Chapter 24
twenty-four
Cindy
I’ve never been to a state dinner and never expected to go to one. Presidents only hold a handful in their time in office and about 40 guests are invited to each, so it’s one of the most coveted invitations in Washington.
The reason I made the list makes me more than a little uncomfortable. But I haven’t seen Alex in two weeks, and I’m not going to turn the opportunity down.
I’d worried about how it would appear, and he’d reassured me that we wouldn’t be sitting next to each other or walking in together. “It’s not being packaged as a date,” he’d said. I knew that from Anita, as well.
And I’m disappointed, even though I agree a public date is not a wise idea. Of course it’s not. I wanted to be consulted about it, though. So far I’ve been “handled” by the White House staff, up to and including ideas on what to wear. Under no circumstances am I to wear the same shade of green as the vice president’s tie.
The blue I’m wearing brings out my eyes and I’m carrying a bag that’s big enough for my phone. So long as I’m seated by someone interesting, it’s going to be a fun night.
I’m seated by Zack Ryder. Again.
“You’re becoming quite a regular in Washington,” I tell him.
He gives a lazy full-body shrug. “I’m lobbying for something or other. It’s a good look right now.”
I laugh. “You don’t know what you’re lobbying for?”
He raises one eyebrow. His very flexible face manages to emote a lack of concern with the appropriate lack of effort. “I don’t know what I’m doing from one day to the next. I don’t know how I got here. I have no idea what my next line is.”
“Is this a call for help?” I whisper. “Do I need to alert one of these people in uniform? I think they’re social secretaries, but they seem official enough to save you from your fate.”
He grins. “You mock my pain.”
“Good line. I don’t mean to mock it.” I lean back and try not to “mom” him too much. “But you should consider asking your people more questions.”
“Eh.” His brow remains unwrinkled as he dismisses my advice. Then he gives me a full-blown movie star smile. It’s distracting. “It’s something to do with supporting the military, so it’s not controversial. I’d rather focus on my next role.”
I indulge him by asking about his next role for a few minutes, while casting sneaky glances at Alex across the table. He’s deep in conversation with the prime minister of Canada and barely eating anything. He’s handsome, as always, but there’s a hint of dark circle beneath his eyes. He’s had a busy couple of weeks—judging by how short our phone calls have been—and I wonder if it’s been worse than he’s admitting. There must be a lot he can’t tell me.
The thought makes me sad, so I turn my attention back to Zack .
“How did you end up at the vice president’s table?” I whisper to him.
His response is a doe-eyed stare. “They just put me here.”
I laugh. He’s young and oblivious, yet he must be in his late 20s and old enough to know better. Perhaps he’s lived in a bubble his whole life and doesn’t realize his own privilege. Still, I’m somewhat charmed that he isn’t constantly scanning for someone better to talk to, like the majority of Washington would do when seated at a table of more important people than me.
I’m not excited about doing the usual schmoozing this evening, either, so I exchange a few obligatory words with my other seatmate, the secretary of Transportation, and then turn my attention to another round of teasing Zack and learning about his plans for a sequel to the movie where he played the vice president. We also talk about filming rights, and he becomes more passionate discussing something he is clearly more personally invested in.
When the president leads the first lady onto the small dance floor after dinner, I have a mental flash of doing this same thing—starting the dancing at a state dinner—with Alex someday. My brain shies away from the very thought of that kind of pressure. Not the dancing in public while significant people are watching, but what it symbolizes. Representing the entire country. It’s one thing to be chosen for that responsibility, like a president is, like the way my constituents chose me to represent them in Congress. It’s another to marry into it and face the same pressure without knowing whether the majority of people you’re representing have your back.
“May I have this dance?” Alex is standing at my side, shifting from foot to foot as though ready to get out of his three-piece suit. If only.
“Are you sure?” I ask. I glance at Zack, on my other side, whose eyes are starting to glaze over. This party is probably too tame for his movie star tastes.
“That I want to dance with you? Absolutely,” Alex says, ignoring my real concern about doing so in front of this crowd. He takes my hand and leads me out among the other people joining the first couple.
