Chapter 5
Andi
“It’s just a rule that if there’s a semi-attractive man around, I’ll make a fool out of myself,” I say to Amanda over the phone. I’m speed-walking, trying to finish my errands for Gretchen before tonight.
“You mean you don’t think face tats are sexy?” Amanda asks. This isn’t the first she’s heard about Nolan. I told her about our brief encounter after it first happened. So of course, I had to update her. And cancel on her, yet again, for the second time this week.
“No, Amanda. They are not.”
“I beg to differ. The last guy I went out with had one. It was his first name in italics down his cheekbone. Hendrix,” she says dreamily.
“I’ll never understand why people get their first name tattooed on their bodies. Are they afraid to forget it?”
“It suited him. You’d have to see it up close to appreciate it,” she argues, though I highly doubt that. “Anyway, you really need to learn to reject hustle culture. There’s no glory in the grind, trust me. Just irreversible wrinkles, eye bags, and a dusty nether region.”
We have this conversation pretty much every time we talk.
Amanda finds any capitalist 9–5 schedule to be “deeply disturbing spiritually,” let alone my 24/7-on-call schedule (with theoretical vacation time).
I see her point. This lifestyle isn’t for everyone.
When I first started, I didn’t think I’d last more than a year.
But over time, I got better and better at anticipating Gretchen’s needs, understanding exactly what she wants, when she wants it, to the point where I’ve become indispensable.
A necessity in her life. Needed. And it feels good to be needed for once.
Still, sometimes when I’m utterly spent at the end of a long day with no more energy left for my writing, I wish I could be more like Amanda, who lives life unencumbered by routine or rules in general.
She’s an artist, always has been. Ever since we were kids, she could be found collecting funky-shaped twigs, rocks, or shells in the sand at the beach to be fashioned into unique pieces.
She calls herself an environmentally conscious artist, who exclusively makes her art out of recycled trash and/or well-loved objects to highlight the impact of waste and “mindless consumption” on the environment.
She walks the walk, too, refusing to drive or live in one particular place, to my parents’ utter horror. Live in a van for a year on Vancouver Island? Check. Join a nudist commune? Check.
“Ew, please don’t say ‘nether region’ ever again,” I beg.
Of course, she screams it into the phone, cackling.
“Are you in public?” I ask, hearing a flurry of chatter in the background.
“Sure am. I’m at the liquor store, actually. I was grabbing some pinot for our night. Though since you’re no longer joining, I’m going trashy before I go out. Malibu and Wild Vines,” she adds.
“Have I ever told you how jealous I am of your ability not to care about what people think? Even our mother.”
“Oh my god. Speaking of Mom. She called me the other day, solely to complain about the drama with ladies at the country club over the food drive charity. Apparently, one of them knew about her past and asked her to give an account from personal experience in a speech at the banquet. Kind of an inspirational, Look where I am now, this can be you, too sort of schtick,” she explains.
I snort at the mere thought. “Mom must have been absolutely horrified that anyone knew she used to be poor.”
“Oh, she’s livid. She asked Dave if they could sue for defamation, as if it’s a big lie or something.”
“Amazing how quick you can forget you were ever on welfare, huh?”
“Truly. Anyway, enough negativity. I gotta go. The cashier just asked for my ID,” she informs proudly. “I have one last request.”
“Nope,” I say preemptively. I think I know where this is going.
“Talk to the bodyguard again. I mean, what are the chances that you’d run into him again after all these years? Let alone work with him? It’s gotta be a sign or something.”
“Bye. Love you,” I say as I pull up to Gretchen’s dry cleaner.
Admittedly, seeing Nolan again threw me for a loop.
All I could think about was waking up alone the next morning, my entire chest coated in cheesecake crust crumbs.
I think I may have had some dried bits on the corner of my mouth.
No wonder he got the hell out of Dodge. Besides, it was for the best. It’s not like I wanted anything more, except for a chance to redeem myself in bed.
“That’s how one-night stands work. They aren’t supposed to stay,” Laine kindly reminded me when she called the next morning (to make sure I was okay) after she and Hunter sprang their big news on me.
After a couple months, I started to think I’d imagined Nolan.
Over the years, he became a faceless, very muscular blur.
Surely any memory I did have of him was my overactive imagination filling in the blanks.
There’s no way I’d met a wildly attractive man who encouraged me to keep writing, to publish my books, to pursue my passion.
Maybe I dreamed him up entirely, like I tend to do.
Because lightning-in-a-bottle moments like that don’t happen to me.
The kinds you could write an entire romance novel about.
The only lasting proof that he was real was my assembled writing desk, as well as the sticky note he left on top, which I kept in my underwear drawer of all places. But the moment I saw him standing in Eric’s doorway, I knew for certain he’d been real.
Since that night, I’d self-published three books in the span of two years under the pen name A.
A. Zed before Gretchen took over my life.
None of the books sold more than a couple thousand copies each.
In fact, I probably invested more money into editing, cover design, and marketing ads than I got back (the joys of self-publishing).
But it was nice, sprinkling a little bit of happiness into the world.
To this day, I still get messages from readers asking when my next book is coming.
I never respond, because honestly, I don’t know the answer.
Maybe it’s my complete and total lack of free time, but I’ve had zero inspiration.
Until now. It’s the first time in forever that my fingers itch to fly across my keyboard again.
