One
One
JUNE 2021
There’s a familiar thud against my front door and I know our paper has been delivered. I can’t open the door in just the tank top I slept in so I reach for Dean’s jacket and zip it up, my obscenely tall husband’s clothes swallowing me like a child. If a photo is going to be snapped of me, I’d rather look sloppy than indecent, although my campaign staff would tell me both are unacceptable. I shouldn’t be worried about photographers wandering the streets of Charlottesville at five in the morning, but lately I’ve been surprised by things I never thought possible.
I hang up Dean’s jacket and walk into the kitchen, slipping the flimsy wrapper off the paper. I’m anxious to see the front page, although I already know what to expect. The photo doesn’t look like me, this polished woman with lipstick too red and hair curled too tightly. My smile is genuine and my eyes are hopeful. That’s why I agreed to this picture for the campaign, even though everything about it feels unnatural.
I sit at my kitchen table, my long dark hair braided down my back, my face free from makeup, my outfit revealing the fact that I have both breasts and an ass. I study the two photos on the front page of the paper with the words “Tess Murphy vs. Grant Alexander” written underneath. Our faces are pointing toward each other, our eyes looking off into the distance, as if neither one of us can be bothered to look at anyone else.
My hand stops beside Grant’s photo, and I let my finger trace the outline of his jaw. When I hear footsteps behind me, I quickly shove my hand under my thigh.
Dean walks into the kitchen and wraps his arms around my shoulders, the familiar scent of his pine aftershave swirling in the air.
“Eyeing the competition?” Dean innocently asks as he nuzzles my neck.
“Something like that,” I say, flipping over the paper, then getting up and walking toward the coffee pot. I pour a scoop of grounds into the filter. “What are you doing up so early?”
My husband usually spends the first week of summer break sleeping in, savoring his hard-earned vacation. I’ve often thought summer is a necessary tool in teacher retention. But Dean isn’t going to have a restful summer this year, and that’s my fault. He’s already dressed in his standard uniform of a plaid shirt neatly tucked into jeans, looking like a comfortable lumberjack on his way to a job interview.
I stand and hook my finger into his belt loop, pulling him closer as his arms wrap around my hips. Dean’s hands slowly rise upward, sliding beneath my tank top, his fingers dancing along my skin. I inhale sharply and bite my lip unconsciously. In one fluid motion, he sweeps me up and my legs wrap around his waist as he sets me on the kitchen counter. My hands weave into his thick, curly hair as he kisses my collarbone, my neck, my cheek, eventually diving into my mouth. I’m filled with heat even though I’m barely dressed.
Dean raises his eyebrows as he says, “If I slept in, I’d miss making out with you in the kitchen. You turn into Candidate Tess too early these days.”
He’s right. Candidate Tess doesn’t sit on the kitchen counter in her underwear, daydreaming about dragging her husband back to bed. Candidate Tess discusses poll numbers and fundraising dinners. Both of us tolerate her because we think Governor Tess is important. I’m lucky Dean loves me, even the parts I don’t like.
“Besides, the work of the First Gentleman never stops,” Dean says. “I have scones to bake, luncheons to attend, china patterns to review.”
Dean optimistically jokes about his life next year, after I’ve won the election and we move to the Virginia governor’s mansion. His imaginative scenarios vacillate between policy wonk and man of leisure.
“You hate scones. You’re a doughnut man,” I reply.
He smirks. “You know me so well.”
I slide off the counter and reach for two mugs. “What’s going on this morning?” I ask, Candidate Tess making her appearance.
“I have media training for the spouse interviews before the first debate.”
“Right. I forgot.” I nod, trying to focus on the never-ending campaign checklist instead of on my panicked spirals about tonight.
Dean sips his coffee, his eyes dancing over the mug’s rim. “We can’t all have armies of young interns reminding us of our schedules.”
“I only have the armies because they constantly change my schedule,” I say defensively, reaching for my cup.
“You forgot your schedule before the campaign too. I know your secrets, Tess.”
I recoil momentarily, my pulse quickening and the air sweeping out of my lungs. Dean has known me for twenty years. Of course he thinks he knows every part of me.
Dean walks to the kitchen table as I try to slow my breath and act normal instead of panicked about a person from my past. He flips over the paper, scanning the story about the campaign, and reads aloud bits of the article, chuckling at the descriptions of Grant, “the hedge fund manager and proven businessman with a fresh approach to running the state.” Dean’s finger jabs the paper as he reads Grant’s statement: “Tess Murphy is a career politician. I’m not looking at the governor’s mansion as a pit stop in my political career. Virginia is my home and my priority.”
“What a load of shit.” Dean pushes the paper aside as he sips his coffee.
I can’t help wincing at Grant’s description of me. It’s a narrative I have fought my entire career, from city council to the Charlottesville mayor’s office. The fact that I don’t have children adds to the fallacy that I’m too ambitious to be trusted.
I’ve been misunderstood before but rarely by those who know me. I wonder what else Grant will say to win this election.
Sometimes this dream of becoming governor feels too big. I’m afraid everyone will realize I don’t deserve this honor. They’ll see the girl who grew up in her grandmother’s trailer and finally decide I’ve climbed too high and push me back down to where I belong.
Dean stares at me, seemingly puzzled by my silence. “Are you ready for tonight? You aren’t nervous to go up against this guy, are you?”
I can’t speak, all of my fears from the last two decades wrapped around that question.
Up until now, my life could be spun as a few strategic omissions. I’ve often wondered, if I told Dean everything, would he understand? After all, that’s what love is, right? Filling in the craters of someone’s character with your love of the whole landscape. But I’m afraid some holes are too deep, too dark, to be overlooked.
“I can handle Grant Alexander,” I say with faux confidence.
Dean stands and kisses the top of my head, unable to see my cheek twitch. “Of course you can.”
Tonight I’ll stand across from Grant Alexander—the man who changed my whole life—and pretend we’ve never met. Assuming my heart doesn’t betray me.