Chapter 27
twenty-seven
Alex
I’m mid-air, about halfway to Atlanta, when Deena tells me Kaylee is asking for a few minutes of my time.
“Is this about the vice pig thing again?” I ask her. I’m trying to make sense of Georgia’s election law because the topic is bound to come up at the state Capitol.
“Yes, sir,” Deena says, hovering by my desk. “A lot of think pieces are being written. One published in The Guardian today, so it’s gone a bit international.”
Tired of this topic, I rub my forehead. “They think I’m a sexist pig in the UK now?”
“Well...the theme is generally that calling out sexism doesn’t change anything, even at the highest levels of power.”
The nuances of legislation in Georgia are making my head hurt so I close the folder. “Has Cindy said anything to clarify the speech?”
Deena grimaces and I guess her answer before she says it because it’s clear she doesn’t want to disappoint me. “No, sir. Radio silence. ”
I hesitate before asking, “And we haven’t received any calls from her today, right?”
“No, sir.” Deena’s eyes fall to the floor.
Of course. Someone would have told me before now if Cindy called me back. She doesn’t want to talk to me; she made that clear by hanging up on me yesterday.
I’d thought it might have been an impulse decision, that she would take it back, but her silence now that she’s had time to think about it proves it’s how she really feels. She doesn’t want me. She’s tired of all the baggage I bring into a relationship.
We didn’t have enough time to build trust before we were tested.
“OK. Put her on.” I straighten in my chair. Time to focus on work, not another failed attempt at a personal life. “Hi, Kaylee,” I say to the phone. Deena points to the door but I wave at her to stay.
Until recently, I’d rarely talked to the White House’s press department. Deena and Maggie coordinate with them, but in general, the president’s messaging strategy doesn’t require the vice president’s input. “I’m about ready for this thing to be shut down, can you do that?” I ask.
“I can, sir,” she says. She sounds like she hoped for this question. “There are two ways to do it. One is a full-court press involving you and the congresswoman.”
Cindy already made it clear that we are not on the same page. So much for a united front. “And the other?”
“The other is less polite,” she says. “I suggest I make a statement the next time I’m asked about it and then we say nothing else. Similar to what you did when they came after your dog, sir.”
The dog statement created a media circus that lasted a week—a century in media time. But my strategy isn’t working, so might as well put it in the hands of the experts.
“Great. Let’s do that. ”
Kaylee hesitates. “Are you sure, sir? We can take control of the narrative, but we do run the risk of looking aggressive on an issue we’re not currently highlighting.”
I’m done with how careful I’ve been the last few weeks, with letting things develop at their own speed and not pushing for what I wanted. It landed me in this mess and lost me Cindy. Now it’s threatening my actual job performance—my ability to support Tim—and I need to take care of it. “Which way distracts less from the president’s agenda, staying silent or addressing it?”
“At this point, addressing it is the best way to shut it down, sir,” Kaylee answers.
“Great,” I say, drawing a line in the air. I meet Deena’s eyes. “I didn’t become vice president without being aggressive. Do it.”
Three hours later, I finish my speech about infrastructure to a round-table in Atlanta and am shaking hands when Deena sidles up and murmurs, “She did it, sir.”
“How did it go?”
“There will be some follow-up questions, but I think the media will drop it now they have an answer. Assuming the congresswoman doesn’t respond. Should we talk to her about it?”
Smiling and nodding at the man in front of me, I tell her, “Do whatever needs to be done, Deena. From now on, I’m focused on our agenda. No more distractions.”
The press pool waiting for me outside the room in the state Capitol didn’t get the message, though. The pooler for the day—the person who will write up notes from the day’s events to distribute to the entire White House press corps by email—asks: “Was Congresswoman Wight only interested in publicity, sir?”
I nearly stumble and give her a reaction to the question, it’s aimed with such precision at my thoughts. But I manage to wave her off without saying anything and climb into my vehicle heading back to the airport. I ask Deena to pull up the White House press briefing from earlier that day and watch Kaylee respond to the correspondent asking, “Does the White House have any response to accusations that the vice president is sexist?”
“What are you basing that accusation on, Justin?” Kaylee asks from the podium.
The camera switches to Justin, a dark-bearded man who reads from his phone: “Congresswoman Cindy Wight’s viral speech on the House Floor that led to the trending hashtag #VicePigoftheUnitedStates.”
“The congresswoman is welcome to use her platform to drum up publicity for any cause that is important to her, but the White House is not working with her on that particular agenda,” Kaylee responds calmly. “That’s all I’m going to say on the matter, let’s move on.”
I hand the phone back to Deena. “Did she shut it down?”
