Chapter 8
eight
Cindy
I’ve never been to the White House gym, located in the residence on the third floor, but it is a lot like any other gym except clean and empty. A Secret Service agent and one of the vice president’s aides stand by the outside door. It’s a little claustrophobic but not isolated.
“Thank you so much for multitasking. I hope we have everything you need.” Alexander Drake gestures around the room.
It’s awkward talking to the vice president face-to-face again after days of phone calls. It could be because we’re both wearing exercise clothes and I miss my business armor.
He’d asked if I wanted to join him for a workout while we talked, citing how slammed his schedule was ahead of the State of the Union, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Endorphins can only improve politics, he’d said, and suggested we lift weights. I’d guessed the gym at the White House would be a lot nicer than the gym in Rayburn.
But then I’d spent an hour before coming trying on combinations of yoga pants and sports bras and shorts and tank tops. Out of desperation and at the last minute, I ended up wearing a pair of sleek capris and a slouchy t-shirt that showed just a hint of my strappy bra. Going informal was the right call, because when I arrived this morning, I found the vice president wearing basketball shorts and an “ACLI Capital Challenge” T-shirt.
Somehow, even a casual vice president can’t put me at ease while in the White House.
“This is great,” I say, hearing myself sound a little too peppy to be normal. This man brings out my insecurities. “I usually work out in the House gym, where it’s me and a bunch of male freshmen representatives. Do you work out here often?”
“No, it’s much more the president’s domain,” he says. “Sometimes I go work out with old colleagues in the Senate gym in the Russell building. But fortunately I’m pretty friendly with the boss here, too. Unlike the last administration, I hear.”
“Really?” My gossip-loving ears perk up. “That wasn’t all public perception?”
He shrugs. “The president-VP relationship seems like a marriage. Sometimes the reasons you get together end up being the reasons you can’t stand each other. Not that I’d know anything about marriage,” he adds, and starts fiddling with his sports watch. “Do you want to warm up on the bikes?” He hops on one and I start adjusting the seat on the one next to it.
“So what habits do you have that bug the president, now that you’ve been together five years?” I ask, once I start pedaling. It should be a safe enough question; I’m not asking for any privileged information. My appetite is for information on what this man is like behind the scenes.
He smiles wryly. “Don’t tell anyone, but I made him wait overnight to accept his VP offer.”
“So you don’t commit easily?” I take my hands off the handlebars to tighten my ponytail.
He starts pedaling harder. “Well, he told me he appreciated that I had a measured response. But you’d have to ask him if he still feels that way.”
I notice he slid out of admitting to any personal fault, but let it go. After a few minutes of silence aside from our breath, I decide that even if I’m the guest, I need to take some control of the situation. “I keep my warm up to a few minutes if I’m lifting,” I say.
He smiles, fiddling with his monitor. “Lead the way.”
Refusing a challenge is not in my repertoire. He probably assumes I don’t know my way around a weight room, but I’ve been lifting since I was 16 and my dad told me it would help my downhill skiing. Over the last year, I’ve been on the road a lot for work, and free weights at hotel gyms or bodyweight exercises in my room are often the one workout I can wedge into my schedule. As I age, the benefits have changed.
“This is the nicest-smelling gym I’ve ever been in,” I say, as he follows me over to the squat rack. A tingly sensation tells me he’s looking at my butt in these tight pants, but I must be paranoid. The vice president wouldn’t—would he?
“You sure you don’t want to use the Smith machine?” he asks.
I give him a sharp glance, because the Smith machine is like a crutch for squats. He’s smirking. “Cute,” I say, because it is. I like that we have jokes between us. His expression is good-natured. My fingers tingle with the impulse to reach out and poke his flat abdomen. Inappropriate. Even between friends. Are we friends?
He interrupts my racing and far-too-friendly thoughts. “Well, I’ve seen you bluff before and you’re good at it. I just wanted to assure you, you don’t have to injure yourself to impress me.”
I start the process of lowering the bar on the machine, which is obviously used by taller men. “Got it. And no problem, I only worry about impressing you when you’re wearing a suit.” A blatant lie.
He laughs, brushing off his T-shirt. “I outpaced multiple members of Congress and several very fit members of the press in this race, thank you. It deserves some respect even if it is about to be soaked with sweat.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to being surrounded by sweaty men.” I pause to wince at myself. Again with the foot-in-mouth disease around this man.
