Chapter Four
Darcy
Monday. It always arrives too soon.
That doesn’t matter much because my life is a constant string of Mondays. Sunday through Saturday—it’s all a blur. Interviews. Meet and greets. Dinners. Facades. Speeches.
I’m given a schedule by my campaign team, day after day, and I’m enslaved to it.
A prisoner to the life I chose. The plan was never to run for president of the United States, but after the dumpster fire that was the last administration, I felt God calling me to run for office.
I had the money, the connections, and the name, so it made sense to take the leap into the political arena, though I was not—and will never be—a people person.
But I push through my introverted and autistic ways because I have something many politicians lack: selfless motivations and ambitions.
I’m running for the homeless, for the orphaned, for the least of them, as Scripture says.
Having my name attached to that type of reform is nothing short of spectacular.
Okay, so my motivations are mostly selfless.
We all have a bit of selfishness inside of us.
My phone buzzes on my wooden desk, and I shuffle through papers until I find it buried underneath the campaign budget report. A text from Ren Sato, my best friend, flashes across the screen.
Ren: Who’s the new woman?
I ignore him, directing my attention to the mountain of paperwork covering nearly every inch of my L-desk, but then another text comes through.
Ren: I want to meet her.
I crumple the newspaper in my fists, unpleasant words roaring across my brain. The door opens, pushing the scent of cedar and musk from the candle burning in the front of the room over to me.
“Mr. Marshall,” a too cheery voice calls.
Hayden. The only reason I look up from my desk is to glare at her for having a sing-song voice that drives me crazy when I hear it in the mornings.
How can a person be this happy in the midst of the political whirlwind every day?
Seeing the burn marks still lingering on her face makes me feel a little bad for thinking negative thoughts about her.
She does great things for me and this campaign.
She clears her throat. “I have your morning sched—”
“Leave it here.” I don’t want to hear the word “schedule” ever again at this point in time. I used to love planning and to-do lists, but only when I get to make them.
Hayden sets the horrid paper—that will only end up in the recycling bin—gently on the corner of my desk before turning to leave.
“Wait.”
She stops in her tracks and abruptly turns. A single curl falls from her bun, and she reaches to tuck it back in. “Yes, sir?”
A smidge of frustration flares within me at the word. “I’ve asked you several times not to call me sir.”
“Yes, sir,” she stammers. “I mean, yes. Just yes.”
“Do you have the next candidate lined up?” Her brows pinch together, and she cocks her head to the side. The coiled, black strand falls out again.
“Candidate?”
“For my wife,” I clarify. Her shoulders tense. The strand still cups her face, falling right over her temple.
“I’ve contacted a few women,” she begins, tucking the curl behind her ear, averting her eyes. Why am I fascinated with a ridiculous, unruly strand of hair? “I should receive answers by the end of the two-week period you allotted me.”
“Two weeks.” The words taste sour on my tongue. I groan. “That will be too late.”
“Too late for what, s—”
The piercing darts of death I throw her way with my eyes cuts off the attempted title. It makes me feel like I’m my father, which I most certainly am not. I will break her of this habit.
“You said two weeks on Friday.” Hayden speaks each word slowly and without surety.
“I know what I said, but I need to move faster.” As I stand from my chair, I shove the now crinkled copy of the Times in her face. “See.”
She takes a moment to read over the headline: PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE DARCY MARSHALL HAS FOUND HIS FUTURE FIRST LADY?
“Not good,” she whispers. I toss the crumpled newspaper onto my desk.
Hayden rubs her temples, tilting her head down to her chest. When she whips her head upwards, the curl comes loose again.
Before my brain processes what is happening, I take a single step toward Hayden and tuck the curl back into her bun. My fingers linger on her hair, feeling the smooth texture. It doesn’t feel stringy like I expected it to, but soft and sleek. Like moisturizer on my hands.
The silence enveloping us screams louder than the way Father used to yell at Mother, bringing me to my senses.
Jerking my hand away, I take several steps backward and barrel into the sharp corner of my large, wooden desk. My outer thigh howls in pain, but I grit my teeth to keep the curses in.