“Seems risky,” I murmur, making a strong frame of my arms to keep plenty of space between us.
“Riskier would be letting you keep flirting all night with that movie star,” he replies, directing his eyes over my shoulder.
Giving him side-eye, I keep my gaze fixed properly on the other side of the room. “You’re not seriously jealous.”
He keeps his face directed away from me, reducing the intimacy of our positions. “Define seriously .”
I huff. “You’re the vice president. He’s an actor.”
“Which is the most interesting job description? Not to mention more glamorous and less likely to make one an old man before one’s time.”
Is he truly insecure? It’s ludicrous; when I’m with him, it’s as though there’s never been another man in my life. I laugh, but gently, for his ears alone. “Have you seen him do stunts? He’s going to wake up with the aches and pains of a 60-year-old any day now.” I tap his shoulder with the hand on it. “Besides, unfortunately my type is vice presidents.”
He smiles, nudging me across the floor. He’s an excellent lead, subtly signaling his moves before he makes them. Taking care of me so I don’t stumble over my own feet. “All vice presidents?”
“Yes, I also have a real thing for Dick Cheney.” I keep my voice expressionless and my gaze beyond his face.
He snorts and tries to cover it by clearing his throat, turning his head away from me.
“Al Gore also gets me hot,” I continue, deadpan. I can’t help noticing, with my nose nearly in his neck, that he smells delicious, with that spicy scent I’ve come to love.
“And what happens if I’m not always vice president?” he asks quietly, cutting through the silly joke. It’s easier to tease him than talk about serious things, while all these eyes are on us.
“I don’t know what happens,” I admit, not quite looking at him. I’m sure he’s not talking about quitting. He means what I was thinking about earlier: Being in a position to lead the dance. There are questions I haven’t quite dared to ask. Speak up, Cindy. “Is that what you want? We haven’t really discussed it directly.”
“That’s what I want,” he confirms, gaze still focused past me. “But I can’t do it alone.”
A man in need of a wife, then. Not a wife—a first lady. The woman who walks silently beside him and waves. I start to stumble at the confirmation, but he keeps me upright.
Did his team diagram the appropriate marital partner for his presidential aspirations and conduct a search? I have a hard time believing I’m an ideal match, with my background. I have some messy personal history and a past of advocating for unpopular causes. Once I even called Tim Meyer “the cardboard president” in an interview with BuzzFeed .
“I feel like I’m being recruited to join your campaign,” I say. “What would I bring to your ticket? The mountain west? Progressives?”
He breathes in and out once, slowly. “Those are both helpful,” he agrees, exactly what I didn’t want to hear. “We’ve done some polling…”
I stiffen until my back could snap. “What does it say?” I demand.
The dance ends and Alex lets me go. He takes my hand between both of his. “In general, it’s not good,” he says, looking me in the eyes finally. “But they predict a big bump if we make it last.”
We can’t continue this conversation here. I have to walk away. But it’s like someone opened the curtains while I’m standing in my living room naked. He’s brought the whole world into a moment of intimacy.
“Cindy.” The president is suddenly at my elbow, extending a hand to me. Alex nods and moves off, called away by someone standing nearby.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, and take the president’s hand.
“Thank you ,” he replies, putting his arm around me and taking my other hand. “It’s a privilege to dance with someone who doesn’t want to talk about appropriations or tariffs. You don’t want to talk about appropriations or tariffs, do you?”
“Well, I did, but now I guess I’ll keep it to myself,” I say, taking the distraction and running with it. He’s successfully managed to hook my mind away from the troubling conversation with Alex.
“What’s on your mind, congresswoman?” he asks, keeping us to the edges of the dance floor where we’re less likely to be overheard.
I hesitate. Something about Tim Meyer—perhaps the knowledge that he’s the father of two daughters or the way he keeps his grasp meticulously appropriate—makes this space between us seem safe. But he is still the president. A man I’ve insulted behind his back in the past.
“Oh, just...foreign relations with Canada, I guess,” I say weakly. It’s such a cop out, but I don’t want to start a fight in the middle of this state dinner.
