Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Jax
I turned the key to enter the front door of a row house on New Jersey Avenue. The building I could lay claim to for another twenty-four hours had a bright blue exterior. It coordinated well with the reds and yellows that popped up along the street, interspersed with brick and more neutral colors. I dragged my feet up the two flights of stairs to the top level and used two more keys to unlock the knob and deadbolt before entering the converted two-bedroom I had been subletting for the past six months.
“Ah, Jacqueline, you’re back.” Estonia, my soon-to-be-ex roommate, breezed into the common areas with an air of contempt. I never made a habit of growing close to my temporary roommates, knowing we’d part sooner rather than later, but Estonia counted as the first time a living situation turned antagonistic. She claimed to not be biphobic, but her attitude toward me changed when I brought a guy home the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, after bringing home a sexy lady nurse on Halloween. Since then, the air in the apartment had been chilly, no matter how high she cranked the thermostat. “I noticed that Lyric’s room is still full of your belongings. You know that?—”
“Yes, I know. I need to have everything out by 11:59 p.m. tomorrow, because beloved Lyric is returning bright and early Saturday morning. It’ll all be gone.” Where it would be gone to was still up in the air. I removed my phone from the pocket of my parka to see if anyone on the couch-surfing site had responded to my ad requesting space for the next week. A depressing lack of notifications from that app were displayed on my screen. Instead, a badge displaying an email from my boss, Mark Hertzog, had appeared since I last checked.
“Well, if that’s all,” I said, turning my back on Estonia and shutting my door, not bothering to listen to what she was saying as the piece of wood met the frame. Apparently, she had more things to say, but I couldn’t bring myself to care as I opened the email, my hands shaking. It was a message telling me to report to the office tomorrow, right? If I had a paycheck again, I could always get a hotel or Airbnb for a few days.
My contract expired last week, and while all signs seemed to indicate it would be renewed, negotiations coincidentally ground to a halt when my romance author pen name was connected with my real-world identity. I still wasn’t sure how Peggy Rappencourt, over at The Washington Dispatch , had figured it out. Perhaps my baiting of her in my series of articles on women’s rights and her antiquated views might have something to do with her motivation. Why spend your time researching your position when repeating versions of the same lines resonated so strongly with your base? Better to take your rival down instead. Something archaic about a steamy romance novelist not being able to be nuanced on family values was the position The Dispatch had taken, threatening to go public. I hadn’t disclosed my pen name when I got hired for this job last year. While I knew Mark thought their positions were outdated and, frankly, misogynistic, that didn’t mean he needed to stick his neck out for a freelancer whose contract had a convenient expiration date.
I took in the words displayed on my phone, sinking down onto my bed. My contract would not be renewed. In my file, they’d phrased it as downsizing, which happened more often than not in today’s news world. There wouldn’t be a black mark on my record this way, and I could use him as a reference. Ironic how the job I wished I could do full time ended up costing me the job I took so I could make ends meet while I worked on my next series.
I threw my phone face down on the bed and my body followed its path, lying down on the purple and white quilt my grandma made for me when I was born, parka and all. I lay there, like a puffy starfish, staring at my ceiling, wondering what in the world I would do. The balance of my bank account read alarmingly low. Couch-surfing sites only took payment via cash, directly to said couch owner. My credit card still had some space on it, but I needed to eat too.
At the word eat, I could almost hear the metaphorical lightbulb click on over my head. I hadn’t been entirely sure why I insisted Preston and I schedule dinner for tonight after our run-in. Sure, a sense of owing him something for acting as savior and facing an awkward situation with his boss was part of it. But I didn’t expect him to want to keep up our engagement charade. A memory from Preston’s conversation with the senator before he left their offices flickered through my mind. The stress that showed in Preston’s face and shoulders with having to draft a press release along with rewriting a speech had been palpable. If he agreed to my plan, the space two meals and probably lots of alcohol would take toward my credit limit may prove well worth it.
