Chapter 22
twenty-two
Cindy
It’s amazing how fast I can adjust to sleeping with someone when it’s the right person. When I wake up alone on Tuesday morning, I miss Alex.
I palm my hand across my face and stare up at the ceiling, which leaks during D.C.’s most humid summer months.
One weekend is not real life.
Our lives are complicated and I have priorities—long-standing priorities—that I’m not sure align with being with someone like Alex. He’s going to be president and that’s the kind of job that completely subsumes everything and everyone else. He might have the best intentions now to support me and what I want, but once he takes that office, for four to eight years, everything else will take a back seat.
And yet I’m still smiling into my hand, lost in memories of the soft light slanting across the beach and how Alex brought a fork of chocolate cake to my lips and then kissed it off.
My phone buzzes. It buzzes again, angrily, from the nightstand .
I have a text from Lizzie. “We have a problem,” it reads, with an attachment. It’s a photo of the gossip column “D.C. Tea” in one of the daily commuter papers.
“SPOTTED: What congresswoman was seen far from her snowy state over the weekend at the closest major airport to a certain vice president who went home for a long weekend?”
Sitting straight up in bed, I forward the picture to Max.
She calls me back. “If they printed this, there’s more to come,” she says.
“They didn’t use my name though. And there’s no photo. Most people won’t know who they’re talking about, right?” Most of my own staff didn’t realize I was in California this weekend, and Lizzie thought I went south for the beach.
Max’s voice is filled with tension. “People who matter know. I’d better fly back for a while.”
I fall back onto my pillow. I have whiplash after my long, lazy weekend. Things can’t be spiraling this quickly. No, this must be an overreaction.
“No, no, it’s not that urgent. I need you handling things if it comes up at home.” I crawl out of bed. I need coffee.
“OK, but you need to put me in touch with the VP’s people right away.”
“Right. He gave me a number for you.” I find the paper in my purse by the door and read it off. “It’s fine, though, right? I mean, they only have enough for a blind item.”
“They’ll be on the hunt for confirmation, so don’t give it to them,” Max warns me.
“Right.” I nod, although I’m on the phone and Max can’t see me. “We’ll lie low.”
“Let me talk to his people and I’ll call you back once there’s a plan, OK?”
I let Max go and finish making coffee. Staring at my phone while I take my first few sips, I debate internally. I want to call Alex, but I also don’t want to make too big a deal out of this. It’s gossip and innuendo of the type we deal with every day. Last week, I saw an item on the cover of a tabloid at the store that suggested Alex was having an affair with the gay son of the French prime minister. No one actually believes these headlines.
Still, this is much more mainstream. This is much more trouble if other outlets start digging.
Using the number I have for Alex, I pick up the phone and dial. Someone answers right away. “Hi, congresswoman. Everything OK?”
“Yes, hi. Deena?” I take a wild guess, because it’s a woman’s voice. A woman answering my quasi-boyfriend’s phone is jarring, but I’m starting to adjust to Alex’s lifestyle.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ugh, always with the ma’ams. “Good morning. And yes, I’m fine. Is he there?”
“One moment.”
After the sound of movement on the other end of the line and a long pause, Alex’s welcome voice says, “Good morning.”
“Hi.” Despite everything, it’s soothing to hear his voice. It’s almost like we’re still on the other side of the country and I woke up to his face, creased from the pillow, his hair standing up straight with all the gray more obvious because I’m so close to him. “Um, there was something in the paper.”
His voice changes. “It must not have had names, or someone would have showed me by now.” That last part is obviously for the benefit of whoever is with him.
“No, no names...it’s a blind item. But someone could follow the clues.”
“OK,” he says. His voice is calm, as I’d hoped it would be, but for some reason I’m not reassured. “We can handle it. ”
Max had taken it so seriously. Maybe Alex and I are in denial. “Someone from my office is going to call the number you gave me.”
“Great. Try not to worry about it. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He sounds distracted, and I try not to take it personally. He must have so much to catch up on, back from vacation. We both do.
“We should probably avoid being together for awhile, just in case,” I say slowly, hoping he will protest but knowing it’s the right thing to do for both of us.
“Right,” he says. “That’s true. For a while.”
Flinching, I start twisting my coffee mug back and forth on the counter by the handle. “Right,” I repeat. “For a while.”
