Chapter 12
twelve
Alex
One week in April brings out all the decadence Washington, D.C., can offer. The hair salons in Georgetown are booked, the luxury fashion at stores like Rent the Runway is all spoken for, limo companies are scrambling, the very small membership of the local paparazzi fends off an influx from the other coast, and hotels and restaurants around Adams Morgan hire extra help. It’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner week.
Ostensibly a charity fundraiser, it’s also a time for media companies to demonstrate influence and for TV and movie stars to seek connections in a different system of celebrity from that in Hollywood. It’s a time for politicians to feel glamorous as they walk down red carpets and for an old-fashioned and practical town to pretend it’s trendy.
I find it tedious. Tim, that lucky bastard, only attends the dinner itself at the Washington Hilton. I’ve been anointed the top socialite on the Meyer ticket. The White House likes to trot me out to appear involved without taking up the president’s time .
I wear what my team tells me to wear and go to the events they determine have the best ROI. I have an aide at my side at all times to identify people and whisper conversational tips like “pilots his own plane” in my ear.
The whole scene reminds me that I’m disconnected from pop culture, even if I do listen to a lot of podcasts. I have no time to watch television and no idea who the three people in front of me from the latest hit TV show are. Usually, I’m safe asking people where they film.
“We’re in Vancouver. Tax credits,” says the blonde woman, almost apologetically.
I nod. “Wish we could solve that one. There are some good state programs that must not have worked for your production.”
“Incentivizing the movie business would keep more productions in America,” the younger woman says, her voice a little wobbly from nerves. She’s holding a champagne flute but I’m skeptical that she’s even legal to drink. “The economic impact is huge for the local community. I mean, I’m always going out to town to drink and stuff.”
I can count on one hand the celebrities who come to Washington to advocate for some cause and know the details of what they’re advocating. I’ve talked to maybe two who could answer questions on basic details of their supposed plans. I call it celebrisplaining: When a famous person thinks their celebrity is all it takes to convince someone. Of course, I always smile and talk pleasantly to all of them and promise to look into their project.
“The revenue studies on economic impact are inconclusive in most states,” I offer gently, trying not to embarrass her. “But it’s worth additional research.”
She opens her mouth again and Deena, who is staffing me tonight, interrupts. “Excuse us.”
Gratefully, I walk away. Arguing with someone ignorant while trying to keep from looking like I’m arguing is my least favorite kind of diplomacy.
I’m mingling with the throng at the British Ambassador’s residence the night before the main event on the slim hope that some celebrity here will want to host a fundraiser or a journalist will write something favorable because I’m present. It’s hell on my security detail, so at least I have an excuse not to stay very long.
“Mr. Vice President, can I get a picture of you and Zack Ryder?” a female photographer stands a few feet away, wearing a stunning red dress but clutching a Nikon and a large bag that makes it obvious she’s working tonight. She points at a man at the center of a nearby pod of people who even I recognize as a movie star. “He played you in the movie Attack on the White House, ” she offers.
I nod. “Sure…”
Deena whispers, “I think it’s Madeline.”
“Madeline, is it?” I add.
The photographer brightens. Knowing people’s names is a real superpower. “It is. Thank you, Mr. Vice President. I’ll set it up.” She wades into the herd in front of us, using her bag as a phalanx and elbowing random people out of her way. I appreciate the work ethic.
I decide I’ll wait for her, even as two lobbyists approach me while I’m standing there defenseless.
I greet them. Jimmy is familiar from way back and he introduces me to his colleague. “We’ve been working on the marijuana issue,” he says. “A lot of the big companies are interested in getting behind Cindy Wight’s bill. If it’s ever introduced.”
“Representative Wight,” I correct. “...Is working hard on that legislation. Have you met with her?”
“We were wondering about the White House’s position. Do you have a position?” Jimmy smiles, friendly. Anything I say will eventually get blown up in the press.
“We can’t take a position on a bill that doesn’t exist yet. But we might be as interested in the process as you are,” I reply, deflecting. I tuck my chin, the “rescue me” signal to my aides.
“Excuse us, we promised to take a picture,” Deena interrupts, swooping in from some other task without hesitation. My staff is full of heroes.
“Feel free to reach out to my people,” I tell Jimmy, shaking his hand again briefly before I follow Deena’s sweeping gesture.