“I think so, sir. I’m seeing a few pieces headlined ‘White House addresses charges of sexism,’ but...oh wait.” Deena is reading off her BlackBerry. She pauses and starts typing on her iPhone. “ HuffPo has a quote in their story from the congresswoman’s office. Well, not a quote, a clarification. ‘A spokesperson for Congresswoman Wight clarified that she was not referring to the vice president as sexist in her speech.’”
“Nice footnote,” I grumble, watching the police motorcycles outside the window. “Damage already done.”
“Yes, not much interest in clarification notes,” Deena agrees. “Sorry, sir.”
“It’s fine. They clearly weren’t in a hurry to clarify, either. I guess they liked the publicity too much.”
Deena, wisely, doesn’t agree or disagree, or point out that we told Cindy’s people to stay quiet on the topic. She hands me my messages, including a call from the Claytons—scavengers—and one from my mother that says, “I have several ideas for a replacement date for your sister’s wedding in August.” I crumple it up in my fist. A break-up so public my mother would hear about it is one of the major reasons I’ve avoided dating in the first place. Her judgment is a stand-in for the American people.
It stays silent in the SUV as my motorcade flies through lights on the way to the airport, where Air Force Two is waiting to take me back to Washington. I’m looking forward to getting home to Thor. Maybe I’ll cook, using the ingredients acquired for meals I’d planned to eat with Cindy. They’re all going bad rapidly, much like our relationship.
Probably won’t, though. I hate cooking for one.
Cindy
One does not simply turn down an invitation to the White House from the first lady. Even though I want to.
But I spend the whole ride wishing I could have come up with a polite way to ask “will he be there?” Having an ex who is one of the most famous people in the world—in my world, at least—is going to be difficult. And that’s while he’s vice president. The future, a few years out, is a nightmare.
All those loving feelings that always flamed out in my past broken relationships haven’t gone away this time. When I see him, even on the cover of a newspaper casually displayed in my office, I still long for him. I want to know what he’s really thinking when he frowns on TV. I want to run a soothing hand down his back.
I’m not in a hurry to have a final conversation with him because I don’t expect closure. I’m always going to spot him somewhere or have to deal with him and wish, at least a little bit, that I was a slightly different person who could have accepted what he offered. Who could have made a romantic deal that worked for both of us. It’s not solely my fault that things fell apart between us, but I could have tried harder to save us. I’m always going to beat myself up for my negotiation skills failing when I really needed them. And for second-guessing every opportunity that came my way.
Parking near the White House isn’t worth the stress, so I Uber. The mile from the Capitol to the White House still feels long, given my thoughts are spread out over the many years ahead of me. It won’t always hurt quite like this. But I will always have the memory of this hurt to haunt me.
I walk in through the gate for people who have business in the White House, go through security and get a day pass. The near-July sun glares down at me and my silk shirt is growing damp under the sleeves. A member of the first lady’s staff is waiting. But so are a few members of the press.
They’re standing outside the briefing room on the drive, two men smoking and another woman chatting with them. They all magically pull recorders out of thin air when they clock me walking up the drive.
“Congresswoman, did you break up with the vice president? Are you here to see him?”
“Representative Wight, do these rumors hurt your chances of passing the marijuana bill?”
“Congresswoman, is it more effective to work with your party’s leadership than with outside progressive groups?”
Holding up one hand and smiling politely, I walk past them without responding. How long will it be like this? What an indignity to break up with someone and then have to answer constant questions about him; it’s like I’m facing a barrage of my own mother.
“Did you try hard enough, sweetheart?” my mother had called to ask, after reading the media reports last week .
“No, Mother, I showed him my crazy too early,” I’d thought but didn’t say. I resent that my mother’s voice is the one in my head, wondering what I could have done better.
Anita Meyer meets me inside the foyer and smiles, taking my hand. “I thought you might need a friend who understands the mess you’re going through.”
A deep breath blows through me at the unexpected words. “Oh. That’s so kind.” I’d expected to never hear from these people again, except in a professional capacity.
The other woman smiles. “Perhaps a tour of the White House while we talk? Or would you like some tea first?”
“I’d love to walk and talk,” I agree, nervous about sitting down to questions.
“Leah can put your bag somewhere safe for now, if you like,” Anita says, gesturing at the aide still standing nearby.
“Thanks,” I agree, handing over my large purse. I keep my cell phone. Silly, but habit. What call am I going to get that’s more important than this appointment?
Anita shows me the East Wing, where her office is located. Its decor is different from what I’ve seen of the West Wing or in pictures of the Oval Office. Anita used softer colors and high contrast, like an arch of burnt orange painted behind her desk. We chat idly about preparations for July 4, when the president will speak at the Lincoln Memorial before the fireworks set off over the National Mall.