I spent the whole night curled under a blanket at my desk, letting my brain roam freely, the familiar, satisfying soft click of keys under my fingertips.
When all was said and done, I’d written over four thousand words.
Admittedly, they were rusty words. Probably not meant for consumption by anyone but me.
Still, finding my rhythm again filled me with a satisfaction that I haven’t felt since I wrote my last book.
As usual, I don’t have a lot of time to nurture the spark. Yesterday Eric practically begged on bended knee for my help. He’s desperate to “make it up” to Gretchen for ditching their anniversary weekend. I may not have recent real-life experience with romance, but I know Gretchen.
So I booked them a private room at her favorite vegan restaurant, La Maison. I even ordered hundreds of dollars’ worth of orchids for aesthetic purposes. And because Eric really needed the brownie points, I hired the same harpist who played at their wedding as Gretchen walked down the aisle.
Two minutes before Eric showed up at the restaurant with Nolan, Gretchen called to inform me that she wasn’t coming.
“Why not?” I asked, unable to mask the disappointment. I didn’t spend all night making a slideshow montage of their life together for nothing.
“Let’s not act like you didn’t plan this entire night for him, Andi.
He didn’t lift a finger, aside from plunking his ass into the chair.
And I’m the one who should make the effort to put on a bra and go all the way there?
For what? So he can give me the same old excuses he always does?
” She proceeded to hang up on me and sent my next two calls to voicemail.
So now it’s just me, the harpist, and Nolan crammed into a tiny, candlelit room, watching Eric quietly sob into his fancy vegan polenta dish. And yes, it’s as awkward as it sounds.
I’ve never seen Eric cry before. Not even out of happiness when he won the election. He’s generally a sunny, upbeat guy—the kind of person you’ll rarely catch without a smile. Without his usual team of assistants around, I’m not sure what to say, if anything.
Nolan slants me a brief glance laced with mild panic from his post by the door, as if to say, What do we do?
I turn my palms to the ceiling and shake my head, deliberately ignoring how well he fills out that suit. Must focus on the task at hand. “Um, would you like me to get the food to go?” I ask Eric, as gently as possible. I’m used to dealing with Gretchen, but Eric? Not so much.
His dark eyes flick up, meeting mine desperately. “Andi, what can I do to fix this? I feel like I’ve tried everything.” His tone is one of complete dejection.
“Um, I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask—”
“You are,” he pleads, panic edging his voice.
“You spend more time with her than anyone.” Technically, he’s right.
Gretchen lost most of her close friends at the beginning of his term, mostly due to her lack of freedom.
She can’t make plans on a whim without security approvals.
With the kids in school all day, I’m the person she has the most face time with.
And after thousands of hours spent with her, I’m fully aware that this rift between them is anything but simple.
I hesitantly pull Gretchen’s would-be adjacent chair out and sit. “I guess the first step would be understanding all the factors that have led to this.”
“She’s upset because I had to cancel Tremblant, right?” he asks simply, his shoulders slumped. Oh, Eric. “Upset” is a generous descriptor. She also used some colorful language, calling him “willfully obtuse.” Despite running a whole-ass country, he remains as clueless as most men.
“Well…that’s part of it.” I drum my fingers in the space between us, debating whether it’s my place to get into it.
It’s really not. I’m just a low-level assistant.
Then again, Gretchen is too angry to explain it in a way he’ll receive it.
Maybe a go-between is exactly what they need.
Maybe I missed my calling as a couples therapist. “It goes back further than that. She’s been feeling like you haven’t prioritized her or the kids ever since you took office. ”
His face crumples. “But what choice do I have? She knew how demanding the job would be and she agreed to it, encouraged it. I try my best to eat dinner with them when I can. Just last month, I bought her that necklace she wanted.” He accidentally knocks over the stone saltshaker as he talks.
He’s always had a tendency to talk with his hands.
I catch it before it falls over completely. “Look, the grand gestures are sweet. But in the end, what she values most are the small things. Little ways to show you really care.”
“Like what?”
“Compliments, putting on her favorite song, small reminders of good memories, a touch here and there. Being present instead of always checking your phone, going through your emails. It will all add up. She just needs to know she and the kids are number one.” Am I, a very single woman with zero romantic prospects, really giving marriage advice to the prime minister of Canada right now? What is my life?
He rubs the back of his neck, like he’s not so sure, before leaning in close. “Can I tell you a secret? I’m worried it’s over between us. We haven’t had a real conversation in months. She doesn’t even let me near her anymore.”
“She loves you,” I insist, looking him in the eye so he knows I’m telling the truth. “I can tell by the way she still looks at you, the way she still talks about you.”
“You think?” he asks tearfully, doubling over in the chair, finger-massaging his temples. He looks like a dejected puppy who’s been kicked out of the house into the rain by his beloved owner.
“Of course. If there’s any couple who can make it, it’s you two,” I assure, mostly to give this poor, broken man some much-needed hope.
I think it works (thankfully, because I’m grossly unqualified to give in-depth marriage advice).
He considers that for a couple seconds, a promise of a smile flitting across his sharp features before he reaches out to give my hand a quick squeeze.
“Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Andi. ”
“Well, you’d have to fold your own underwear, for starters,” I point out, pushing my chair back when he stands, giving Nolan the signal that he’s ready to leave.
He gives me his trademark sunny smirk as he smooths down his suit. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”