“Can I call you back later?” he asks.
“I’ll be at the Capitol most of the day,” I say, reminding myself I’m not some moony teenage girl. I have things to do and a busy day ahead. “Tonight?”
“OK, that sounds good. I’ll call you tonight. Love you,” he says and hangs up.
Yanking my phone away from my face, I stare at it.
Love?
A mistake, said offhand by accident. But how many people did Alex say that to, and why did it trip off his tongue?
I put the phone down carefully on the counter, because my fingers might be shaking a little, and lift my mug with both hands to my mouth.
It’s much too soon to be using the L-word. I’ve been in other relationships that used that word and almost every time, I’ve been able to review later and realize it wasn’t love. There were some intense emotions involved, but every time things went wrong, as soon as the endorphins disappeared, so did the loving feelings. Love is something that lasts. It doesn’t flame out with the relationship.
The phone rings. It’s him calling back.
Cautiously, I answer: “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me,” he says. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
We should talk about this, but I think about how busy he seemed before, how distracted. “Where are you right now?” I ask.
“I’m about to walk into the Oval Office.”
I put my free hand to my forehead. This requires a longer conversation, but not at the expense of a meeting with the Executive Office. “Right,” I say. “It’s OK. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s a little early,” he says, and I’m not sure if he means in the morning or in the relationship.
“I agree,” I say, rather than pressing him. It’s true either way.
“OK,” he says. “I gotta go.”
“Have a good day,” I say, sounding like some kind of robot.
He ends the call and I say, outloud to my empty kitchen, “Love you.”
It’s scary to say but sounds right when it comes out.
Alex
I’m in the middle of a gaggle of Secret Service and reporters as I cross in front of the Ohio Clock in the hallway outside the Senate Chamber when I hear the question: “Mr. Vice President, are you in a romantic relationship with a member of Congress?”
My first mistake is glancing up at the questioner. The fact I’m only being asked about it by a British tabloid is an encouraging sign. It means the story isn’t being taken seriously by the papers of record yet—and won’t be, as long as I don’t feed it.
“No comment,” I say, and hustle into the Senate lunch, a weekly open invitation for members of the party conference.
A senator from North Carolina catered today’s lunch and the room smells of barbeque and deep-fried pickles. The gilded arches of the room’s interior are echoing with friendly banter, and likely a fair amount of barbed negotiation.
I haven’t surprised anyone by “dropping in” on one single event since I got the Secret Service detail, so although I decided to stop by at the last minute, no one is stunned to see me.
“Slumming it, huh?” jokes a senator I used to chat with often, what feels like centuries ago, when I worked in the Senate too.
“I heard there was free food,” I joke in return.
Sometimes I miss the camaraderie of the Senate. In this community, my job was similar to that of 99 others and always offered someone else’s example to provide direction—often of what not to do. Plus, on my off days, I could disappear into the crowd and no one would bother me. Every day is an “on” day, now.
The Senate Majority Leader approaches me. She’s a nearly 80-year-old woman who could recite the Senate rules and gained power the hard way: Through years of maneuvering around them, shaking hands and kissing up to people she probably doesn’t like very much.
That’s the kind of thing I remember every time I start to miss the Senate. Capitol Hill is like a big game of king-of-the-hill. Members get so preoccupied with playing the game it’s easy to forget real lives are impacted by policy.
We greet each other by our titles and brush cheeks in a half-hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I have a few reluctants for you to chat with and an idea for winning them over,” she says.
I’m surprised she’s diving right into the legislation we’ve been talking about, off and on, for months. I’ve gotten the impression it was firmly on the back burner of her priorities and then she begrudgingly spent time on it because the White House cares .
It’s more than a few “reluctants.” I have to give an impromptu speech to the whole room, pitching the cannabis bill, while senators are licking their fingers clean from barbeque sauce.
Then she springs it on me: “A number of us are interested in a clean bill.”
Weeks ago, I thought I’d successfully pushed the Senate Majority Leader toward the bigger bill. I’d confidently told Cindy that I could get the Senate to vote for at least one provision. The Majority Leader would fall in line with the White House; if I wanted it, she did.
Maybe not.
“This is a surprise,” I say, trying not to blink.
“There’s some new concern about caving to special interests.”
