Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
OCTOBER 27, 2021
I pour myself a cup of the hotel’s complimentary coffee and take a sip. It is slightly thickened and bitter, left over from when it was made sometime earlier, maybe even the day before.
I glance at the clock. I’ve had exactly two hours and thirty-nine minutes of sleep. In an ideal world, I’d be sitting down to hair and makeup so that they could craft a perfect look. I need to look like a polished woman, capable of running an entire state. Instead, it will be a miracle if I can avoid being called haggard. Time vaporizes in a crisis, and all I can manage this morning is a quick bun.
As I leave the hotel, I pick up the paper. The headline says “Fall from Grace,” and I know the story is about me. I laugh at the irony. Anyone who has ever seen me attempt to run knows I’ve never had any grace. So much of politics is an image portrayed. My public image is far from reality. And yet, the public will claim they’ve been deceived because they didn’t know about a part of my history from twenty-five years prior. As if that has anything to do with my ability to govern this state. Maybe that’s why the public is so disillusioned with politics. They expect perfection and are disappointed to find humanity—regular people, living regular lives with the same amount of messiness as everyone else.
Mara texts me the preliminary numbers and they’re bad. A part of me feels like it didn’t matter what I said about the pregnancy. This type of information, days before the election, creates too much uncertainty. We’ll see what the public decides.
I ignore the other text messages flooding my phone, mostly from Grant. He says he’s sorry. He wants to explain . But really there’s no point.
I should have known this would happen. I might have hoped for better, but I always knew that if any part of our past came out, Grant would survive. I would be destroyed.
I’ve battled with Mara. She insists that the only chance I have at winning is revealing Grant’s role. Not just that he leaked these lies to the press but that he is the one who got me pregnant. As Mara says, “The public needs to know what a manipulative bastard he is.”
But I’d like to win this election without any more betrayal or blame. And maybe swallowing those words, concealing Grant’s role in this scandal, is what I need to do to erase my guilt. Because I did take the money. I did leave Grant with his monster of a father. And I did lie to everyone I care about. This is what I deserve.
I walk into my headquarters and look around the room. I may have slept only a few hours, but Mara and the team haven’t slept at all. Strained eyes, frazzled nerves, and short tempers fill the space.
As soon as Mara sees my face, she’s by my side, handing me an agenda for the day, mostly more meetings with the press.
She’s relaying more disturbing polling results when we are interrupted.
“The Alexander campaign is making a statement,” an intern says.
“This should be good,” Mara comments. We all walk toward the giant screen in the middle of the headquarters. Work seems to stop as Grant Alexander appears on the screen.
His hair is falling across his forehead. As the camera zooms in, the dark circles under his eyes are visible. He looks like shit. It makes me feel better.
He clears his throat and adjusts a microphone. “As I’m sure you are all aware, yesterday news was leaked about my opponent, Tess Murphy,” Grant says.
“False reports surfaced that Ms. Murphy had an abortion at seventeen. Ms. Murphy has spoken about her past, providing the public with details about her personal life that she never should have been forced to discuss.” Grant’s voice is clear and powerful.
“I know the reports about Ms. Murphy’s abortion are false because those leaks came from my team.”
Neither Mara nor I are surprised by this information, but the rest of my staff is. There are gasps and rumbles throughout the office as Grant continues. “I take full responsibility and the staff member who provided misleading documents to the press has been terminated. I want to personally apologize to Ms. Murphy for the pain this situation has caused. That is all.”
Grant walks away despite the frenzy of questions from reporters.
“That’s all?” Mara mumbles. “Pretty sure there is a hell of a lot more he could have said.”
“Mara, let’s go in my office,” I say, as Mara is pinged with questions from every staffer in the room.
“Give us a few minutes, team. Keep going with our plan from last night,” Mara instructs the room.
Mara closes the door and immediately starts ripping into Grant. “He should have admitted he got you pregnant. And he should have outed what a sleazy, manipulative scumbag he has for a father.”
I interrupt. “Then it would have looked like I wasn’t honest.”
She shakes her head. “No, you protected the identity of the father because you felt it wasn’t your place to reveal that information. You took money at seventeen because you were a scared, desperate kid being manipulated by a powerful, grown-ass man.”
“You don’t need to make excuses, Mara. I know what I did.”
“This stops now, Tess.” She places her hands on either side of my desk and leans forward. “Stop beating yourself up. Stop second-guessing your choices. At seventeen, you did the best job you could.”
My chin quivers. “Thanks,” I whisper. I close my eyes, processing Mara’s words. I’ve often wondered what I would have done differently. Knowing what I do now, I imagine a dozen different scenarios where I was a smarter, kinder, better person. But in all of those scenarios, I remember a terrified girl who wanted a chance at the life she’d dreamed about. And maybe it’s time I start forgiving that girl’s choices. Maybe Mara’s right.
Mara takes off her blazer and dumps it on the back of a chair. “By the way, if I ever meet Richard Alexander, I will inflict pain upon him.” She rarely shifts out of campaign manager mode, but I know how Richard Alexander can make people act out of character. “He deserves all of our man-bashing on tequila night.”
I need this sliver of friendship Mara offers, especially in a moment that feels so fragile. My phone starts buzzing.
I look at the screen and say, “It’s him. It’s Grant.”
She steps forward. “We do not have time for this, Tess.”
“I know. But I can’t do anything else until I talk to Grant.”
I answer the phone, taking a deep breath to clear my ragged emotions.
“Tess, I’m so sorry. Please let me explain.” Grant’s voice fills my ear as his pleas are repeated. “I need to see you.”
“Okay,” I meekly reply.
“When? Where? I’ll meet you anywhere.” Grant’s voice seems filled with relief.
