Chapter 2
The second floor of the White House, formally known as the Residence, has been my family’s home for the past five years.
Elle and I are part of the ultra-exclusive sorority of First Daughters who’ve lived within these storied walls—likely all having been mildly exasperated by the occasional tourist craning their neck in hopes of glimpsing our bedrooms.
I smile pointedly at a couple whose gazes linger a moment too long before they veer off toward an incoming senator.
My ears pick up hearty Italian accents, which makes sense because tonight’s dinner honors the prime minister of Italy. My stomach rumbles, excited for Chef’s menu—I love pizza, and I heard a fancy version will be served this evening.
Mom’s guests mill about with wineglasses in hand, admiring the artwork on our walls—by celebrated artists modern and historic, from Claude Monet’s Morning on the Seine to Georgia O’Keeffe’s Mountain at Bear Lake—Taos.
Some guests wander toward the Lincoln Bedroom, where an actual copy of the Gettysburg Address resides. For Elle and me, it’s kind of creepy in there, with stories of Lincoln’s ghost. Not that ghosts exist.
As we make our way through the crowd, Elle and I grin politely. The guests up here have an extra V designation, as in VVIP. These are the select people invited to our private living space before tonight’s main event on the State Floor of the White House.
While presumably everyone here is important in some way, the White House Residence is still an extra-exclusive space for visitors, which explains the curiosity. After all, they’re mere steps from where the most powerful person in the world sleeps. Of course, Elle and I just call her Mom.
“Shoot,” Elle mutters as she kicks a candy wrapper under a side table. Elle has the poor habit of dropping things, including a Snickers wrapper from her dress pocket just now. Telling her to pick up after herself never seems to sink in.
“Elle, that table belonged to Teddy Roosevelt,” I snap.
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’m sure his kids ate Doritos on it too.” She laughs at her own joke. I hold back my “the White House is also a museum” speech. Not that the White House’s staff would let our home be out of order.
Fortunately, I don’t see any other signs of Elle’s snacks, schoolwork, or personal items. If not for our bookshelves, which display a collection of our family photos going back several generations to Mom’s family in the Philippines and Dad’s Irish roots, you wouldn’t know a real family lives here.
As the rest of the guests circle one another in a game of “who’s most important,” I’m able to spot the route that will take us to the Yellow Oval Room fastest. “Come on, Dad’s waiting,” I say to Elle.
“Hold on to your gloves a sec. I need to find Enzo,” Elle says, her eyes circling the room.
Enzo isn’t a friend—he’s one-fifth of an Italian teen boy band who’s on tonight’s guest list. And he’s not the only celeb: Hollywood director Tyler Storm and his date (pop star Lil’ Shady) and former NBA legend turned famous podcaster Jax Romeo have also been invited.
Most of the time we don’t know who’s attending the dinners until the last minute since the guest list is constantly being updated, but Elle got the inside scoop about Enzo a couple hours ago.
I look at my gold watch, a Christmas gift from Oliver. He should already be here. Elle’s grinning as she looks up from my watch. “See, I have five whole minutes,” she says.
“Wait,” I say uselessly to her back as she flits away. Nessa and Shaw remain a polite distance across the room. They’re usually not up here when we’re in the Residence, but with tonight’s guests they must have been asked to stay close.
Elle weaves in between a Supreme Court justice and the Speaker of the House.
I’ll give her three minutes. She deserves to enjoy herself.
It’s not easy being a First Daughter, especially on nights like these with all of Mom’s high-profile guests, and the media waiting downstairs.
Up here, we need to behave, but at least there are no cameras.
My back prickles in that “someone is watching me” way.
I know this anxious feeling too well. Sure enough, a couple across the hall are looking in my direction, trying to make eye contact.
Judging by his impeccably well-tailored tux and her conservative designer dress, I’d say they’re rich corporate-donor types looking to get in a good word with my mom by making nice with me.
Ugh. Those are the encounters I desperately try to avoid whenever possible. I back away slowly, annoyed that my dress is not compatible with making haste. My constricting silk skirt pulls against my legs. Note to self: Go with a stretchy material next time.
From the corner of my eye, I see the shark couple headed toward me. Alarm bells going off in my head, I turn abruptly.
But my escape is blocked. I gasp as I smack into a wall. Or rather, a guy.
I rock back in shock, losing my balance, but instead of falling, I feel firm hands grip my arms. “I got you.” The voice is low, comforting, and warm.
I go on autopilot as I utter multiple “I’m sorrys” while I regain my footing. I’m relieved to see my skirt hasn’t ripped, but my relief turns to curiosity as I spy white Chuck Taylors near my heels.
My eyes rove upward, taking in black pants and a trim waistline, then a fitted black button-up shirt underneath a tux jacket that emphasizes a broad chest and abs (which aren’t hard to imagine are like one of those muscled marble statues in the National Gallery of Art).
As my gaze reaches his face, I’m greeted by full, inviting lips and intense copper eyes framed by unfairly thick lashes.
His skin is a sandy beige and his features look mixed like me and Elle.
His dramatic dark brows arch with concern.
My body burns ten degrees hotter than the summer night outside as I realize this is the “smokeshow” Elle was referring to. She’s right. It takes every ounce of effort to keep my jaw from dropping faster than a judge’s gavel. He’s so hot, it’s almost criminal.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I—yes,” I stammer. Very uncharacteristic of me. But who can focus when a guy like this has his full attention on you? My gaze flicks to his hands still holding my arms. “I’m—I’m…good.”