She shows me the movie theater room, which used to be a cloakroom. It’s all red and gold with an old-school vibe, like screenings might cost a quarter.
“You should come watch a Zack Ryder movie with me sometime,” the first lady says with a smile. “My husband does not appreciate my appreciation of that man.”
“He’s very charismatic,” I agree. “I wasn’t romantically involved with him,” I add hurriedly, in case the first lady saw the press.
Anita Meyer raises her eyebrows. “I certainly hope not, given the way Alex looks when he talks about you.”
I swallow. “How does he look?” I ask faintly. “Did he look,” I correct myself.
“Like a man who knows what he wants.” The other woman turns and leads me out of the theater. “I’ve never seen a movie star look like that in real life.”
It’s not true, I’m too polite to say to the first lady. Alex might know what he wants—but it isn’t me. Not the real me. Not the difficult woman who demanded too much of his time and effort.
The other woman pauses, like she senses my doubts.
“We’ve only known each other five months. It’s not enough time to know...anything,” I say.
The smaller woman assesses my face. I wonder what she sees, because Anita smiles and says, “Oh, I think you know.”
Mercifully, she turns away after cutting me to the bone with that observation. It’s too late now.
“I want to show you the bowling alley,” the first lady continues, leading the way. “There are two White House bowling alleys. The larger one is in the executive building across the street where the vice president’s ceremonial office is. But we have our own private, one-lane alley downstairs.” She throws a small smirk over her shoulder. “For when you can’t sleep and want to bowl alone.”
Because I don’t have another choice, I follow. But I’m bracing myself to find out how much worse the comments about Alex will get before the tour is over.
Ale x
I dislike bowling, mainly because I’m not good at it, but if the president asks you to bowl with him, you don’t say no. I carry my bowling bag—yes, I keep one with my shoes and ball in it at EEOB, because it’s not the first time Tim wanted a meeting while “sporting”—across to the White House along with a copy of the bill the Senate Majority Leader sent me. I need Tim to sign off on the messaging strategy coming from the White House if we’re going to unify the party position on the bill.
Toby handed me the folder. “Are you sure you want to back this language, Mr. Vice President?”
Surprised by this unexpected show of conscience, I stared at him. “We want the bill to pass, don’t we?”
“The core bill is broadly popular. The provisions the congresswoman wants to include are worthwhile and probably can’t pass alone. Now’s the time to push them if you want them to pass.” He paused and cleared his throat, perhaps embarrassed to be caught advocating a cause. “Besides, people might turn on you if they think you’re stabbing your ex-girlfriend in the back.”
I had to lean on the edge of my desk for a moment. I wasn’t stabbing her in the back; Cindy knew all along the Senate might change her language. But Toby, a master of optics, could pick up emotional signals like reading a heat map. If he thought Cindy would be hurt, she would. That’s not what I wanted, but I was driving down a dead-end road on this bill.
“I’ll see what the president says,” I murmured before I left, kicking the can down the road like any pure-blooded politician would do.
“Mr. President,” I sigh now, meeting Tim in the north hall, where we can access the basement. “Must you be such a boomer?”
Tim smirks. “You’re only insulting me because you’re grumpy. And you’re only grumpy because you let a very simple situation become very messy.” Not pulling any punches, then .
“Thanks, that’s the title of my memoir,” I grouse. “If you’re done sorting out my personal life, I brought some work with me.” I lift the folder in the hand not holding the heavy ball bag.
“We can discuss that later,” Tim says, waving me off as we proceed deeper under the north portico. I notice he’s not carrying his own ball.
“Wait, is this an ambush? Did you seriously bring me down here to talk about my love life?” I look around at the Secret Service agents tailing us, as if they’re going to commiserate. They must know how intensely stubborn their boss is, and prone to using his position to meddle in other people’s personal lives. Ted raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. He would never say it, but he probably agrees with Tim that I need some kind of intervention.
“I’m not 13,” I continue, unwillingly following because I can’t throw a tantrum and abandon Tim in the White House basement. It’s part of my job description to follow wherever the president goes. “I don’t need you to sit me down and tell me how to treat a lady.”
“I’m happy to hear you know how to treat a lady, Alex,” Tim says dryly. He pauses outside the door to Nixon’s hobby room. “Personally, I like to handle my lady face-to-face, not through a spokesperson.”
I pause, because Tim’s got me there.
“It just...happened,” I say. It’s not sufficient. I should have tried again to talk to Cindy myself, even if it meant taking a motorcade down Pennsylvania Avenue to her office. I let other things—important things, though!—stand in the way. And then our relationship became a snowball rolling downhill, melting all the way, until there was no substance left to hold onto.