“You’re sort of the majority leader of unintended innuendo, aren’t you,” the vice president says, turning on a floor fan that feels good against the heat in my face. I can’t help but smile a little at his teasing.
“Around you, I am, yes,” I admit, concentrating on putting the bar back on the rack. Turning around, I position myself to do some warm-up squats with the unweighted bar behind my neck.
He walks over to the free weights and starts warming up his rotator cuff on both shoulders. “Every time I see you, you are surrounded by men.”
“That’s politics for you,” I say. I would love to enter a room on Capitol Hill, just once, to find it full of women. It’s never happened.
“You’re good at playing the game, but it must be tough sometimes when all the rules are against you.”
He’s not wrong, but there’s so much more to it. For some reason, I want to vent to him. I want to tell him about the casual sexism, the undermining, the dismissal of my expertise. About the members of my own party undermining my mission to pass this bill. About my dreams of changing things by bringing in more, new, diverse blood.
He’s concentrating on positioning for seated arm curls now, so he doesn’t notice my gazing at him. He could be any attractive guy at the gym right now and not one of the most important men in the world.
“It is tough. Sometimes,” I agree, deciding to err on the side of safety by not opening up. I put the bar back and start clamping disc weights on it. “How about for you?”
He glances up, but I’ve turned back to my squats so he doesn’t catch me looking. “Sometimes,” he agrees. “I get tired.”
I exhale hard on the way up from a back squat. “Thor helps you relax?”
“He does,” he says. “I highly recommend a pet. Of course, I have a lot of help taking care of mine when I can’t make it home during the day.”
His biceps flex as he curls them. His muscles are not huge—they don’t look like he spends hours every day in this gym—but they look like they can pick up what they need to. They could pick me up, for instance. Not that I’m thinking about that. Much.
Trying to stay concentrated on the squats as I respond to him, I make sure to keep breathing. “That does help. I’m sure my schedule is no more dependable than yours.”
“Yours might be worse than mine. All those late-night votes that you have to do in person.” He flashes a smile. Clearly having an easier time than me at being friendly.
I nod, pausing to regain my breath between sets, my chest heaving. “Not my favorite part of the job. My least favorite part of your job would be not having my own phone.”
He huffs and drops the 35-lb. dumbbell he’s using. “I also can’t drive or go anywhere on my own. But technically, I have my own phone, it’s just a ‘dumb’ phone. No SMS, no Internet. I can basically call my mom and that’s it.”
“How old-fashioned,” I murmur, watching him stand to his 6-foot-plus height and shake out his arms. I’m just hormonal or something, possibly from not having any sex in...well, I stopped counting after a year. This isn’t flirting; it’s a work meeting. The vice president probably does meetings like this all the time with members of Congress. We aren’t alone; his aide and security detail are keeping us under watchful eyes from the door.
“At least I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy, so I guess it works.” He shrugs. “I don’t have anything like your star power online, anyway. Don’t you have more followers on social media than the White House?”
I make a face. An entire staffer is now dedicated to running my social media accounts. It became too much for my press secretary and interns.
“Only because of the rally I led to the White House last year. Liberation from the war on drugs resonates with a wide range of people, from those affected by cancer to those involved with the criminal justice system. But I’m pretty sure I’m too old to be a true social media influencer.” I smile back, and then the discomfort eases in. It’s uncomfortable getting swept up in this man’s smiles and banter. It could mean losing track of my goals, the whole reason those people on social media follow me and my voters sent me to Washington. I can’t do that. I won’t let myself.
“Not that I’m not enjoying this workout but didn’t I come over to talk about the bill?” I ask, turning away from him.
“Back to business, huh,” he says, and there’s a note of disappointment in his voice. I side-eye him, but he’s already moving on. He picks up the next heaviest set of dumbbells.
“Everybody I’ve talked to thinks the time is right for progressive action,” I say, lying through my teeth. The vice president previously admired my ability to bluff, so I shove aside the guilt.
“But would they accept a small step toward the ideal?” He looks up at me over the weight he’s curling. It’s such an establishment answer and makes him sound like those men on Capitol Hill who care more about keeping their power than using it.
“I think you know the answer to that.” My voice sounds stiff .