I stare at the polished, hardwood floor, noticing the shine of my black shoes, before risking a glance at Hayden. When I do, her doe eyes are wide open, her nude lips parted, and a blush coats her slightly blistered brown cheeks. What have I done?
“Hayden.” I say her name with a gruffness that adds another level of embarrassment to this situation.
My mouth is a desert, and it feels like I’m swallowing sand when I attempt to clear my throat.
“Please maintain a professional appearance while in the workplace.” I internally cringe at the hypocrisy of my words because of my recent actions. That was bad. Unbelievably regrettable.
To make matters worse, she laughs. Belly laughs. In between snorts, she says, “Mr. Marshall, that was highly unprofessional of you.”
My neck flares with heat. “It meant nothing. I wasn’t coming on to you. Please don’t take my actions that way.” The words rush from my mouth like a criminal denying the very crime he committed. Keep digging that hole for yourself, Darcy.
Her laugh becomes a cackle, and my face burns hotter and hotter. Hayden throws her hands up. “Don’t worry. I know you hate me. I’ll be going now.”
I start to tell her I don’t hate her, but she turns on her heel to leave before I can utter the words.
Hayden laughs like a hyena all the way out of my office. Oh, God, please don’t let there be a lawsuit for sexual harassment awaiting me at the end of this day.
I rip a tissue from the box on my desk and dab the sweat beads forming on my forehead line.
The best course of action is to approach her, say the words “I’m sorry,” and explain my lapse of sound judgment.
Instead, I want to choose to avoid her for the rest of the day.
Maybe even the week. Confrontation has never been a problem for me, but usually the other person is the one needing to say sorry, not me.
I’m great at confrontation with all of my facts and enigmatic personality, but I’m not the most practiced with apologies.
Avoidance is not probable. I need Hayden to help me with the wife search.
It’s a team effort; I most definitely can’t accomplish the task on my own.
Women run from me once they get to know me.
They end up loathing me because I’m not the friendly, charismatic man in the portrait that the media ignorantly paints.
I’m not mean, just introverted. Maybe that comes off as mean and standoffish and hateful sometimes?
Speaking of…
Why does Hayden think I hate her? Does she aggravate me? Yes. Is she my opposite in every way? Of course. Am I nitpicky about her actions? You bet I am. But pure hate? No, I don’t hate her. That emotion is only reserved for my father. I don’t even hate Priscilla for walking out on me.
Maybe Hayden thinks I hate her because I can be a little standoffish and cold in the pursuit of feeling safe in my own skin at times.
That’s what my therapist said a long time ago when I sought help after Ophelia died and found out I was autistic through our countless sessions. Have I not course-corrected enough?
With a long, drawn-out sigh, I take a seat at my desk and think through possible scenarios.
One. I apologize to Hayden, we move forward, and she finds the perfect wife for me.
Two. I ignore Hayden, pray she doesn’t file a workplace sexual harassment claim against me, and she gives up finding a wife for me.
Option one. Definitely. Mostly because I don’t want the claim filed against me. And it would be good to apologize to her, show her I’m not the monster she seems to perceive me as at times.
I work through different apologies as I leave my office and head for the conference room where, according to my schedule, Hayden is giving the team a run down of their tasks in preparation for next week’s speech in front of Independence Hall in Philadelphia.
I weave through the hallways of my home until I push my way through the tall, red oak doors leading into the rectangular conference room. Twelve sets of surprised eyes turn towards me, but I’m focused on the set of dark brown eyes that slowly narrow as if they were lasers locking onto their target.
A smirk pulls at the corner of her lips, and I swallow the lump rising in my throat.
“Mr. Marshall, is everything okay?” one of the guys asks.
I don’t bother to decipher who because I’m in the middle of one of the most intense games of “don’t blink” that I’ve ever played.
Her brown eyes are several shades lighter than normal, and wrinkles form in the corner of her eyes as her smirk deepens.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Marshall?” Hayden echoes. She pouts her bottom lip and tilts her head. She’s hiding it well, but a ghost of the smirk still resides on her face.
She knows exactly what happened, exactly what I’m concerned about, and exactly why I shoved my way through the conference room doors panting and with disheveled, fingered hair.
Because apparently I’m in the mood to touch hair today.