Chapter 3 #2
Mom, Dad, and the prime minister and his wife make their way toward the Grand Staircase, where they’ll make their entrance, but not before Dad hugs me and shakes Oliver’s hand.
I’m wary of the knowing look Dad shares with him.
Like everyone is in on a secret except me.
Oliver offers me his arm. I look into my best friend’s eyes and feel nervous.
Didn’t I write page two of my unofficial bucket list anticipating us dating?
Even our first kiss? Haven’t I already decided that it’s time for Oliver’s best friend label to switch to boyfriend?
I feel an elbow bump me and am glad to see Elle.
I lock my other arm with hers and the three of us make our way to dinner.
As we enter our grand State Dining Room, where Mom prefers to host official functions, I’m stunned.
The White House staff have outdone themselves with turning this historic ballroom into an elegant party space, with soft pink uplights, golden platters, and lush floral centerpieces.
Toward the back, a few members of the press stand to capture tonight’s event.
It’s hard to imagine First Lady Abigail Adams used to hang her laundry here. The room has hosted official state dinners for over a century, the first one in 1874 when President Grant honored the king of Hawaii. Where I’ll be soon. I push the thought of balmy breezes out of my mind for now.
As we make our way to our seats, my sister and I do our best to smile, but not too wide.
Stand tall, but not too rigid. Don’t flinch or look like you’re annoyed by the thousand lights flashing in your face.
You’re happy, your parents are great, and you’re gracious and humbled to serve the American people.
As the flashes begin to slow down, I notice one photographer who doesn’t fit in. My chest thumps. Gabriel is standing with the press taking photos with a pocket-sized but pro-looking camera.
Wait. Is he with the press? Why was he in the Residence?
And if that wasn’t strange, his camera seems to be aimed at the walls behind me. Everyone else is taking photos of me. What’s so interesting about the walls?
Oliver nudges my shoulder. “You’re frowning,” he whispers between his toothy grin.
Oh no. I do my best to recover, but the damage is done.
Sometime tonight or tomorrow a photo will be posted of me side-eyeing a guest. And then the internet will decide I’ve personally offended democracy, and criticize my parents for whatever is the issue of the day.
Mom and Dad will say it’s not a big deal, but I know these kinds of things are not helpful either. Rule number one: Don’t make Mom’s job harder.
Our procession continues until we’re escorted to our table by one of the White House’s military social aides. Our round table is clothed in rose gold with twinkling crystal glasses and Mom’s White House china—the ivory-and-gold design was one she and Dad picked out together.
As I approach the table, I see my name is handwritten in flowery script on a tiny name tent where I expect to find it. Next to me is Oliver, where I expect to find him seated. I glance at the name placard on the other side of me.
Gabriel Calabrese, the script on the name tent reads. My stomach does a backflip. Not what I expected.
I turn to my sister for an explanation. She rewards me with a sheepish smile as she grabs a chair at the table behind me. I try not to scowl as she sits beside Enzo.
Of course, she must have begged to be seated next to him.
I always knew Tom, Mom’s social secretary, liked her more than me.
I know the seating charts are always changed up to the last minute, but Elle could have at least warned me we were at different tables.
Feeling petty, I decide to make sure she doesn’t get her favorite ice cream flavor when we’re on vacation.
I’ll eat all the pineapple sorbet out of spite (even though I hate pineapple).
I summon my inner yoga girl. It’s not that I mind talking to strangers—it’s practically part of my job description as a First Daughter—but Gabriel Calabrese? He’s the rare type of person who makes me tongue-tied, and now I have to sit through an entire five-course dinner with him?
If Oliver noticed Gabriel’s name, he doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he’s already turned on the megawatt Darby charm as he greets the other guests at our table, all of whom I’ve already done my homework on.
There’s Secretary Luis, our commerce secretary, and his wife, Penny.
Sitting next to her is a military veteran; then a green-energy entrepreneur; and finally, an Italian arts philanthropist and his guest, a fashion influencer.
And now, seated on my right, is Gabriel Calabrese, who’s into photography, doesn’t care about keeping things in order, and is a possible member of the press. Oh, and is ridiculously hot.
Being on time doesn’t seem to be his thing either, since he’s nowhere to be seen.
