Chapter 20
twenty
Alex
My staff stocked my California home with groceries before I arrived, including specialty items I’ve had my eye on for recipes like homemade sushi and quiche. I decide to put together the latter while I’m waiting for Cindy to arrive on Friday night, so we can have it for breakfast in the morning.
I convince Ted to sit inside with me as I’m cooking, because I listened to podcasts almost the whole flight and the drive here, and I’m not used to this few interruptions.
Might as well pick his brain while he’s here, too. “When you and your wife first got together, was it gradual or did you know right away where your relationship was going?”
“Oh boy.” Ted sits back up from where he’d leaned down to pet Thor. “I didn’t realize this was that kind of ‘hang out.’” I can hear the quotation marks around the phrase when Ted says it.
Unrepentant, I grin back. “A number of people have made it clear to me that as the vice president, I never get to ‘hang out,’ which is the point of the question.”
I keep cutting room temperature butter into cubes as Ted thinks. “It’s a little backward. Normally, you meet someone and decide where it’s going as you’re on the way. You ’re trying to decide where you’re going before you even start.”
“Tell me about it.” I say. I put the butter and flour in my food processor. Most of the appliances in this kitchen are unused, so I have to examine this one closely before I figure out the controls.
“It seems like the most important thing is to make sure the two of you are on the same page. It doesn’t matter what the page is, as long as you agree on it.”
“Very wise.” I pulse the dry ingredients, concentrating on my next step rather than the fact I’m having this discussion with my Secret Service agent. Ted technically works for the country, not me, so that makes it alright to force him into a personal conversation, right? Justified or not, I’m desperate for advice. “But what if we don’t know what pages we’re on?”
Ted rubs his hand over the stubble on his chin. “When I dated, I had a security clearance and a lot of guns in the house. I didn’t want to mess around with women who didn’t understand or respect that. So I made a list of requirements up front. Nothing wrong with a vision for what you’re looking for. But then you got to know when you’ve found it, too.”
I think about it as I put ice into the water in my measuring cup and start adding it a tablespoon at a time to the dough. It’s not like I have a written-down list, but I do keep one in the back of my mind. Understands politics. Can handle crowds. Gets along with Thor. Plus things I didn’t think I’d ever find in the same woman: Adventurous in bed. Inspires me to cook again.
Cindy’s face appears when I close my eyes for a moment. I’ve found it.
“Fair enough, Ted,” I murmur.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, it seems to me you’re more concerned she’s not looking for what you’ve got to offer.” Ted’s voice is level, the same way it is when he informs me that I’m not allowed to step out from under the protective tent and shake hands and if I try it, he’ll manhandle me into the nearest vehicle without a second thought.
I frown while I’m dumping the food processor out onto the parchment paper on the counter. My hands are in the dough I’m forming into a ball when I respond. “It’s not what most women would consider the ideal relationship, is it?”
Ted raises his eyebrows. “I know better than to speak for most women. Or any women, for that matter. What part of it do you think bothers her?”
Thor is standing on his back legs in the kitchen, begging me to pick him up. Hands full, I try to nudge him out of his way so I don’t step on him. Ted laughs and comes over to grab the little dog. Always ready for protective duty.
“Growing up, my mom had dinner on the table every night at 6 and my dad was always home in the evenings. My mom told me they made sacrifices to arrange their lives like that, because that’s what you do to have a family.” I shrug. “I will never be able to guarantee anyone I can make dinner every night. Not as long as I’m working in the White House.”
“Hm.” Ted sits back down, holding Thor. They make quite the picture together. Ted’s biceps are bigger than Thor’s entire body. “And that’s a problem for her? For the congresswoman?”
It’s a pointed question; Ted is telling me not to make up Cindy’s mind for her. I push the ball of dough back in the mixing bowl and cover it. “She’s not like my mom but...I guess I don’t really know what she’s like, yet.”
Ted’s even tone keeps me from expecting a gut punch. “So, have you decided no family for you at all, then? Because it won’t look like your parents?”
Pausing over the cutting board I’m grabbing, I think about it. It’s a jarring question, because I don’t want what they had. I start working on dicing the ham. “I just don’t see how other people make it work.”
“It’s not one big decision, it’s a lot of small ones. Like what you do every day, Mr. Vice President.” Ted puts the squirming Thor back on the floor.
I smile down at my dog, who still wants his dad to pick him up. “You’re pretty wise for a guy who never talks,” I tell Ted. I’m deflecting, but the conversation is getting too personal. I don’t want to force my security agent to be my therapist.