New concern? The question I got outside the room crosses my mind. “Oh? I think the push is coming from within our own party, from voters.”
“We’re on the right side of history on decriminalization. If we overextend ourselves, we might lose the whole vote,” she says.
It’s a disingenuous answer and we both know it. Very few people in Congress care about “right” when the kind of results you can put in a campaign ad are the product of expediency and power. I was once part of this body, and I too sometimes bowed under the pressure. My best days were the ones where I found a path that won me success but also suited my conscience.
Like many others, I tell myself, “I can do more good if I stay in power.” And it’s possible I have. Unlike many others, I worry I haven't.
But wasn't this the plan all along? To take the win and force Cindy Wight to line up with the rest of the party? Then I let it get personal .
I can’t ignore the Senate Majority Leader of my own party, so I ask her to send me the revised text and give me a few days to look it over.
I’ll figure out a way to discourage it later. My own party won’t want to go against the White House on this unless they have some reason to make a statement like that. And our unity as a party has never been better in the Senate. It’s the House that I expected would be the problem, and that’s why I relied on Cindy to secure the progressive votes.
After I leave the Capitol, my motorcade proceeding noisily across the front drive through security across from the Supreme Court, Deena shows me the online homepage of the British tabloid: “‘No comment’ from VP over secret affair.”
“Terrific,” I sigh. I’d slipped up by saying anything at all. “Send it to Cindy, would you? And tell her I’m sorry.”
I wonder if I should pick up the phone myself, but decide I’ll call her later. My schedule today is packed and I already made a fool of myself with that verbal slip while distracted earlier.
All of the research my team is doing now presupposes the two of us stay together long-term. But it’s not fair to dump that commitment in her lap this soon because of external pressure. I won’t fit Cindy into a mold created by circumstances.
But I’d struggle not to admit how much pressure I’m under if I talked to her again now.
Cindy
I flop down on the sofa in my office. “I understand you’re excited about the semester being over, but you didn’t have to come all the way here to talk about my silly writer’s block.”
“I like coming to visit your office, it makes me feel important,” Sara says, browsing the books on my shelves. They’re mostly biographies I haven’t read that were written and given to me by other members of Congress. Soon I may be represented the same way on shelves throughout this building.
“Did you avoid getting lost this time?”
Sara laughs. “I only get lost in the House office building with the courtyard. Which one is that, Rayburn? I somehow end up in there every time, confused and desperate to find the street again. I managed to find my way today without too much trouble.”
“Thanks for coming. I’m waiting on a vote so…”
“You get buzzed, you gotta run. I’m in no hurry. It’s a nice night,” Sara adds, standing at the open window. “I’m surprised this isn’t sealed shut.”
“Some of them are, but I insisted on one I could open. I’m a Colorado girl at heart and we need our fresh air. If we’re lucky, we might hear some music from the concert on the Capitol steps.”
“I watched them setting that up.” Sara sits in my leather chair and runs her hands up and down the armrests. “This office doesn’t suit you at all. I’m slightly intimidated.”
Sara is right. Sometimes, I read my gossip sites to ground myself and remember I have interests outside this building. To remember I am not my surroundings. “I have to follow a lot of old-fashioned rules here,” I say simply.
Sara, always full of nervous energy, stands to switch and join me on the couch. There are notepads and a computer spread out on the low table beside it. “That’s what I feel like you’re doing in your book. Following rules. The Cindy I know, knows when to break them.”
I make a face and spring back to my feet to retrieve my flavored water off the desk. “I have no idea how to fix it. I am totally blocked.”
“Hmmm,” Sara says. She taps her fingers on the table. “Why?”
“There’s a lot going on in my life right now. Some upheaval.” I shrug. I’m great at handling multiple tasks at once, but not when they involve emotions I need time to process.
“I have been known to read the gossip sites,” Sara says. She stops tapping and raises her eyebrows meaningfully at me.
Dread fills me as I lower my seltzer can from my mouth. “Is it that easy to figure out they’re talking about me?” I wonder if my staff knows. Lizzie hadn’t asked if the blind item was true. I wonder if I need to tell her, and perhaps more than her, and mentally add that to my long list of decisions to make.