He smiles. “Sometimes it’s the countries that share our language where we have the most tricky relationships.” He pauses. “Have you ever noticed that about relationships?”
Impressed by his persistence, I make a noncommittal noise. This must be why he’s known as a master of negotiation. “That they’re tricky? Yes, that’s definitely true.”
“What strikes you as the most tricky part?” he asks.
His conversational skills outmatch mine. I can’t avoid answering him without being rude. So I settle for a partial answer hidden in a question: “Did you do any polling about Anita—the first lady—before you married her?”
“Ah.” He considers this for a moment. “No, but we were in a different phase of our careers. She was a teacher and I was a member of the state legislature. It was a simpler time and fewer people were involved than are with you and Alex. I wouldn’t worry too much about polling a hypothetical. People are more easily won over than they predict.” He ducks his chin to give me a quick glance. “Everybody loves a happy ending.”
“What about a happy beginning and who knows where it goes from there?”
“Well, that’s life. Packaging and messaging are all about making messy processes more tidy.”
I wonder about how casual he acts about the whole affair. “Does this messy process affect you, sir?”
“Me?” He shakes his head. “I’m on the downhill slope of my career. Thank God. What does concern me, however, is my party keeping control of the White House. Alex is our best chance for that.”
A whole other concern I haven’t paid proper attention. I might criticize the administration, but ultimately I would rather my party stay in power. I don’t know what kind of president Alex would be, but he deserves a chance. I’d no more want to stand in his way than I would want him to get in mine. I want to see him succeed—for both personal and professional reasons.
Tim continues, without visibly bracing himself. A man who can have a confrontation without giving away discomfort. “What puzzles me about you is—you’re a leader in the party. You’ve made quite a stir during your time in Washington. People are looking to you to shape the future and take down the establishment. To some, you’re dating the enemy. Some might wonder how much of that is about power.”
Am I imagining it or is there a little more tension in the way he’s holding me, the push-pull of our hands?
“I’ve always been more concerned with organization than power,” I say carefully. “It’s a cliche around here, but I believe in checks and balances and I like that my underdog coalition checks the power in the hands of the old white men who have been in office for 20 years or more. I believe in the party but, unlike most, I’m also willing to admit when my party is wrong or needs to do more. That’s the only reason I ‘create a stir’ around here.”
He nods, like it’s settled. “As an old white man who’s been in office more than 20 years, I don’t disagree.” The dance ends and he lets me go. We clap lightly for the band. “You might think of a potential partnership in the same way. Maybe Alex needs you to check and balance him. Maybe that would benefit our country, as well.”
I stand near the dance floor alone until Zack walks up. “These parties are way more interesting as a montage scene, it turns out,” he says.
Trying to focus on him, I smile. My first two dances weighed me down and now my brain and my heart are both heavy. “Was it worth getting dressed up?” I ask.
Zack considers this. “I guess for the experience. Now I’ll know for the movie. You? Worth it?”
Focusing across the room at Alex, who is dancing with the wife of the Canadian prime minister, I admit, “I’m not sure yet.”
Ale x
I should’ve called Cindy myself, but I had a staff member warn her about the requests from US Weekly and The Daily Mail so that I could fall into bed after the state dinner.
I’d had them tell her the same thing I’d told myself: We’re fine until it’s the Times or the Post.
When I wake up the next morning, The New York Times has called.
“Why the hell is a respectable media organization writing about my love life,” I rage to Deena and Toby, walking toward a conference room in EEOB for a meeting with Kaylee.
“They’re taking the ‘is it a distraction’ angle,” Deena explains. “‘Do these rumors make him less effective,’ that kind of thing. It allows them to cover the rumors as if they’re incidental to the point, but they’re still spreading them.”
“How did we get here already?”
“There’s a picture.”
I stop in my tracks, the worst possibilities filling my mind—telescopic cameras and open window shades in California. Or something on the beach. “What kind of picture?”
“From the state dinner.” Toby pulls out his phone and displays a picture of me standing with Cindy near the dance floor. I study it. We’re not even looking at each other. “You know the cliche: A picture’s worth a thousand words, sir.”