Ted smirks and I shred cheese, and we both act like it’s settled. But it’s not. I know what I want. But I don’t know if I’ll lose everything if I go for it.
Cindy
“Well, I see what you mean about not wearing a bikini,” I say, standing on a rocky beach with no one else in sight but me, Alex and several Secret Service agents. One agent is standing on a rugged black rock rising far out of the water, where he has a view of everything on the beach.
I’ve never been to northern California before. It’s more like Seattle than the sunny southern half of the state that I’ve seen. The beaches are beautiful but stark. Tendrils of fog are wrapping around the enormous rocks on the beach, as if caught there earlier in the day and now hiding from the rising sun.
The beaches are also less busy than down south. We drove in an entourage to the edge of the land and picked an access spot. Perhaps the people in this town are used to the vice president hiding out nearby; no one lined the streets. It was that simple to find somewhere we could be alone.
Well, alone as we ever get.
Alex is wearing faded jeans and a soft, long-sleeved t-shirt. I’d rubbed my face on it when he put it on this morning, the first morning we’ve ever woken up together. I left the house without makeup and wearing a sweatshirt, comfortable with him. Now here we are, holding hands on an empty beach like a side-step out of real life.
We take a long walk down nearly endless sand, talking about everything but politics. We take our shoes off and walk barefoot near the edge of the water, where the sand is packed. We pick up seashells and put them back. We uncover sand crabs. We joke about having good luck if we find an unbroken sand dollar and then find two in a row. Even though I don’t believe in luck, I hope it’s a good sign.
It becomes our ritual every afternoon. We take a long walk, dressed in sweatshirts, the noise of the waves loud enough we might be unaccompanied. We take our shoes off and I leave my long hair down to tangle in the wind.
We talk about our parents and the similar ways they screwed us up. “I felt like I couldn’t have children because my mother would criticize me for not staying home with them,” I say.
And he tells me about his parents setting him up with every local woman ready to be a stay-at-home wife from the age of 16, even during his time at the U.S. Naval Academy. “I hated the idea of having someone constantly waiting at home for me while I lived my life,” he says.
We talk about the fact I might be too old to have children, and whether we’d hypothetically be open to alternatives. I ask him when his hair started going gray and admit I have more than a little gray hair under my dark touch-ups. I ask if Thor would get along with a cat, because I’ve always wanted one and worried I travel too much. We talk about what we want our political legacies to be, and then turn the same question on life.
“This is going to sound soft,” he says. “But I want it to be ‘he created something people loved.’ I don’t know what that thing is. But I want people to really love it.”
I smile at him, because I love that dream and it’s not what I expected. “I want mine to be ‘she spoke up.’”
“Do you have plans to run for higher office?” he asks.
Making a show of looking for the camera, I put on my best “politician” charade, avoiding the question. He makes a face at me that has me dropping the deflection. “I want to make a difference in the world,” I say. “Politics has never been my end game. But right now it’s the right tool. What about you?”
“You know my ambition.”
“Yes.” Yet I’m not sure why he wants what he wants. “Well,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “What do you get out of becoming president? What does it mean to you?”
“Ah.” He takes a step forward, so for a moment he’s ahead of me and I can’t see his face. “I guess when I first launched my political career, it was all about duty. Duty to my family, to my country, to myself, because I knew I could achieve big things. Don’t look at me like that; yes, it sounds arrogant.”
“You are one of the most successful politicians in the world.”
He shakes his head. “That’s just it. Tim is the successful politician. I still feel like, in some ways, I haven’t been tested.”
“Is that what you want? To be tested?” I pause before I take a guess. “To find out if you can pass the test?”
He shrugs, looking out at the water. It doesn’t seem like a very good reason to me. He supports the president, he makes jokes, he toes the center line, but who is he when he isn't playing the nice, neutral guy? I hesitate to continue down this conversational path.
I want to be free—to be able to pivot if I need to, to take whatever next steps I want—as much as he wants to be president, and those two things are not compatible for long-term partners. I’m trying to focus on the moment, but the future keeps getting in the way.
We hold hands as we walk, like teenagers, and build things out of driftwood. We take photos—on my phone—of the sun rising or setting. I don’t share them anywhere online; they’re personal mementos. We never take any pictures together and we don’t talk about why not.
And then we go back to the house and eat whatever delicious meal Alex prepared. Eggs Benedict one day, pasta carbonara another.
The weekend goes quickly.
The sex is somewhat tame—the Secret Service could be listening to everything—but the quiet makes it more intimate. One night, we lay facing each other side by side in the moonlight, touching each other until we come. In the shower, I drop to my knees and we let the pounding water drown out the sounds he makes.
