures.
I will attempt to learn how to relax and be more flexible—bear with me.
We will renegotiate this agreement once a year every year in August, because I recognize that feelings and needs can change.
I will love you for the rest of my life.
He fought back a grin at her edits and picked up a pen.
“I have just a few notes to make on your side of the contract,” he said. He scribbled in the margins for a few moments, and then pushed the paper back over to her.
“Your thoughts?”
I, Olivia Grace Monroe, agree to the following:
I will be open about my feelings to you when I’m anxious or scared or worried, even though that is hard for me. I understand that I don’t have to fake it till I make it with you.
And I, Max, will always listen and pay attention.
I will be open to talking to the press when you or your staff believes such a conversation will be helpful for your career, as long as I get significant assistance and prep in advance.
I will only take you up on this on very limited occasions, and will never push it.
I will talk through my decisions with you, instead of just leaving you hanging for days or weeks or months—we are a team and I trust you to listen to me.
I will always support you in your pie- (or cake-?) making ventures.
I will attempt to learn how to relax and be more flexible—bear with me.
We will renegotiate this agreement once a year every year in August, because I recognize that feelings and needs can change.
Some of my needs may change, but my feelings for you will not.
I will love you for the rest of my life.
“I mean every single word. I swear,” he said. “And if there’s anything else you need, or want to add, please, please just tell me.”
She looked down at the contract, then up at him. A smile spread across her face, and her eyes swam with tears.
“My feelings for you won’t change, either, Max. I’ve missed you so much.”
He practically jumped over his far-too-large desk and pulled her into his arms.
“I kept trying to think of living days and weeks and months without you, and it all seemed so empty and meaningless. I love you so much.”
She looked up at him with so much joy and laughter and love in her face that he almost couldn’t believe it.
“I love you so much, too.”
He kissed her like he’d never kissed her before, like he would be able to kiss her every day for the rest of his life.
Finally, he led her over to the couch, and they sat there, her head against his chest.
“I tried to get over you, but it was so hard.” She let out a half sob, half laugh. “So much of this was my fault, too. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how hard all of that was for me so we could come up with a solution earlier.”
He stroked her hair and kissed her again.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out what to say. It took me two weeks and four conversations with Wes before I realized what I wanted to tell you, and then four days to write barely a hundred words that I hoped expressed some of what I thought and felt and wanted.”
; She lifted her head.
“I saw you on Maddow that night. When that guy tried to trap you into becoming vegan. I was sure you were going to do it, too.”
He laughed. He couldn’t believe she’d been watching that night.
“I was so mad, and I was so ready to take that asshole up on his dare, and then what you said about taking other people and their autonomy into account flashed into my mind, and I stopped myself.” He grinned at her. “And the wild thing was, it made for a much better answer, and he had no idea how to respond to me. Thanks for that.”
She gripped his fingers.
“I almost didn’t even read what you wrote—I was so scared to hope that I wouldn’t let myself read the attachment at first. When I finally did read it, I sat up all night thinking about it. I was going to email you back, but I wanted to see you, to really talk to you, first. I was going to wait until this weekend, but I texted Kara, to see what your schedule was like, and she said you were here all weekend. So I got on a red-eye last night and made it to DC first thing this morning.”
Speaking of Kara . . .
Max jumped up off the couch and looked at his calendar. It was somehow, magically, empty.
“Kara cleared my schedule for the rest of the day.” He pulled Olivia off the couch and handed her briefcase to her.
“Let’s get out of here. We need to celebrate, and I know just the place.”
Olivia held up her finger.
“Before we celebrate, I think we’re forgetting something.”
He laughed out loud and tossed her a pen.
“You’re right, we are. Would you like to sign first?”
She grinned at him and bent over their agreement, and signed her name with a flourish at the bottom. He pulled out his favorite pen and signed right next to hers. They both looked at their names, side by side, and smiled at each other.
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