Oliver’s cool hand touches my arm, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You remember the name of that town we visited last summer?” he asks from his seat—my best friend’s way of looping me back into the moment.
Flustered, I slide into my chair, offering polite nods and smiles around the table. My gaze lands on Secretary Luis as I answer. “Oh, in Virginia? We did that whirlwind trip through the countryside. So many cute towns—I remember it being beautiful, but they blur together.”
“Including Mystic Hollow,” a low, warm voice says. I look up and see a smug Gabriel Calabrese standing behind his chair. “That is, you passed through. You didn’t stop.”
I fiddle with my gloves, avoiding eye contact. I don’t control my family’s itinerary, but I still feel bad for not stopping at his town even though it’s impossible for us to stop everywhere.
Oliver snaps his fingers, not missing a beat. “Mystic Hollow. That’s why I remember that name. It’s unique.”
“And I think you’ll be hearing a lot more about that town,” says a loud and very familiar voice. Tita Karra places her hands on Gabriel’s shoulders and beams. “I’m working on a new project in Mystic Hollow with my godson’s mother.”
Godson? I look at Tita and then Gabriel and back at Tita as I bite my tongue. Now is not the time to grill Tita about some mysterious godson I’ve never heard of. But wow, my blood is boiling at this breaking news. How long has this been a thing with Gabriel and my aunt?
As Gabriel takes his seat, Tita greets Secretary Luis and the others at our table. Apparently, she was supposed to join our group, but Mom has Tita seated next to an Italian businessman.
Gabriel doesn’t say a word as he sips from a glass of water.
I force my gaze away from him and focus on the dinner menu atop my plate.
I barely register the upscale Italian-sounding names: prawn carpaccio, tricolore salad, lamb agnolotti, and pizzetta contemporanea, which must be the pizza dish I’m looking forward to.
As the group discusses farm-to-table menus and where tonight’s food was sourced, I scan the room. My parents are seated at the head table with Italian prime minister Mariano and his wife. The two couples look like old friends. Is that me when I’m older?
I glance at Oliver, who’s now confidently engaged in a conversation with the table. It’s practically predestined for Oliver and me. Everyone knows it.
The topic must’ve moved on to our upcoming trip to Hawaii, as Oliver’s discussing our plans, from snorkeling to sunset boat tours.
“Sounds like a blast,” Gabriel says.
I turn to him, annoyed that even his profile is gorgeous. I try to keep myself from frowning. “What’s a blast?”
“Your summer. A luxury trip to Hawaii.” His expression is flat, but those copper eyes shine with intensity. The judgment in his voice will not do.
“It’s not just for recreation. I’ll be leading a community service project for Senator Sina while I’m there.” In fact, it’s one of my top three activities on my official personal summer endeavors list, but I don’t tell him that.
Gabriel nods. “Hmmm. While sipping virgin daiquiris at your boy’s infinity pool?”
My face burns as he chuckles. My boy? What does that even mean? I stiffen and lean forward, so only he can hear my response. “My entire summer itinerary is jam-packed up to the minute. If I can get away to the beach it would be a real treat.”
He stares at me for what feels like an eternity. I can’t tell what’s going on in his gorgeous head except that he’s probably forming opinions of me. Finally, he exhales. “I’m sure you’ll do that alongside a picnic of fancy Michelin-starred food.”
So that’s it. He thinks I’m super fancy. I chuckle. “No. I’ll pack a charcuterie board—no, I mean peanut butter and Oreos, thank you.” I wince. In my effort to pick everyday food, I went with Elle’s favorite.
Gabriel’s expression goes from shock to the IRL version of a laugh-cry emoji. “Peanut butter and Oreos? You ever go on a picnic before?”
“Of course I have,” I retort. Community gatherings on the campaign trail count, don’t they? I just haven’t gone on one with people my age, hence item one on my unofficial bucket list.
“You all just seem into really fancy food.” He gestures at the menu card.
I frown. What does he expect to eat at a black-tie event? “Well, there is pizza on the menu. Our chef knows it’s my and Elle’s favorite.”
“Your favorite food is pizza?” he asks.
I lift my chin. “Absolutely. Comfort in a box.”
