Chapter 22 Carter
The restaurant falls silent when I walk in.
Not completely. There’s still the clink of silverware, the murmur of conversations at far tables, but enough that I feel the weight of attention. Heads turn. Phones appear. Someone near the window takes a photo without bothering to be subtle about it.
I let them look.
For months, I’ve been dodging cameras, crafting statements, hiding the most important parts of my life behind closed doors.
There’s nothing left to hide. The interview aired twelve hours ago, and by now everyone in the country knows that Carter Crane III is having a baby with Jamie Dean.
The host approaches, professional smile firmly in place. “Mr. Crane. Welcome. Your usual table, or—”
“Something private, please. My sister’s joining me.”
“Of course. Right this way.”
He leads me through the main dining room. I keep my pace measured, unhurried. A woman at a corner table catches my eye and nods. I nod back. A man I vaguely recognize from a fundraiser last spring raises his glass in what might be a toast or might be mockery. Hard to tell.
Near the back, a journalist I’ve sparred with on cable news half-rises from his seat. “Carter. Hell of an interview last night.”
“Thank you.”
“Any comment on—”
“Sorry, David. Not today, I’m having lunch with my sister, but call my office. We can set something up.”
He sits back down, but I can feel him watching as the host shows me to a booth in an alcove, separated from the main room by a carved wooden screen. It’s private enough for a real conversation. Public enough that I’m not hiding.
“Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“Just water, please.”
He disappears. I check my phone and see a text from Jamie, sent two minutes ago: Heading into Laura’s office now. Wish me luck.
I type back: You don’t need luck. Call me after.
I smile at the screen. Jamie’s been dreading this meeting, but Laura Day didn’t build her career by being squeamish.
If anything, Jamie’s profile has never been higher.
The exposé is being discussed all over again, reexamined in light of last night’s revelation.
His work is being taken more seriously, not less. She’ll want him even more than ever.
I’m still looking at my phone when Kate slides into the booth across from me.
“Well.” She says as she sets down her bag, studying my face. “You look better than I expected.”
“Thanks?”
“Given that you just told the entire country who you’ve been sneaking about with and just torpedoed your career, I thought you’d be more…” She waves a hand vaguely. “Destroyed.”
“It’s been a long few months. I’m done feeling destroyed. And it’s not torpedoed. At least, I hope not.”
Kate picks up the menu, scanning it without really reading. She grimaces, then sets it down.
“So,” she says. “Where’s the famous Jamie Dean?”
“Having an awkward meeting with his editor.” I take a sip of water. “Though apparently Laura’s initial reaction when he called her was enthusiasm. Something about there being no such thing as bad publicity.”
“She’s not wrong.” Kate sets down the menu. “His story is everywhere again. All the networks are re-running segments about the exposé, talking about how he stood by his reporting even when—” She stops herself.
“Even when we tried to destroy his reputation?”
“I was going to say ‘even under pressure,’ but yes. That.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I watched the interview. You were good. Both of you.”
“We told the truth. That’s all.”
“Since when is that ever all?” Kate signals the waiter, orders a gin and tonic without looking at the menu. When he’s gone, she leans back in her seat and fixes me with a look I recognize. The one that means she’s done with small talk. “Soooo…I guess we’re going to talk about this.”
“Yeah.” I hold up a hand before she can speak. “I’m not angry. I understand why you did it, but Mom hinted there was more. Was there?”
Kate is silent for a long moment. The waiter returns with her drink, and she takes a sip before answering.
“Yes,” she says finally. “There’s more.”
“Tell me.”
She sets down her glass. Her voice drops, though there’s no one close enough to hear and her jaw tightens.
“Threats. Manufactured scandals. One woman lost her job, her apartment, her custody arrangement—all within three months of trying to talk to a reporter about bid-rigging on a state contract. A man who was going to testify about campaign finance violations had an accident that put him in the hospital for six weeks.” She meets my eyes.