“No. But you mentioned going to California last weekend to me. And I saw you on TV with him back in February and I thought, ‘don’t they look nice together.’ And because at heart I’m a mom, I had hopes.” Sara grins. “Also, hello , this is so juicy. Are you really having an affair with the vice president?”
“Not an affair. We’re dating . Secretly.” I feel my cheeks heating like a teenager’s, but I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment or pride. I like being able to talk about Alex to someone else. I have to stop myself from gushing that he’s great, he listens to me and doesn’t think my hopes and dreams are stupid, and also, he’s hot under those suits he wears.
“Well, I think we’ve identified the block!” Sara says.
Frowning, I sit back down on the couch, causing it to emit a muffled fart sound. “My love life? But the book has nothing to do with that.”
Sara raises her eyebrows again.
“I don’t want to have anything about that in the book,” I insist.
“But why? A married woman in a position of power would talk about how her relationship supports her work. Take Sheryl Sandberg. Or Michelle Obama! People are interested in whole people, not slices of a person.”
I sigh, putting my can down. The only person who understands how precarious my situation is, is Alex, and I’m not sure about him sometimes. “I guess because there’s nothing there. My romantic life hasn’t supported my work. Dating has always been a distraction.”
“Until now?”
“Even now. Why do you think it’s a secret? He’s in leadership. I’m trying to make my mark on Washington.”
“It’s such a good story!”
I groan. “I don’t want the arc of my book to be ‘single woman goes to Washington and gets a husband.’ Not that we’re getting married,” I add quickly.
I’m tempted to scan the office, as though Alex could have heard me plotting to marry him after dating for a month. First that moment in the kitchen this morning, now this. This relationship is going to my head. I can’t be Alex’s first lady; it would ruin my career. I’d have to give up all my own plans to sit in the White House and look supportive at events.
“That’s fair. But I think you might have to tackle exactly that perception. In tackling it, you make the book more interesting.” Sara leans forward. “Also, are you getting married?!”
“No! I mean, we barely know each other yet. And he has all these political aspirations.”
“He’s going to be the next president,” Sara notes, like it’s a fact. Alex will benefit if the Meyer administration stays popular.
“Right,” I say, rather than argue against what I suspect will be true. “And I don’t want to be somebody’s first lady. I want to have my own life.”
Sara rears back, offended. “First Ladies have done some amazing things. Launched policy initiatives, furthered their own careers. They should collect a salary for all the work they do. ”
It’s true, but I wave her off. “Maybe some first ladies can make that thoughtful and deliberate.”
“Don’t limit yourself, Cindy,” Sara says, shaking her head like she’s disappointed. “You don’t want to turn down an opportunity because you think you can predict how it will turn out.”
I want to brush Sara off, but I’ve learned that when the older woman’s advice is uncomfortable, that’s when I most need to consider it. I finally nod. “OK, I’ll think about it. But until whatever happens, happens with Alex—I mean, the vice president—I can’t put any of that in my book.”
Sara slaps her hands against her thighs and stands. “So, tell your agent you need to put it on pause. Tell her it’s going to be a much better book a few months from now.”
Cringing, I shake my head. I’d never use my relationship with Alex as some kind of hook for readers. Our relationship could end without anyone the wiser. In that case, I’m certainly not going to reveal in my book that I once went on a few quiet dates—and had some great sex—with the vice president, as if it’s somehow representative of my success.
“Remember what I said,” Sara says, collecting her purse from the coat stand by the door. “Don’t pass judgment while things are in process.”
After Sara leaves, I close myself in my office to sit on the inside of my wide window ledge, listening to the faint sounds of the National Symphony Orchestra on the West Front lawn.
I hold my phone, but hesitate to call Alex because of what happened earlier. I don’t want to interrupt his important work. But he’d said he would try to call me back and it’s around the time he usually goes to the park with Thor.
My phone vibrates. It’s a blocked number and I pick it up with hope it’s him.
“Hi Cindy, it’s Deena,” she says. “The vice president wanted me to pass on the message he’s tied up and won’t be able to call this evening.”
“Oh,” I say. Disappointed, but reminding myself “vice president” is more than a title. It’s an all-consuming lifestyle. “Thanks for letting me know.”
We hang up without more fanfare—what am I going to do, ask “has he talked about me?”—and I sit quietly, listening to the music and wishing that, for once, I didn’t have to share my boyfriend with the rest of the country.