The crowd the photographer disappeared into grew more raucous in the last few minutes spent waiting for her to reappear.
“Can’t blame them for wondering.”
I pause and turn around at that voice. It prompts an immediate stirring in me that is inappropriate for the middle of a party.
Cindy Wight is standing there, wearing a shiny blue dress with no sleeves that shows off her toned arms and more cleavage than I’ve ever seen on her. Her dark hair is down, flowing around her shoulders. She is breath-taking.
“Congresswoman,” I say, barely able to manage speech. I tell myself to keep my eyes on her face.
She gathers up the hem of her dress in one hand and smiles as she walks toward me. The dress is tight enough that she sways as she walks, every move of her hips clear through the fabric. “Mr. Vice President. Long time no see.”
“I’m sorry about that.” I wince. March was excruciatingly long and not only because I jetlagged my way through Europe for 10 days and had to attend the Easter Egg Roll, a massive event that takes over the White House lawn and involves posing with a full-grown man in an Easter Bunny costume. I had people like Dan and Deena giving Cindy’s office regular updates, but I missed talking to her myself.
She shrugs, the movement raising her breasts a little. If this is what she wears the day before the dinner, I wonder what she’ll be wearing tomorrow night. I need to be prepared for a heart attack. “You look lovely tonight,” I add quickly, realizing I haven't complimented her aloud. This is a woman who should be complimented regularly.
She smiles. “You do, as well.”
“Ah, I can’t take credit,” I say, touching my lapel. “Somebody picks everything out for me.”
“But you’re the one wearing it,” she replies, with a small quirk of her lips that makes me want to adjust my trousers a little. My fingers flex. Her eyes follow the movement, and her lips quirk as if she understands.
She stops a foot away from me. I want her closer and us alone. But we aren’t and Deena is wearing her we’re-late-but-I’m-trying-to-be-respectful face.
“I’ve got to do this picture,” I say.
Zack Ryder walks up to us both and Cindy’s eyes flare with interest. Just for a second. But it sparks a small flame of jealousy that her attention transferred away from me after I’d been basking in its sweet spotlight.
Ryder is tall, sculpted in both muscles and cheekbones, with a presence to him that bumps up against my own. I’ve never met him before, but perhaps this party isn’t big enough for the two of us.
“Hi, I’m Zack,” the movie star says, holding out his hand. A peculiar habit of the ultra-famous people I meet is they always pretend no one recognizes them. And they never recognize anyone else, either.
“Hi, I’m Alex,” I reply, dryly. Two can play that game.
We shake hands. A camera flashes.
Zack turns away from me to Cindy. He pauses, one foot forward, to put his hand to his chin. Pose: Movie Star Contemplates Beautiful Woman.
“I’m Cindy,” she offers. She glances at me. “And since I’m the least famous person here: I am a member of Congress.”
“A woman that looks like you needs no title,” Zack says, without sarcasm. He takes her hand and raises it to his lips. I catch Cindy and Deena exchanging a wide-eyed glance while Zack’s eyes are downturned to her hand. Betrayed by my supposedly loyal staff.
“I played you in my last movie,” Zack says to me as we re-arrange for a less candid photo.
“I thought you were playing a vice president, not necessarily me,” I say. I remember the press tour came to Washington and that’s how the White House press secretary spun it when asked about the movie.
Zack laughs toward the camera and not at me, as the shutter clicks. “Sure, but it was clearly you we based it on. The socks. And you love old cars. Did we get that right?”
“I only wish I had as many Corvettes as you did in that movie,” I say, trying to keep my smile wide to prevent people speculating about my attitude in the pictures later. But I’m offended by the “old cars” comment. I have a classic 1967 Corvette Stingray sitting in the garage back home at my parents’ house in California.
“Let’s do one with the thumbs,” Zack says, and gives the camera a thumbs up, like his character did in the movie. Ugh.
I play along, feeling like an idiot with my thumb in the air. Finally, Deena rescues me, telling the others that we need to go. As we walk away from the movie star and the photographer, Cindy stays put. She gives me a little smile and a wave. “See you tomorrow.”
As if in slow motion, Zack looks over at Cindy, like he’s about to steal her attention again. “Are you staying here or do you have another party to go to? We could drop you,” I offer, a little desperately.