“Warren did the work. But Dad knew. Dad always knew. I think he felt as long as he wasn’t the one doing it, then he didn’t need to take responsibility for it. ”
The words settle in my stomach, heavy and cold. I’d suspected as much. Hearing it confirmed is different.
“Why didn’t you give Jamie all of it?”
“Because what I sent was enough.” Kate’s laugh is bitter.
“I was naive. I thought if the financial crimes came out, they’d have to stop.
That exposure would force them to change.
” She breaks off, takes another sip of her drink.
“I’m sorry, Carter. I should have told you.
You were out there defending them, and I knew—I knew—and I let you keep doing it.
I guess I didn’t want you to be in the same position that I was.
If you knew, you’d either have to start lying or destroy everything. ”
I reach across the table, cover her hand with mine. “You were trying to do the right thing without losing everything. I understand that better than anyone.”
Kate’s eyes are bright. She blinks rapidly, looking away. “God. Don’t be nice to me. I can’t handle nice right now.”
“Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”
She laughs and pulls her hand back to wipe at her eyes. “Fine. But I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. Dad cut me off.”
“So I heard.”
We’re quiet for a moment. Kate finishes her drink and signals for another.
“How’s Mom?” I ask. I’d called her earlier and spoken briefly. She’d told me she loved me and then said she had to go.
“Holding on.” Kate’s expression shifts, something softer underneath the sharpness. “She’s stronger than we give her credit for. I think in some ways, she’s relieved. No more pretending.”
“Has she said anything about—” I gesture vaguely at myself. At the situation.
“About you and Jamie?” Kate tilts her head. “She said, and I quote, ‘At least one of my children has found someone who makes them happy. Even if the timing is inconvenient.’”
I hide a smile.
“She’s always liked you best.” Kate says it without resentment. “And I think she’s ready to be done. With the lies, with the performance, with all of it. Dad’s the one who can’t let go.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No and I haven’t seen him since Mom’s birthday.” Kate’s mouth twists. “He’s never going to forgive me. I’ve made my peace with that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” She pauses. “Though I suspect you’re about to be in the same boat. After that interview, he’s not going to forgive you either.”
“Probably not.”
“How do you feel about that?”
I consider the question. A year ago, the thought of my father’s permanent disapproval would have gutted me. The Crane legacy, the weight of three generations was the foundation I’d built my entire identity on.
Now it feels like a house I’ve finally walked out of.
“I feel fine,” I say. “I didn’t expect that. But I do.”
Kate smiles, a real one this time. “Good. You deserve it.”
Her second drink arrives. She takes a sip.
“There’s something else you should know. I’ve been hearing things—from friends in the DOJ, people who track these situations.” She lowers her voice. “Arrests are coming. Soon. Warren for certain. Probably Dad too.”
I nod slowly. I’m not surprised. After last night’s interview, after I said I’d cooperate fully with any investigation, the dominoes were always going to fall.
“When?”
“Weeks, not months. Maybe sooner.” Kate watches my face. “Are you ready?”
“No, I don’t think I can be.” I turn my water glass in my hands.
“No,” Kate says quietly. “Neither am I, but I think it was inevitable.”
The restaurant has gotten busier around us. I can hear the lunch crowd filling in, voices rising, the clatter of plates. Through the carved screen, I catch glimpses of the main dining room: well-dressed people eating expensive food. My world, once. Still my world, maybe. Just different now.
Kate’s looking toward the entrance, and her expression shifts.
“Speaking of ready,” she says. “I think your baby daddy just arrived.”
I turn. Jamie is standing at the host station, scanning the room.
He’s wearing the dark blue cashmere sweater from last night, stretched tight across his belly now in the afternoon light.
His face is flushed from the cold, his hair windswept, and he looks exactly like what he is: a very pregnant omega who’s had an extremely long twenty-four hours.
Every head in the restaurant turns to look at him.
For a moment, I see him consider retreating. His hand moves to his stomach in a that protective gesture. Then his chin lifts, and he squares his shoulders, and he says something to the host that makes the man nod and point toward our alcove.