We laugh a lot. He laughs at me for bringing high-heeled shoes—which, fair. I tease him for having medicated shampoo. We share simple joy over Thor’s antics.
He lets his facial hair grow and practically becomes a different person, exchanging the clean-cut politician’s face for a stubbled, ruddy-cheeked and wind-swept one.
Eventually, we talk about the legislation, finalizing the language and telling each other, yes, it’s ready. Time to move forward. I admit I don’t quite know what my next project is after this. “I’ve been working toward this legislation so long,” I say.
Alex jokes that I’ll still have it on my plate for another few years at this rate, and I throw a baby carrot at him over dinner.
When I ask him about other serious relationships, he tells me about Wendy, the woman he almost married. Daughter of his father’s partner. He grew up with her. Everyone considered it the right choice and he almost made it. But Wendy didn’t want him to go into politics. Alex considered giving up the idea—he wasn’t fully committed at the time—but ultimately he wanted marriage to be about creating options, not shutting them down.
“At least that was my dream concept for marriage,” he adds. “But after Wendy, I assumed I’d been wrong, or that marriage wouldn’t be about new things for me, and set it aside for later, after I’d accomplished everything I wanted.”
I understand. “I’ve been in a lot of controlling relationships,” I say. “Nothing ever got that serious because I would always rebel. Sometimes it got messy,” I admit. “Because instead of breaking up with them, I would pick fights. Try to change the relationship in spite of fundamental incompatibility.”
Then we talk about fundamentals. We talk about what our ideal relationship looks like and decide it’s a lot like what we have this weekend: Shared time, the space to let conversation come easily, working together on projects like dinner or sand castles or legislative bills, having enough energy leftover for inventive sex.
That night, I let him tie me to the bed with the belts from our robes and gag me so I can’t scream when he goes down on me. I’ve never done this before—been tied up—but it’s been a fantasy for years. Alex makes me comfortable, protected even while naked. Then he uses his hands to penetrate me both ways and it’s the best orgasm I have all weekend.
“What about when it’s not like this?” Alex murmurs into my hair after, once he’s untied me and wrapped me in his arms and the blankets, and we’re cuddling. “When we go back to the real world and can’t hide away from everyone?”
I don’t answer right away, because I’m not sure. I run my fingers over the soft hair on his forearm that is wrapped around my chest. He’s so certain and we’re so close when we’re in bed like this, but in D.C., there is still so much between us. I’m not sure I can throw myself further into this mess for someone who seems a little lost himself, even if he is so privileged and powerful.
When I speak, it’s in a whisper because I’m not sure: “I guess we figure it out as we go.”
Alex
Monday afternoon, the last day we’re here, my sister shows up on the front porch.
“Sasha,” I say, opening the door further and taking in the grim faces of the Secret Service agents making a wall between me and the view beyond her. “What the hell are you doing in California?”
“Visiting Mom and Dad.” Then she holds up a plastic baggie and smiles. My protective detail carefully does not look at what’s in her hand.
I gesture her in and close the door behind her. “Cindy,” I say, as she joins us from the other room. “This is my sister, Sasha. She brought us weed.”
Cindy’s expression is similar to mine: Oh, shit.
“Well, I knew you couldn’t buy it yourselves and you definitely weren’t going to send the Secret Service out to get some, but what’s a vacation without a chance to turn off your brain?” Sasha puts the baggie on the end table and looks around. “Where’s Thor?”
“At home. Sasha…it’s not a great idea for the vice president to get high.” I look at Cindy for affirmation.
“What would happen?” she wonders aloud. “If there was a situation.”
“Oh please,” Sasha shuts us both down. “You’re on vacation. The president is healthy and in charge. And you drink wine! It’s the same thing. Just moderate your consumption.” She extends her hand to Cindy. “So you’re the girlfriend.”
Cindy and I lock eyes, startled.
“What?” says Sasha, looking between us.
Cindy takes her hand. “No one’s called me that yet. It’s nice to meet you, Sasha.”
Sasha shakes her head. “Man, your relationship is weird.” She walks into the kitchen.
We smile at each other a little in her wake, because she’s not wrong.
I follow Sasha to the kitchen, wondering how long she plans to stay. We only have a few hours left, and I planned on Cindy being naked for part of the time.
Sasha’s head is in the fridge. She comes back out with the dish of our leftover carbonara. “Wow, really pulling out all the stops, huh, big brother?”