He watches me. He might admire my poker face, but his is masterful. “Did you ask them? Did you ask them if they’d rather have some progress than none at all?”
I’ve avoided my freshmen allies all week, only acknowledging their questions by email with lines like “too soon to tell.”
I haven’t tried talking to my contacts in Cannabis Now or the Reverse the War on Drugs PAC, the outside groups who helped me fundraise as a candidate well beyond my district and throughout the country based on this one issue. They’re composed of people with lives negatively impacted by the “War on Drugs.” Due to harsh felony laws lingering in parts of the country, some of them could no longer vote, but they were activists by proxy and by their support of me. I knew they would want the whole bill, the one I’d written with their input, not some watered-down version.
It’s a valid question. I’m speaking for people I haven’t asked. Frustrated, I start doing my last set of squats too quickly and feel my knee tweak a bit. Paying attention, I slow down and reposition myself.
“Do you need a spot for that?” he asks, watching.
“I’m fine.” I never use a spotter. I don’t lift as heavy as I could because I refuse to ask for help. Why depend on somebody when they’re not going to be there next time?
“They’re not interested in only taking a bite when it’s going to look like they caved,” I continue, pivoting back to business, forcing it out between breaths.
He nods, still watching me rather than continuing his curls. “That’s what I expected,” he admits.
I finish my set and re-rack the bar. Grabbing my small towel, I use it to wipe the sweat off my forehead. “Look, I get it. I’ve been pushing decriminalization for years and it’s barely becoming nationally popular enough to force the establishment to accept it without fearing they’re going to get primaried next cycle. But the Senate is full of conservatives, no matter what party they’re in. They’re not going to go all the way unless you tell them to.”
“Let’s not throw the baby out with the bathwater,” he says, standing and putting his weights back. It’s an evasion, not a real answer. “I am confident we can come up with a compromise.”
“Save it for the cameras.” I put the towel over my face, hearing how harsh that came out. I’m his guest . “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“I strongly suspect what you say when you’re mad is your uninhibited brain talking.” His words could be a jab—they would be from my mother, chiding me for ever making a decision based on emotion—so I lower my towel to see. He’s smiling at me.
“Well, maybe,” I say. “But it’s not you. It’s the politico-speak. I hate it. I pledged to never be that politician and yet here I am, a year in and I hear it creeping into my speech. Don’t you get tired of never saying anything real?”
He nods, his eyes not leaving mine. “I do.”
I sense he’s going to say something next, something real. I’m both glued to his mouth and terrified to keep staring, which is why I’m relieved when someone else enters the room, someone tall with short, black hair.
The vice president stands immediately. “Madam First Lady. I’m sorry, we-”
“Oh, don’t worry, I knew you were in here.” Anita Meyer waves him off, walking toward us. “I should apologize for interrupting you .”
“Ma’am, this is Congresswoman Cindy Wight.” The vice president stands near enough that I can feel his body heat, heightened from working out.
I have an odd urge to curtsy to the woman in front of me that I firmly reject. I hold out my hand. “Sorry, First Lady Meyer. I may be a little sweaty.”
“If you’re not, you’re doing it wrong.” The first lady smiles and shakes my hand, slightly flexing her famously toned biceps. She’s taller up close than I’d thought—a tall woman cursed to never wear high heels next to her shorter husband—and her angled bob looks sharper in person, but even this close she could be 10 years younger than her husband. “When I heard Alex had a woman in here, I came to see for myself.” She raises her eyebrows.
The vice president shifts, looking at his feet. “Just a convenient business meeting, Anita. We’re working on the cannabis bill together.”
“Very convenient,” the first lady agrees. “...location,” she adds with a straight face.
I’m hot all over. I’m not sure if I should deny the insinuation flat-out or be flattered. What I absolutely, positively cannot do is get angry with the first lady , even for thinking the only reason for me to have face-time with the vice president is to sleep with him. It’s my own fault for agreeing to an informal meeting.
“Anita,” the vice president says, gently but with an edge of warning in it. Confronting the innuendo before I have to. “The congresswoman is doing me a favor by multitasking.”
The first lady’s smile shifts and then when she turns to me, the insinuation has drained from her face. “Of course, congresswoman. Forgive me for teasing Alex. The president and I are always trying to convince him to get out more.”