I sat in a cream cushioned booth in the garden room at Le Diplomate, nursing a glass of red wine. The ma?tre d’ would direct Preston to the table when he arrived. I arrived twenty minutes early, wanting to be already situated as my dinner date approached, locking in for my own sake that I was in charge here. Preston was now fifteen minutes late, and my stomach churned with the oaky liquid at the idea he might not show. The neighboring tables seemed too close, the chattering of my neighbors closing in on our small two-top table. I would have killed for one of their infamous booths, but I was already going to serve as fact checker to an old colleague for a month to repay them for getting me a reservation at all. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I toyed with my fork, questioning the sanity of an idea which seemed so genius in the light of day. As my neighbor discussed their ingrown toenail removal surgery, I wondered what they would make of two people hammering out a fake engagement arrangement. If Preston bothered to show, that is.
The scent of laundry and fresh mint filled my nose, rising above the rich scents of herbs and freshly baked bread. I tilted my head to see Preston standing next to our table. His hands were jammed in his pockets as he gazed down at me, his expression impossible to read.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who believes eating standing up is better for digestion.” I smiled, hoping he found my snark charming.
“I’m still not sure why I’m here. If I don’t sit, it makes bailing a lot easier.”
Across from me, I pushed the chair back with my foot, issuing a clear invitation. I hoped he’d make the decision to stay.
“You’re here because even Chiefs of Staff for asshole senators, who happen to have one of the most progressive voting records in recent memory and an uncanny knack for getting his bills to the floor for a first-term national politician, need to eat.”
Preston maneuvered himself into the chair and pulled up close to the table.
“Sounds like someone had a busy afternoon,” he muttered, unrolling his silverware and putting the napkin on his lap. I reached to pour him some wine out of the bottle that had been breathing on our table.
“I don’t get a choice of drink?”
“I’ll get you something else if you want it, but this bottle came highly recommended by our waiter and even more highly priced, so I promise it’ll go down easy.”
Preston picked up his glass, swirling the contents once, and lifted it to his lips for a sip. He considered the pallet after swallowing, setting the glass back down.
“Okay, that’ll do.”
I considered him for a moment. While being a reporter wasn’t my first choice of careers, I had a knack for reading people that came in handy while sniffing out a story, or more often, picking up on bullshit.
“You don’t know shit about wine, do you?”
Preston’s cheeks reddened slightly, before he speared me with an assessing gaze of his own.
“Okay, no. I usually buy whatever is right around the ten-dollar a bottle range. But let me guess, you’re an eight-dollar bottle girl.”
I laughed. “Like I said, the waiter recommended it, and I didn’t ask any questions. His accent intimidated me.”
Preston laughed too, picking up his glass and took a more generous sip.
“It’s clear we’ve both got this reading-other-people thing down, so let’s save some time and just be honest with each other tonight, okay?”
Preston nodded. He looked a bit wary, but I appreciated his willingness to agree to be open with me from the get go.
The waiter walked up just then.
“Now that your other party is here, do you have any questions about the menu? Or have you decided on a starter?”
“You got any food allergies or sensitivities, Brandt?”
Preston shook his head.
“Up for an adventure?” I held my breath while I waited for his answer. His willingness to trust me to order for him was a low-stakes test for what I had planned.
He shrugged in response before nodding slowly. I could work with that.
“We’ll take the chef’s special—appetizer, entrée, and dessert.” I hoped the hit to my credit card and the risk to my stomach would be worth it by the end of the night. Oftentimes, even though the food was richer, the lack of processed ingredients in restaurants like this could play nice with my digestive system.
“I actually studied abroad in France while I was in college,” Preston said, breaking the silence that fell across the table after the waiter left. He leaned forward to grab a piece of bread out of the basket another waiter smoothly dropped off without even breaking his stride.
“See, look. There’s something about you I didn’t learn this afternoon in my research. And to think, they say couples stop surprising each other eventually.” I poked around the fiancé issue to see how Preston would react.
“Yeah, about that,” Preston said, not looking up from buttering his roll. “I’ll just tell Senator Marsden you got a job offer, had to move, and we’re doing long distance. It’s a reelection year, my schedule was too hard for you, we break up eventually, and it’s all over.”
I took in a deep breath. I just need to keep him in his seat after this next part, and I might have a fighting chance. “And what if we didn’t do that?”
“Didn’t tell him we broke up?” Preston held his freshly buttered bread inches from his mouth.
“Didn’t break up at all.”