“He didn’t think being vice president was suitably impressive,” Cindy says, sitting at the counter that looks into the kitchen. Alex realizes she’s brought the baggie with her and is examining the blunt inside.
“Are you considering it?” I ask her.
“You know, I am,” she says, and sounds surprised herself. “I haven’t gotten high since I took office. But your sister makes a good point. I do drink. And my whole thing is that cannabis should be treated similarly to alcohol.”
“I knew I was going to like her.” Sasha is eating cold pasta out of the container now. “This is delicious, by the way. And I’m not even high yet.”
“You’re planning to stay?” I recognize my tone is whiny but it’s too late.
“Come on, Alex, I just drove like five hours to save you from your boring weekend of, whatever, like walks on the beach and eating pasta? Is that all you’ve been doing? ”
Cindy smiles at me. “We watched almost a whole movie yesterday.”
Zack Ryder starred in it. I made it my personal mission to distract Cindy from watching.
Sasha is eying us like she has a box of popcorn in her hands instead of pasta. “Go ahead,” she says to Cindy. “Alex won’t judge you, will you, Alex?”
“Of course not,” I say immediately. “I’m just not certain I want to become the first vice president to smoke pot while in office.”
“That you know of,” Sasha and Cindy say at the same time. I grimace, watching them share a grin. Now I’m outnumbered by beautiful women with an agenda.
“Do you think it helps our cause or hurts it? I can’t decide,” Cindy muses, even as she takes a joint out of the bag and reaches for the lighter Sasha managed to unerringly pull out of the first drawer she opened. “After all, we’re white people. Our privilege is that our only real concern is optics, not arrest.”
I shake my head, watching her and the delicate way she brings the joint to her mouth with two fingers.
“I haven’t done this in a while, so don’t judge,” Cindy says. But she only coughs once after she inhales and holds the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds before she releases it. The kitchen fills with the pungent smell of skunk and I go to open a window, remember I need to discuss adding a potential entrance with the Secret Service, and then abandon the idea.
Cindy hands Sasha the blunt and my sister takes her own puff. She doesn’t cough at all. I roll my eyes. “Finishing school really trained you well, huh?”
Sasha makes a face at me. “Sure, like I bet you never smoked in high school. Actually, never mind, I wouldn’t take that bet.” She looks at Cindy. “He always had to be the perfect candidate, right from the beginning. ”
“Had to be?” Cindy asks. She looks at me, as if asking whether this line of questioning is OK.
I take a deep breath, trying to get as high second-hand as possible. Sasha offers me the joint, but I shake my head.
“Poor Alex,” Sasha says. “Always worried about something. In junior high, he ran for class president and everyone wanted better lunch options. But our dad got in his head about how everything he asked for could be used against him, so his campaign ended up being options, full stop. Not lunch. Not classes. Just more options for everyone. Did you win that campaign?”
“I did.” It was my first lesson in pleasing the masses. If you’re a blank slate, people can impose anything they want on your values. I sit down on the other stool beside Cindy. She nudges her knee against mine as she takes the blunt back from Sasha and inhales once more.
“That’s enough for me,” she says. “I don’t want to get too high and I feel like I’m being a bad influence.”
Sasha laughs. “Alex could use some influence, good or bad. It’s a miracle you ever got him to be alone with you, you know. He’s always so careful. Where’s the bathroom in this place?” She wanders down the hall.
Cindy gets up and finds a plate to rest the joint on. “So the being careful…that comes from your parents?” Her voice is casual, but I can feel how close her attention is.
“That and not taking a stand on any controversial issue.” My voice sounds bitter to my own ears, and the words are sharper than I intended. Maybe I am high? I shrug. “My dad always told me I need to be like Obama and appeal to everyone.”
Cindy sits back down with me, her movements looser than normal. “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but…” She whispers in my ear, “People hated Obama.”
I grin. “But he was still president. ”
“You’d hate being hated. At least, for the wrong reason. For something that a million other people didn’t love.”
Stunned into silence, I’m grateful for Sasha’s return. My sister, catching at least part of what Cindy said, shouts, “You know him so well! Also, I love that you brought like 30 face serums with you. No way that’s stocked by the Secret Service.”
The two women discuss skin care routines as I stare at the joint sitting on the counter. It’s not a surprise that I’ve somehow gotten this far in life without ever taking a stand on a divisive issue. I was trained to always see both sides and negotiate the middle. Not getting emotional about right or wrong has been a strength in many ways. But to realize that not taking a stand means never aligning with a cause I—or anyone—really loved hits hard.
“I want to create something people loved,” I’d told Cindy about my future legacy.
I may never have that if I continue like this.