“Oh,” she says. “I planned to hit the W Hotel next but you don’t have to…”
“Not a problem, it’s practically on our way,” I interrupt. It isn’t; the W is by the White House and I’m headed home to Northwest Washington. But Deena and Ted won’t give away the truth.
Cindy shrugs. She smiles and nods. “OK,” she agrees. We sweep away from Zack, who has already been drawn into another crowd and won’t be left unadmired.
I wave at the crowd around the door as we make our way to the limo, carefully not making eye contact with anyone. I don’t want my exit to be delayed.
Belatedly, I realize I appear to be leaving for the night with a woman, which could lead to some talk even if Cindy is spotted later at the W. Too late now, though. I decide, for tonight, I’m living on the edge.
“Did you want me to…” Deena hesitates at the door of the car, asking if she should ride with Cindy and me.
“No,” I decide. “Let’s just leave the slider open, thank you.”
Cindy doesn’t ask until we’ve slowly rolled out of the gates of the embassy compound and are driving through the absurd mix of curving and diagonal streets around Dupont Circle. “What was that about?”
I glance up at the front of the car, at the back of Ted’s head. The modified SUV is longer than average, so we have some privacy, but I very rarely close off the back seat and never when I have someone with me. “Uh, I don’t,” I pause. “I typically am not alone with…”
“Oh my god,” she says. “The rumors are true. You won’t be alone with a woman. ”
“You make it sound like I’m afraid of women. That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” she starts to cross her legs and can’t in her tight dress. She crosses her ankles and curls her legs to one side, leaning toward me slightly as she does. I can see—by accident—directly down the shadow between the mounds of her breasts. Smooth skin disappearing into her dress.
I swallow and stare hard at the shape of Ted’s head. “It prevents any hint of impropriety if there’s always a witness.”
“You realize that puts the burden on the woman, don’t you,” she says, frowning at me. “Women already struggle to get access and you’re creating a higher barrier to entry.”
“No one gets turned down to find a witness. I’m almost always surrounded as it is.”
“Have you always had this rule? Before you were vice president? I bet you turned down meetings with women then, before you had a constant security detail and aides always guiding you.” She crosses her arms—I can’t help noticing it’s pushing her breasts up—and turns her head away from me. “Maybe you're trying to protect women, but we’re the ones who suffer from fears of false accusations.”
I squirm uncomfortably. I’ve heard this criticism before, but it’s never been worth the risk to reassess my system. It worked for my dad; it works for me. My father always warned me that powerful men are held to a higher standard. And a lower one, when it comes to innocence.
“The rule is relatively new,” I say quietly. “It’s just since I’ve been in the White House.” I run my hand through my hair, catch myself, then do it anyway because it’s the end of the night and it doesn’t matter if my hair is a mess. “Look, it’s the office I’m trying to protect,” I insist. “It’s not really even a rule. I mean, we’re basically alone right now. It’s not like the Secret Service can testify on my behalf.” I nod at the front of the car.
Cindy turns to me again, and she’s not smiling. She wears this firm expression during Floor speeches, usually in less revealing clothing than now. I’ve disappointed her. It hurts to realize. I don’t deny her point, but can’t she try to see it my way?
Without warning, she unfolds her arms and one hand snags my tie and yanks me toward her.
Off balance, my lips collide with hers. When I bring my hand down to catch myself on the seat, I brush the side of her breast and she makes a soft sound into my mouth like “hmm.”
I open my mouth to say…something. My brain and body can’t communicate. My lips catch on hers and I taste the satiny underside of her top lip. Her tongue touches my lips and I open my mouth to her, body taking over my brain. She tastes like gin and lime and I want to get drunk on her.
When the seat squeaks beneath us, I come back to myself, realizing I’ve yanked Cindy to my chest. One hand is on her bare back and the other on her arm, my thumb resting on the upper curve of her breast.
“Um,” I say, releasing her and darting a quick glance at the front of the car, where Ted hasn’t turned around. “What?” I’m known for my oratory skills.
She brushes her hair off her face. Her lipstick is smudged.
“Is that what you were afraid would happen?” she asks.
It takes me a moment to remember what we were talking about in the pre-kiss times. “I wish that was a danger I faced regularly,” I reply. “If you were trying to make a point, I’m not sure you made the one you wanted to.” I’d like to build on this argument by sliding one hand up her dress.