The vice president coughs. “Alex is busy ,” he says, and coughs again, pointedly.
He’s saved me again, from a joke that could become a rumor or someone dismissing me as something less than I am. It’s becoming a habit of his. I smile at him, losing the edge of anger, and if my expression feels a little too close to fondness, I’ll let it go this once. The first lady keeps her attention on me as I shrug. “I’m sure it’s a hazard of the job.”
“Well, I’d hate to tell you how little I get out for fun, and I’m not even the one who got elected.” The first lady smiles. “Are the two of you just starting? I can come back later. I don’t want to interrupt your negotiations.”
The vice president defers to me, like he often does at opportune moments.
“We’re at a bit of a stalemate,” I say. “You’re not interrupting.”
“Actually, I think Cindy needs a spotter and she won’t let me do it,” Alex says, picking up 45 lb. weights and sitting back down on his bench with his back to both of us.
I blink and find myself staring back at Anita Meyer, who is waiting expectantly. There’s no polite way to demure. And so I cave and let the first lady of the United States spot me on the bench press.
Alex
The president greets me with, “So I heard you had a girl in the White House.”
“I did not have a girl .” I grimace, imagining how Cindy Wight would react to that phrase. “The girl is a congress woman and nothing involving having went on. It wasn’t a date.”
“Anita seems to think you wanted it to be one.” President Tim Meyer sits down and picks up his glass of water. He’s an ex-footballer whose current paunch serves to make him more imposing. “But no need for quibbling over the definition of a word, this isn’t an impeachment trial.”
I grin and sit down across from the president. “Not yet. ”
Tim raises his glass at me. “Don’t even joke.”
We’re in the small private dining room off the Oval Office for our weekly lunch, which serves as our project check-in and information download. Anita Meyer teasingly calls it our “coffee klatsch.”
The menu today involves something with tenderloin. I always eat well when I’m with the president.
“Besides, you’re the last person I would expect to be impeached over a sexual scandal, Alex.” Tim unfolds his napkin and nods at the White House staff waiting to begin service.
“I’m offended, Mr. President. Are you referring to my complete lack of sexual activity?”
My familial relationship with the president is rare. I’ve heard plenty of stories about friction at the top of the presidential ticket, and Veep dramatized how easy it is to sideline a VP who falls out of favor with POTUS. The fact that Tim and I are friends is rare in Washington, a town where the major industry is power, not politics.
“I would never refer to your sex life, not even in my White House Correspondents’ Dinner speech—which is one of the items on our agenda today.”
“Fancy that.” I glance at the paper agenda on the table between us. Tim is good at never getting completely off track. His day is planned in 15-minute increments. Aimless small talk doesn’t fit. But somehow he always reserves enough time to tease me.
“There’s a joke in the latest draft of my speech at your expense and I wanted to run it by you first. It’s tame, but I don’t know what your polling is telling you about your image.”
“I appreciate that. And my polling is telling me I need a wife.”
Tim smiles. He thanks the staffer who put down our salads and asks for an iced tea. “There’s more reasons than image to get you a wife, friend. ”
“We can’t all find Anitas.”
“You know…” Tim leans back. He’s about to dish out some annoyingly wise advice. “The reason I don’t think you’ll ever end up in a sex scandal is because of how careful you are to never be alone with a woman. Maybe too careful, considering I would never have ended up with Anita with that kind of rulebook.”
“Well...you weren’t president when you ended up with Anita.” I give Tim a long gaze, waiting for him to take in our surroundings—the heavy wood, the oil paintings, the centerpiece on the table for an ostensibly casual lunch—and remember how not casual the White House is.
“True. It must be hard to date while in this office.”
“Try impossible,” I mumble, picking up a cucumber between two of my fingers.
“What about that woman you took to the State Dinner with the French?”
“She took her insight from that dinner straight to Podesta or one of those other lobbying firms, I can’t remember which one. She did the Washington thing, in other words.” I shrug. “She wasn’t interested in me.”
“That’s right.” Tim scowls. “I can blacklist her if you want.”
“You already offered and I still say no. If we blacklisted every date I ever had...well.”
“It would be a short list?” Tim grins. He pushes his uneaten salad away. Tim is more of a meat-and-potatoes guy, to Anita’s chagrin. “Alright, I suppose we should talk shop. What’s going on with that marijuana legislation?”