He seems to notice at the same time. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He removes his hands fast. I momentarily miss the pressure and warmth of his touch. His face grows red as he looks away. “I should. Um…” He doesn’t finish his sentence as he turns to leave.
It takes me five whole seconds before I finally respond, which, again, is very un-Abigail of me. “Wait,” I call after him.
He pauses and I can’t say I’m not admiring the view of his back. He runs a hand through his thick wavy hair as he turns to face me like he’s suddenly self-conscious or something.
I smooth some imaginary wrinkles from my dress. First Daughters are always polite and gracious. “Thank you for the save.”
He winces. His face is the very definition of awk. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you—it was a reflex. I know you would’ve regained your balance on your own.”
I do my best to act chill. Me regaining my balance would’ve been unlikely, but I’m good with him not knowing that.
“I meant you saved me from the shark couple who were about to make me their first course,” I say, trying to sound light and funny but obviously failing given the confused look on his face.
“Shark couple?” he echoes.
I laugh nervously. “The power couple behind me.”
He looks over my shoulder. “The guy who looks like the Monopoly dude without a top hat?” His eyes sparkle. “And his partner, who looks like that mean mom from Titanic?”
My hand flies to my mouth to suppress my giggle. I looove Titanic. My eyes narrow. “Rose, you are not to see that boy again. Do you understand me?” I say in a haughty tone.
The boy’s surprised look reminds me he’s a stranger. I never do impersonations with anyone except Elle. My face flushes hotter than debate stage lights. I don’t even know his name.
I hold out my gloved hand. “I’m Abby, by the way.”
He looks uncertainly at my outstretched hand, making me feel a bit self-conscious. Seconds ago, we were so close I could smell his minty toothpaste, and now he doesn’t want to shake my hand?
I frown as a panicked look crosses his face. My hands instinctively go to my own face. “Do I have something in my teeth?” I ask.
“No, I…there’s a smudge on your arm.” He points where seconds ago his hand gripped my right elbow. He’s right. I see what looks like black ink on my skin.
We both stare at his hands and find the evidence on his fingertips. He grimaces. “My pen must’ve leaked. I’m sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay, I’m sure it’ll wash off.” I look at my watch.
Four minutes to get to Dad. Finding a sink will have to wait until after I check in with him, but fortunately I have a quick solution.
I tug my white gloves upward to cover the stain.
“There. All better. ‘Be prepared’ is my motto.” I stop myself after I realize I’m babbling. Me? Babbling?
The boy nods politely as he goes for the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a black pen and a small notepad with scribbles all over it. “The culprit,” he explains. He tosses the leaky pen in a small, ornate trash can.
I tilt my head, curious. Most folks at this party aren’t taking actual notes. “What were you writing?”
He looks embarrassed. “I was checking out this collection of photos on the bookshelf and taking notes on their age and provenance.”
“Provenance,” I repeat. “You mean the origin of the photos?”
He nods. “Yeah, there are some awesome images in this collection.”
I beam as I walk over to the bookcase of family photos I personally curated. “Thanks, I worked hard on locating and placing…” My words trail off as I look at the frames. To my annoyance, I realize four of them have been rearranged to different spots. “Hey, did you move my frames?”
My back tingles, sensing him behind me, but my frustration at seeing my photo collection out of order is more galling. “Each of these photos was placed with intention,” I say with irritation.
I pick up a wooden eight-by-ten frame with a photo that’s particularly important to me. It’s a sepia-toned portrait of my mom’s grandma, Lola Liwayway, when she was about my age in the Philippines.
The photo’s angle captures her profile as she sits on a rock off to the side of a mountain road. There’s a great valley below and mountains in the distance.
A year after that photo was taken, World War II would reach the Philippines and my great-grandmother would become a nurse and a resistance fighter, starting a tradition in our family that would eventually lead to Mom’s military service, then public service as a champion for veterans and small businesses, and now the White House.
Lola Liwayway was a hero, and I’m not happy seeing the photos surrounding hers moved around.
I can sense him frowning. “I’m so sorry, I thought I placed them back in order.”
“These four aren’t where they belong,” I say, putting Lola’s photo carefully back in place and rearranging the others.
“Four?” He sounds amused. “There’s like fifty frames here and you’re upset about four?”
“Everything has a proper place,” I say primly. That should be reason enough to explain his error, but instead he doubles down.
“I know a little something about photography. I can usually tell the era based on a photo’s characteristics. Those four photos were out of place.”
I scoff. “I had an archivist from the National Archives help me.”
He lifts his hands in surrender, but now it looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Well, you might want to get a second opinion. I put them in correct chronological order.”
We stare at one another. I can’t tell if I’m more irritated by him suggesting I’m wrong or the fact that he doesn’t care when things are out of order. Or maybe it’s the tiny, annoyingly cute smirk emerging on his face.
As we stare at one another, it’s like the air is as thick as on a hot and humid DC summer day. I suddenly wish I wore more deodorant.
“Everything all right here?” I jerk back at the sound of a familiar calm and confident voice.
My best friend steps forward, looking magnificent in his tuxedo. He barely acknowledges my brief hello as he angles himself in front of me. “Hi, I’m Oliver Darby,” he says, extending his hand to the boy in Chuck Taylors.
The boy’s eyes widen. “Darby? As in Darby Hotels?”
Oliver’s face pinches in dismay. That is his family, but it’s not how he likes to be identified. “As in, son of Vice President Darby.”