The expression on his face is still annoyingly amused and attractive. I straighten my shoulders, employing a strategy I learned from Erin, one of Mom’s campaign staff: If you don’t like the topic, change it. “What’s with you standing with the press pool? Are you media?”
He looks around the room, then back at me. “No.”
I narrow my eyes. “You sure you’re not reporting for your high school or posting pictures somewhere? Because if so, you’ll need the right credentials.” My gaze lands at the bulge in his tuxedo jacket where his camera must be.
“Definitely not with my school paper,” he says with a force I wasn’t expecting. “Or with the media. I’m a fine arts photographer,” he says. “Or I want to be.”
The wistfulness in his voice surprises me, but before I can respond, Oliver taps my hand. Maybe I’m imagining it, but he looks annoyed. I inhale, remembering we need to help each other during these social occasions—just like Dad helps Mom out.
“Actually, Abby’s the bookworm in our group,” Oliver says with a grin.
I force a smile. That’s my cue. And I almost missed it—too distracted by Gabriel. First Daughter 101: Always make others feel seen. I mentally scold myself.
The rest of dinner I stay sharp—engaged listening, laughing at the right moments with everyone except Gabriel. Maybe he’s picked up on it. Maybe that’s the point.
The first course doesn’t help my “I eat everyday food” argument.
The prawn carpaccio is beautiful but is designed so the delicate meat is still inside the prawn’s fully intact body, beady eyes and all.
The second course is a salad arranged to look like a butterfly.
And the third dish is basically four ravioli, but dressed up with flower petals.
Gabriel, as it turns out, isn’t bad at adding to the conversation. While I ignored him, he held a pleasant discussion with Luca, the Italian arts philanthropist.
I didn’t know Florence was home to many fine arts schools, and there’s a prestigious photography program that Gabriel seems to know a lot about. The philanthropist practically invites Gabriel to a private tour.
“Maybe Signorina Abby can take you,” Luca says. “You’ll be stopping in Florence this summer, no?”
My cheeks warm. Gabriel is quick to respond. “Nah, she’ll be basking in the sun in Hawaii. Besides, I’m needed at home this summer,” he says. “Family business” is all he offers. I frown, detecting a hint of reluctance in his voice.
Our servers arrive with the fourth course. I perk up. This is the pizza course.
But when the plates land in front of us, I do my best to contain my shock at the small square crust on my plate. There’s no sprinkled cheese. No tomato sauce. No toppings.
Instead, there’s a green sauce, a sliced eggplant that has a white sauce spread atop, then piled with tomatoes, radishes, and alfalfa sprouts like a salad.
“Pizzetta contemporanea,” Secretary Luis says. “Contemporary pizza.” He takes a bite of the tiny slice and nods with approval.
“Ah, yes. This is not what my mama would call pizza, but it’s very fashionable,” Luca says, and he and his date tell us about the latest food trends in Italy.
I can practically hear Gabriel’s thoughts: fancy food for a fancy girl.
I sigh. People form their opinions about me all the time.
I shouldn’t care about his, but for some reason I do.
The tension between us doesn’t get any better when Mom stands up to give a toast. I blush as she shares how excited she is to take me to Italy to help bridge our cultures and how fast I’ve grown from the shy girl in pigtails to a vital voice for young people across the country.
All of it is super flattering and even funny at times, but on the inside, I wish I could sink into my chair. On the outside, I flash my megawatt smile. Rule number two: When your parent is president, everyone’s expectations of you are high—fair or not.
Gabriel grumbles. I cut him a sharp glance meant to shush him, but the concerned look in his eyes is not what I expect. “No wonder you’re so high-strung,” he murmurs. “That’s a ton of pressure on you.”
My jaw drops with shock from his sympathy. As Mom proposes a toast to our two countries’ friendship and bright future, all eyes are on her, except Gabriel’s.
Instead, he angles his glass like he’s toasting me. His copper eyes hold mine as we raise our glasses, and I’m struck by the recognition in his expression. How can he look at me like that when we’ve just met? When two hours ago, all I wanted was to avoid him?
My chest tightens with realization: Even if we never meet again, I don’t think I’ll ever forget this moment, or his face.