“This picture says we were both guests at an event.” I roll my eyes and keep walking. This is nothing compared to the private moments we’ve shared.
“Not in combination with the other stuff.”
Again, I halt. “What other stuff?”
“The Times quoted an anonymous quote confirming you went to California with the congresswoman,” Deena says.
“Who the hell told them that?” I demand, glaring at the two of them, like it’s their fault. I know better, but I’d thought they had a plan. “Does anybody know? ”
“It could have been almost anybody, Mr. Vice President. A lot of people knew,” Toby says. The subtext is: I warned you this would get out.
“Are we in touch with her people?” I ask, because there’s no defense. Toby had warned me. Repeatedly . Now we need to come up with solutions.
“Yes. It sounds like they’re fielding questions from local media in Colorado as well.”
“Why is everyone so interested in who’s dating who,” I grumble. “This isn’t an episode of The Bachelor .”
Deena shifts, gaze darting away.
“What?” I demand, too sharply. Taking a breath, I tell myself not to be so defensive. This was bound to happen. But I’d hoped we could put it off longer.
She takes a deep breath. “Well, it sort of is, sir. The Bachelor. It’s all happening in real time and Americans get a vote. Plus, Americans are obsessed with royalty and you’re as close as we’ve got in this country right now. It’s like you’re choosing the next first lady and they get to weigh in by social media. It’s the perfect intersection for memes and media.”
A deep, dark hole opens up in my stomach. I take another deep breath and smell the cleaner recently used in the hall. It makes me a little sick.
“Let’s not be dramatic,” Toby cautions, like he’s talking me off a ledge. “Nobody’s getting kicked off the island, or whatever it is.”
“That’s Survivor ,” Deena says.
Toby shrugs. “We need to present a united message. That’s what this meeting is about.”
“Shouldn’t her people be a part of this?” I ask. I put a hand on the wall to hold myself up. Usually, I avoid being this reactive in front of my staff, but I need a moment. My entire career could be washing down the drain because I led with my feelings instead of my brain for a few weeks. A few weeks! How could I have let this go for weeks?
“Don’t spiral,” Toby snaps, as if he can tell what’s going on in my head. My staff is handling me. “Step one, we unify on our end. Step two, we coordinate with her office. Deena told them to turn down media requests for now.”
Deena nods. “I talked to people in both offices—here and Colorado. They sounded very organized.” She sounds surprised. “For Congress.”
“And have we heard from her? From Cindy?” I try to remember who has my phone. I pat my own pockets. “Did she call this morning?”
Toby and Deena shake their heads.
“OK,” I say, deciding to deal with this crisis one step at a time. “Let’s go do this meeting.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m agreeing to the strategy of “ignore and wait” for now.
“If we’re not ready to give the press a firm yes or no, we send the message it’s beneath us to answer,” Kaylee concludes. “Something else will come along to distract them. There’s not much mileage here for any serious journalism outlet. No scandal, no ethics violation. And then if, down the road, we want to confirm you’re together, we say it was a private matter and you weren’t ready to share with the world yet.”
“And that will work?” I want to believe the experts, but in my experience, trying to bury news makes everyone look in that direction.
“That will work for now,” Kaylee says firmly. “But they are still watching. You cannot chum the waters any further, Mr. Vice President.”
“So I don’t see her in person for a while.” I sigh, putting a hand over my eyes. Everything is impossible. How am I supposed to figure out if we are solid enough to go public if I can’t even spend time with her?
“And I don’t recommend inviting her to any more White House functions for now,” Kaylee adds.
“We shouldn’t punish her for being in a relationship with me,” I say, lowering my hand. “No one’s going to leave her off any lists she’s supposed to be on, right?”
The room falls silent. Kaylee, Toby, Deena and Maggie won’t meet my gaze.
“We can’t guarantee that,” Toby says, throwing himself on the bomb. “If it comes down to her or the White House…”
Holding up a hand, I stand. “Don’t say it.”
Cindy and I need to talk.
I can’t fight for us until I know there’s an us to fight for.