She rolls her eyes. Trying to redirect my thoughts, I pull my handkerchief out of my front jacket pocket and start wiping lipstick off her cheek. She visibly softens and smiles up at me from under her eyelashes.
“I wanted to know what it’s like to kiss the second most powerful man in the world,” she says. I can tell she’s teasing because of the way she bites her lip after. I stop wiping at her mouth, trapped by her eyes.
“How was it?” I ask softly. My whole body may have elevated a few inches off this car seat. I don’t have complete control over what I’m doing. She meets my eyes for a long moment, her gaze clouded and her lips parted. We’re both hazy, together inside a bubble of our own making.
“Seemed about the same,” she whispers, popping the bubble. “Maybe I better go try the president.” She smiles.
I bark out laughter and flop back onto the seat, resting my head against the backrest. “Ouch,” I say.
We’re pulling up outside the W Hotel, the street lights dimmed through the tinted windows. Her expression changes, flickering from teasing to concerned in a moment as we drive in and out of the shadows.
She turns to me and touches my chest before I can say anything to pull her out of her thoughts. “I’m sorry if I got carried away. I do that sometimes.”
I’m not certain what she’s apologizing for. Surprising me? Kissing me? Joking about it?
She picks up her purse and starts to gather up her dress. “I just wondered what would happen, I guess.”
She’s going to walk away. I grab her wrist. “And?”
She meets my eyes, and whatever is in mine changes things between us. Like a switch flipped, the electricity between us reignites.
“And,” she pauses, as Ted opens the car door. “I might have to try again.”
She smiles at me and takes Ted’s hand as she climbs out of the car. I remain slumped in the back seat, still aroused and not sure what to do about it, as we drive away.
Cindy
As a general rule, I don’t shame myself over speaking my mind or acting on my wants, even when it’s impromptu. It’s something I’ve worked on in therapy, after blaming myself for years for not being able to control my quick temper and snap reactions. I try to give myself grace if my actions were in the pursuit of a personal value.
But kissing the vice president of the United States in the back of his limo seems like a massive exception to my rules.
He’d made me angry. And instead of channeling that anger into a logical argument, I’d gotten physical. I’d acted on a fantasy of putting my hands on him that I thought I’d locked down tight, compartmentalized into nonexistence. My desire for him bounded out at the least opportune moment. Now he knows I want him.
The want is dangerous. I can’t be with the vice president. My career would never be the same. And who is he, really? The late-night conversations might not tell me enough about him. He might use the wanting against me.
After a sleepless night thinking about my inappropriate move—and dreaming, when I fell asleep, of what I wanted to happen next in the backseat of that bulletproof SUV—I almost skipped the garden brunch on the morning of the week’s main event. But I’m trying to be a more visible presence. It might add pressure to my legislative campaign. So I get up, put on a cute sundress, and go to hang out with celebrities.
The long-standing garden brunch at the Beall-Washington House is a surreal experience, like most WHCD week events, because I recognize almost everybody but don’t know all of them. The garden brunch has been the pre-party to hit since the ‘90s for everyone from Jay Leno to Lindsay Lohan. Zack Ryder is here this year, somehow looking both disheveled and dressy .
“Ah, my favorite member of Congress,” he says when he sees me, surprising me by recognizing me. Even though we’re in the lobby inside, he’s wearing sunglasses.
“I’m flattered you remember me,” I respond, pausing in my beeline toward some other congresswomen in the corner. I take a sip of my too-sweet drink. There’s not a whole lot of eating or drinking at the garden “brunch,” in my experience; the sustenance is mainly in the form of shaking hands and giving long-winded responses to reporters. I picked up my own coffee on the way and am drinking it now from a tall reusable cup.
“Of course, I remember you,” he replies, and the sincerity in his voice is like the uncanny valley of responses. “You look like you should be cast in my next movie.”
I laugh. I’m trying not to be taken in by his flattery, but it’s hard not to feel its impact. I can’t quite decide if Zack is charming but harmless or charming and malicious. It’s always harder to tell with people who are famous for non-political reasons. I assume the worst of the political ones.
Me and the female anchor standing next to Zack exchange an incredulous glance over his charm. She’s a blonde woman wearing makeup intended for high-def screens. Her face must exist behind it somewhere.
“Congresswoman, when can we expect to see your marijuana legislation? Or should I say, the vice president’s marijuana legislation?” the woman asks, fluttering her hand as if we’re discussing the spring weather.