Jamie walks through the dining room with his head high. People stare. Someone takes a photo. He ignores all of it, weaving between tables until he reaches us.
“Hi,” he says, slightly breathless. “Sorry I’m late. Laura wanted to strategize.”
“How did it go?”
“Better than expected. She’s already planning a follow-up piece. Apparently my ratings have never been higher.” He grimaces.
Kate makes a sound that might be a laugh. Jamie’s attention shifts to her, and I watch them size each other up.
“We meet at last,” Jamie says. He looks around, checking that no one is listening before he continues. “I feel like I already know you, after all our online conversations.”
“I think you do,” Kate says, sounding amused.
“To be fair, your family was already down. I just documented it.”
She slides over in the booth, making room. “Sit down before you fall down. You look exhausted.”
Jamie lowers himself into the booth beside her, one hand braced on the table for balance. He ends up across from me, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. I want to.
“So,” Kate says, looking between us. “This is weird.”
“Extremely,” Jamie agrees.
Kate shakes her head slowly. “I’m not sure there’s a Hallmark card for this situation.”
“There definitely isn’t. I checked.”
Kate laughs again. I watch her warming to Jamie. He has that effect on people.
“For what it’s worth,” Jamie says, “I never knew it was you, but I would have protected your identity regardless, but I genuinely didn’t know until Carter told me.”
“I know and thank you,” Kate takes a sip of her drink. “You defended me throughout. I appreciate that.”
“That’s how it works. Sources trust you or they don’t. If they don’t, you get nothing.” Jamie shrugs. “You trusted me. I wasn’t going to betray that.”
Kate nods. “So,” she says, breaking the moment. “What happens now? You two ride off into the sunset together? Live happily ever after?”
“We’re figuring it out,” I say.
“Day by day,” Jamie adds.
Kate’s eyes narrow. “You know the press is going to be relentless. And when Dad gets arrested—”
“When, not if?”
“When.” Kate’s voice is certain. “This is going to get worse before it gets better.”
I look at Jamie. He looks back at me. We’ve barely had twenty-four hours as a public couple, and already we’re facing the next crisis. But his hand finds mine under the table, and his fingers lace through mine, and I realize that I’m not facing it alone.
“Okay,” she says. She raises her glass. “To the most fucked-up family in Washington.”
Jamie snorts. “I think there’s competition for that title.”
“Please. We’re winning by a mile.” Kate clinks her glass against my water, then against the one the waiter has just set in front of Jamie. “To new beginnings. And to my future niece, who is going to have the most interesting ‘how my parents met’ story in the history of the world.”
“God.” Jamie’s hand moves to his belly. “We’re going to have to tell her someday, aren’t we?”
“Maybe leave out some of the details,” I suggest. “We’ll tell her we met at a coffee shop.”
“No one will believe that.”
“No,” Kate agrees cheerfully. “But it’ll be fun to watch you try.”
Jamie laughs. We order lunch. Kate and Jamie discover a shared hatred of a cable news host I’ve always found inoffensive, and spend ten minutes dissecting his interview technique.
When we finally leave, stepping out into the sunlight, there are photographers waiting on the sidewalk. Kate peels off with a wave and a promise to call later. Jamie and I stand together, his hand in mine, facing the cameras.
“Mr. Crane! Jamie! Can you tell us—”
“We’ve said everything we’re going to say for now.” I keep my voice pleasant, my grip on Jamie’s hand firm. “We’re going home.”
“Home where? Are you living together?”
“Have a good afternoon.”
I guide Jamie toward the waiting car, keeping my body between him and the most aggressive photographers. In the car, Jamie slumps against the seat with a sigh.
“That was a lot.”
“It was.”
“Your sister is lovely.”
“She likes you.”
The car pulls away from the curb. Through the tinted windows, I watch the photographers recede and the restaurant disappear, but the only thing that is on my mind is Jamie’s honey and citrus scent, as sweet and intoxicating as the day that I met him.