I glance at the schedule Mara prepared. “Can you come to Charlottesville? You can pick me up down the street from my headquarters.”
“Yes,” Grant says, hope lacing his words. “Thank you.”
I hang up the phone and look at Mara. “I know you don’t understand. But Grant didn’t have to make that statement. He could have gotten away with it. He’s different than you think.”
Mara grabs her blazer, ready to resume full campaign manager duties. “I don’t need to understand. I need a candidate who’s ready to fight. Don’t lose sight of the goal, Tess. No person should ever feel stuck. This campaign is about equal opportunities, no matter the shitty circumstances we’re dealt. Do whatever you need to do, then come back ready to work.”
I nod, knowing she’s right. I have a battle ahead. And for the next two hours, we work. We refine talking points. I’m prepped for afternoon interviews. I finalize another public statement and field a few calls from senior executives at Planned Parenthood.
Then I walk down the street toward Grant’s car.
Elections are strange, forcing voters to pick one person over the other, to measure the candidates’ value and worth based on promises and plans. When I think about everything that has happened to us, I’m not sure whether I’m more capable than Grant is at keeping promises. But I do know that I’m better at change. And that’s what people need, especially when it feels like nothing in the world is working. That’s what I want to tell Grant. After decades of living the same life, maybe he’s finally starting the change I’ve been fighting for all along.
“Where do you want to go?” Grant asks as I open the door and climb inside the warm interior.
“You can just drive around.” The weather has turned and the heated leather seats of Grant’s car feel lush.
“I’m sorry, Tess. I can’t say it enough.”
I take a deep breath. “Tell me what happened. I heard your statement, but how did this happen?”
“My father,” Grant says through a grimace. “My campaign manager worked with some national party operatives on opposition research. I told them not to, but it was largely out of my control. They didn’t find much.” He smiles, and I wonder what is in the file his campaign pulled together. I don’t have to wonder for long because Grant continues, “You drive too fast. You’ve gotten some pretty impressive speeding tickets over the years.”
“It’s my vice,” I say. “Speeding and …” I trail off before I say “you,” because Grant Alexander is the most destructive vice I’ve ever had.
He keeps talking. “My campaign manager, Stuart, reached out to my father. Even though I told him not to. Even though he knew how much I hate that man. But my father is powerful and Stuart knew there was more to our past than I shared.”
“So your father gave your campaign the name of the abortion clinic?”
“Yes. All this time, he thought you went through with it.”
“Your father didn’t care enough to check. I was out of your life and that’s what really mattered.”
Grant winces, because he knows I’m right, and we both sit silently, clearly thinking about a life that could have been.
“It was a risky move,” I say. “I could have revealed you were the father.”
Grant nods, then asks, “Why didn’t you?”
I stare out the car window. “Because it didn’t matter. Not to the reporters or the voters, at least.”
“It mattered to me,” Grant says.
“I know.” I sigh. “You didn’t have to make a statement.”
“Yes, I did,” Grant quickly replies. “It was my fault.”
I shake my head and open my mouth to reply when Grant cuts me off. “I’ve been thinking about everything that happened. I’ve spent the last two decades convinced that I was right and putting so much energy into hating you and the choices you made.”
“And now you don’t hate me? Because I made a different choice?”
“No,” Grant says. “I don’t hate you because I realize there is no right or wrong in a situation like ours. And I’m sorry I made you feel that way. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it wasn’t worth losing you over.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You never should have been forced into that position,” Grant says. “No one deserved to know that much of your private life, Tess.”
“You deserved to know, years ago. So did Dean,” I admit.
Grant shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he continues driving. “How is Dean?”
“The same,” I say with sadness. “We spoke after the interviews.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear before continuing. “When Dean and I first met, I told him I didn’t want kids. I never told him that I couldn’t have kids. He feels like he married a stranger, and he doesn’t like the person I really am. I guess I never gave him the chance to know me.”
I feel too much responsibility for our marriage ending to feel any anger about Dean’s judgment. Maybe I also agree with him. I don’t really like the person I am right now either. Dean doesn’t give second chances, and I’m someone that needs dozens of opportunities to get things right.
“I’m sorry, Tess,” Grant says, squeezing my hand.
“What about Cecilia?” I ask. I want to know, but I also don’t want to talk about Dean anymore.
“It’s different,” Grant says. “Our marriage felt over for a while now. Cece communicates with me through her lawyer.”
“And the boys?” I ask.
“I haven’t been the father they need,” he says, looking away.
“Then change,” I state.
Grant nods. “I don’t want to be anything like him. I want to love my boys the way they deserve.”
“You will,” I say, with equal parts hope and confidence.
“What about us?” Grant asks.
The girl inside me wants to fall into his arms and stare into his eyes as we make plans for a life together after so many years apart. I could do it too. I could spend eternity daydreaming with Grant Alexander. We’d catch up on the lost kisses and celebrations and maybe figure out what kind of love the other needs.
But the woman I’ve become knows that isn’t possible.
“We both need to be better people, Grant.” The truth of my statement doesn’t make it any less painful to utter.
“I’ve lost you once, Tess. I’m not letting it happen again.” Grant swallows and I can see the pain streaked across his face.
“We’ve hurt each other too much. We’ve hurt the people around us too much.”
“No,” he says, his head shaking. He’s been driving in circles and pulls the car over a few blocks from my office. Grant pleads, “It might be messy, but we’re meant for each other, Tess.”
“If we’re meant for each other, then we’ll know. Maybe someday,” I say, trying to hide the crack in my voice.
For the first time in our lives, I look at him and say the words first. “I love you, Grant. I always have. But I think the pain may be bigger than the love.”
I kiss his cheek and then turn, getting out of the car before he can respond.
I leave Grant, my heart aching. But I walk into my campaign headquarters and get to work.