I force a light laugh. Is that what people are calling it?
“You’ll be the first to know, Anne,” I say. “But don’t let Mr. Ryder here think law-making is all that we're capable of talking about in Washington.”
“Zack, please,” he smiles, tipping down his sunglasses. His eyes are red-rimmed. I wonder if he’s even been to sleep since last night. “We saw the V-POTUS last night,” he adds in a low voice to Anne, spelling out “vee” and then pronouncing the acronym “poe-tuss.”
“Oh?” Anne’s gaze on me sharpens, her journalistic spidey sense clearly tingling.
“The vice president stopped at the British ambassador’s party, I believe,” I say, going for casual. “I saw the two of you take a picture,” I add to Zack, trying to redirect Anne’s attention and the conversation. “You played him, didn’t you, in that movie.”
“Yes,” Zack agrees, pushing his sunglasses back up. “Two years old and it’s all anyone can talk about in this town.”
“We’re all a little obsessed with this town in Washington,” I say, sympathizing with him on this at least. “Which is particularly funny, considering how hard it is to film in D.C.”
Zack’s voice suddenly sharpens. “It really is! I’ve been trying to get a permit for the National Mall for months.” His voice lowers, “It’s for my directorial debut.”
“The security and the jurisdiction issues are complex here. Why don’t you have your people call my office. We might be able to help?” I dig into my small, party-sized purse and hand him my card. I’m still not sure about him, but I’m leaning toward “harmless.” “It doesn’t really fall under my purview, but I’m a movie fan.”
Zack smiles as he takes it, and it’s still a movie star’s smile but this time might be genuine.
“Aren’t we all,” Anne murmurs, watching. I hope I’ve sufficiently thrown her off whatever speculation she’d been mulling over a moment ago. I excuse myself and head toward the safe corner I’d spotted earlier. But my colleagues are gone.
I pause to pull my vibrating phone out of my purse and have a text from one of my mentors.
Sara: Just finished your chapter and think it needs more of the REAL YOU in it. Let’s talk!
Despite dreading the work implied, I smile at Sara’s directness.
Sara is a former PoliSci college professor who is now tenured and loving a life buried in original-sources research. She’s been reading the latest draft of the memoir I’ve been struggling at writing, re-writing and revising for far too long. I’d been approached, immediately after taking office, to write about my “shocking election,” and what a background in activism meant to politicking. While I’d hesitated over writing a book so soon into my political career, I’d thought it would be a chance to talk about my goals for change. To build momentum. But then I’d gotten bogged down in the complete lack of change since I’d taken office. I should take a cue from Barack Obama and call it The Arrogance of Hope.
Cindy: This afternoon? I’ll be beautifying for WHCD
Sara: Call me! I’ll be editing
I pause before I tuck my phone away and open my contacts. The number saved as “VP” is at the top of my screen. If I called and asked whoever answered to put him on the phone, he probably would talk to me. Unless he’s in the Oval Office or the Situation Room or doing any one of the many more important things he does that aren’t dwelling on that kiss.
I put my phone away. I have no idea what I want to say to him. Sorry I’m not sorry? Want to try again? No matter how old I get, romantic feelings still turn me immature. It’s so much easier to talk policy than emotions.
Scanning the room, I decide to set myself a goal of three more conversations before I can escape. I head toward the cameras, where it’s a decent bet that people will be networking.
An hour and a half later, I arrive back at my apartment in Capitol Hill, take a shower and change into sweats and a t-shirt. I have a hairstylist and makeup artist coming over this afternoon to redo my look. I call Sara over Bluetooth as I’m shaking out my rented dress for the evening and using a handheld steamer on it.
“So you hated it?” I begin, a blatant request for reassurance that I should never attempt. My long-time mentor never bothers with niceties.
“Nobody wants to read this book any more than you want to write it. It’s boring,” Sara declares. There it is.
I spread and fluff the layers of my dress to get the wrinkles out, trying not to take this feedback too personally.
“And you’re not boring at all,” Sara continues, thankfully. “So you’re hiding in this.”
“It’s supposed to be a partial memoir,” I defend the manuscript. “It’s about running for office as a woman. It’s meant to be a new metaphor for success, beyond leaning in or climbing the ladder. It’s about stomping as you climb.”
“There’s not much stomping in what you sent me.”