“The congresswoman and I…”
“You still call her congresswoman?” Tim interrupts. He moves his hands off the table as the staff clear our salad plates and bring in steak sandwiches.
“Of course. ”
Tim shakes his head. “No wonder you’re still single. OK, go on.”
I grimace but continue. “I doubt we’re going to hit her deadline. The 4/20 thing.”
“Wait, did she really say 4/20?” Tim laughs. “I always appreciate a woman with a sense of humor.”
That makes me roll my eyes. The connection between cannabis and 4/20 has always seemed like 13-year-old humor to me, but maybe I need to partake of the substance more and learn how to chill. As a teenager in California where it was omni-present, I’d passed on weed more often than accepting. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Focused on my parents’ plans for my future, I never spent much time with the people Cindy talks about supporting her campaign. Maybe that was a mistake, now that I’m in a position to speak for them and don’t know what they have to say.
“You’re trying to get under my skin and it won’t work,” I tell Tim. “This is a professional relationship.”
“Alex, not everything you do has to have a whole plan to back it up.” Tim starts cutting into his large sandwich with a knife and fork.
I pause with my hands on my own silverware, because I’m literally the “backup plan” for this office. “Easy for you to say, Mr. President of the United States .”
An aide is hovering by the Secret Service agent at the door, holding a file folder. It’s surprising that we haven’t been interrupted until now. Must be a slow day. Tim gestures her over as he’s wiping his hands on his napkin.
Tim reads the document as I keep eating my fries. He shovels a final bite into his mouth and stands up. “OK, I’ve got to go. We’ll continue this later. Oh-” He pauses. “Think about whether we want to add a mention of the marijuana legislation to the State of the Union.” He holds up his hands. “It’s still your project. But that might build some momentum. We can talk about it.”
Tim exits back into the Oval. I’m content to be briefed later on whatever called him away.
As I finish my lunch alone, I wonder if it’s true I need to learn to compromise in my personal life the way I do when I’m making a deal. The marijuana legislation isn’t “my” project, for example. It’s a win I’m going to take with me to my next campaign, but only if it sits on a longer list of them. Cannabis can’t be my only thing. That’s one reason I need Cindy to remain the face of the issue. Coalition-building is what I need to be known for, not drugs.
If Cindy knew my thoughts, she’d get that snap in her eyes and tell me something like, “People in prison for minor drug possession didn’t want that to be the only thing they were known for, either.” But I can’t let my goals be clouded by emotion.
All of politics is leverage and bargaining and making promises you might or might not keep. There’s Tim’s suggestion about using the State of the Union to goose the cannabis legislation. It might mean hitting the April 20 deadline, but there are risks. Mainly, it’s likely to solidify opposition and characterize Cindy as a traitor to her coalition for relying on our support. But it’s also bad for me, because this is supposed to be my big legislative win, not the president’s. I’m going to need this for my future campaign ads.
I walk back across the short driveway to the Eisenhower executive office building. I have offices in the west wing of the White House, but I do most of my work at EEOB because I prefer my own space and the chance to walk back and forth on campus. It’s a chilly February day but I like the fresh air.
Watching my parents operate, growing up, I identified the assumption that my mother would always support my dad’ s work outside the home and Dad would support Mom with money. As if the heiress to an almond fortune needed it. That traditional relationship dynamic never appealed to me. But I struggled to find a counter-example.
I’d tried a few times, gotten close with a few women, but then suddenly I was 40, unmarried, about to become the first bachelor vice president of the United States, and still hadn’t figured out relationships.
Over the last few years, I’ve tried to reverse engineer one like Anita and Tim’s but still can’t quite figure out how they make it work. I recognize what I want when I see it, but I don’t quite understand how to get there.
“Deena,” I say, catching one of my aides as I walk into the office suite. “Can you send Representative Cindy Wight an invitation to the Correspondents’ Dinner? And if there’s a spot at my table, see about giving it to her.”
“Sure, Mr. Vice President,” Deena says, taking a note. “You know that’s April 15th?”
Sighing, I nod. “Consolation prize for not making her deadline on the 20th.”
I run a hand through my hair. Either because it’s Washington or because I’m cursed, there’s no avoiding transactions in any of my relationships.