“Did you read the whole thing?” I wrote about getting into politics because I cared too much, about running into walls and learning how to build coalitions by accident. I wrote about discovering that pursuing the things that made me passionate worked better than following the proscribed steps to success .
“I did.”
I’m not sure why I’m being defensive. I knew something wasn’t right with the manuscript when I sent it to her. “OK, you’re right,” I sigh. “How do I fix it?”
“The first thing people want to know is why and you never talk about that for you. You get into politics spontaneously because you’re mad, but that’s not a real reason.”
“Why? Isn’t the why obvious? Because the system is broken.”
“But how is it broken for you . You make it sound like your life is easy. As far as anyone can tell from this, you didn’t have any real problems to overcome on your way to where you are. No bills or babies or deadbeat boyfriends or crippling self-doubt to worry about.”
“Well, I had a couple of those things. Definitely the crippling self-doubt at times. And parents who discouraged me and people who called me too pretty , too rich, too smart, too something to climb the ladder on my way to getting anything done.”
“Humble brag,” Sara says. “That doesn’t sound compelling to me. Not unique enough.”
I pause, experiencing the crippling doubt we were just talking about. Is my story not compelling enough for a book? The things I’ve faced—the tiny, cutting comments, the piles of hate mail, the talking-head who called me “Lawmaker Barbie” and analyzed my proportions on live television—are no more than what any woman in the modern, western world faces.
But maybe that’s the power of my story, too.
The moment Sara became my mentor was the same: Harsh but accurate. Still a student, in the middle of an equal pay campaign for student employees, I’d invited Sara out for coffee to “pick her brain.” She’d asked me, “Be honest: Do you really want equality for all or do you just want enough money to buy a latte once in a while?”
I’d protested, of course. I’d accused Sara of missing the point. But Sara had said, “A compelling argument starts with what it means to you.”
So I’d changed the campaign to “everyone should have enough money to buy a latte,” and earned enough support to enact a small student wage change on campus. I still use that advice, and try to get close enough to every argument I make for a constituent that it means something personal to me . Cannabis as a cause sat in the back of my mind since my teen years, getting high with friends who were punished for it more severely than me. I didn’t have personal experience with the criminal justice system, but I did with Malik and Jodi and Hugo. I spoke for them because a white woman holding a blunt could be symbolic instead of a Most Wanted poster.
“I know the book needs to be more personal to be good,” I admit finally, pulling the steamer cord out of the wall. “But I’m not sure I want to write that book.”
I put the steamer down to respond to a knock at the front door. I let in my beauty team, asking Sara to wait a minute while I show them where they’re going to set up. A mirror is propped up in the larger living room, where it can get more natural light. I can’t afford a nicer place on my budget, not while I have to keep a residence in Colorado too, but I like my little basement apartment and its quirky character.
“Sorry,” I tell Sara. “Fancy dinner tonight.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Sara says, sounding unimpressed. She’s not part of the minority of people who lose their minds over this dinner. “So think about what is your biggest personal challenge right now and then work backward. And include the journey in your book. That’s what it needs.”
I meet my eyes in the mirror as I settle into the chair in front of it. No matter how I consider it, my biggest personal struggle right now involves the vice president. “Right,” I say .
“You’re thinking of something right now, aren’t you? Go with that,” Sara advises. “That’s compelling. Drama!”
“It’s drama, alright,” I agree. “But I can’t write about it.”
“Well, you can put this book out as-is if you want. It’s not going to advance you or your interests in any meaningful way, though. Listen, I’ve got to go. I have a coffee with a student and I’m still wearing my sweats.”
“Heaven forbid. Thanks for reading it, Sara. I’ll keep you posted.” I end the call and apologize to my style team. I already went over the aesthetic I wanted for tonight with my stylist, but I hate being a person who acts like the people they’re paying are nothing more than tools.
And I need their best effort. I want to appear museum-good tonight, like someone people long to touch. Never mind who “people” is in this scenario.
I don’t want to think too hard about my book, either, but I’d promised to have a draft to my editor in two months.
The real problem with my book is I’m afraid of releasing a retrospective. I’m terrified of looking back because I don't want this to be the pinnacle of my success. Elected on a landslide but unable to achieve anything I promised. A so-called firebrand without an actual brand. I want a book that ends at the precipice of something more.
I just don't have a cliffhanger in mind yet.