Whatever had been between us—the “us” we were building—had been such a fragile thing. Between my job and my ambition and my personal fears, I didn’t have the time needed to nurture it.
“It is what it is, Tim,” I tell him, partly speaking to myself. “Relationships are all about timing. Circumstances aren’t right for this one.”
“Circumstances?” Tim cocks his head, his hand on the door. “I think I can help with that.” He opens the door and gestures me in ahead of him.
I enter the room and spot Anita. It’s unusual, but Anita has joined us for a round of bowling before. She’s walking toward me, distracting me at first from seeing that Cindy is in the room with her.
Cindy’s wearing tight gray pants and a striped shirt with loose sleeves and a bow at the neck that matches her striped high heels. Her dark hair is down and shining in the overhead lights. I stop short. The room is small and I’m closer to her than I’ve been in weeks.
Anita pats my shoulder as she keeps walking, around me, joining Tim at the door.
“We thought we’d leave the two of you alone to share a constructive activity,” Anita says. Tim puts an arm around her waist. “It seems like you might have a few things to talk about.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” says Tim, directing Anita out the door.
“Guys…” I protest, following them. Ted stands in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, blocking my way. “I answer to the president and I cannot let you leave until you ‘work things out.’”
“Seriously?” Cindy says, approaching from behind. Her heels click on the wood floor.
“Seriously,” Ted says, without smiling. He does, indeed, seem serious. He nods politely at us both and closes the door.
I stare at it, alone in the narrow room with Cindy. She smells like oranges. I remind myself to keep my distance. We’re not together anymore. Despite myself, a traitorous bubble of hope lifts my stomach. I turn to her. “What are you doing here?”
“The first lady invited me on a tour,” she says. “I didn’t realize it ended with being locked in the basement.”
“What are we supposed to do?” I ask. I cannot be in this room with her without saying or doing or trying something that will make our situation worse. I have to escape.
The room is tidy. And narrow—a mere few feet across. There are two blue plush couches on a narrow band of carpet on one side of the room and a wooden credenza on the other under multiple TVs and next to a rack of balls, all stamped “the President’s House.” Taking up most of the room is the single bowling lane and I fixate on that.
“Maybe we can get out that way.” I put down my bag and the folder and half slide, half walk down the lane to the pins. I carefully kneel and try to peer around them to see if there’s a back room on the other side.
Cindy curses softly behind me. “This is how you’re beheaded. I don’t want to watch. This is going to make for some awkward history books.”
I can’t tell what’s behind the pins and she’s right that I shouldn’t try to crawl through the machine. I stand up and walk back to her, digging in my pockets. I don’t have my phone on me, as usual. I can’t believe how calm she is. My insides are spinning. Her perfume is overwhelmingly delicious—it’s warm, somehow, like touching her skin. “Do you want to be stuck in here?”
She frowns at me. “I’m sure they’ll let us out in a few minutes. Half an hour, tops. You’ll be needed somewhere by then.”
“My whole job is to support the president,” I reply, voice rising. “If he thinks I can best support him in here, he can keep me here as long as he wants to. No one’s going to ask questions. ”
Cindy stares at me, putting both hands on her hips as she considers this. “Well, someone might notice if the president kidnaps a congresswoman who has criticized him in the past. Eventually.”
“Do you have your phone? Call someone. Text Tim. Tell him we sorted it out and he can let us go.”
She stares at me. “I don’t have the president’s number in my cell phone.” She pulls it out of her pocket and waves it.
“I don’t have it memorized,” I admit, internally kicking myself. Realistically, the president doesn’t answer his own phone any more than I do. I have some choice words for Tim, though. Someday when I write my tell-all book, Tim’s mean streak deserves a full chapter.
“I don’t have a signal,” she says. “Looks like I can’t live-tweet this experience.”
Humor, when the scaffolding of our relationship is still in shambles around us. I glare at her. “Very funny.”
“I thought so.” The smile falls off her face. “Can you really not handle the idea of talking to me?”
I flop down on one of the soft blue couches. It feels like velvet. There’s a landline phone on the round side table and I pull it toward me, considering.
“It’s not that,” I say. “There’s not much left to say.” It’s not true, of course. I want to say plenty to her, but I’m afraid. To avoid her pointing this out, I add, “And it’s completely inappropriate of them.”
Picking up the receiver, I put it to my ear. Dead. Of course it is. “This has got to be some kind of security breach,” I mutter, dropping the receiver with a clatter back into its cradle.
“The Secret Service is right outside the door. Unless I kill you with my bare hands, I think you’re safe.” Her hands are on her hips again.
“Is that a possibility?” I ask .
“I’m considering it,” she replies.
Gaze on my clasped hands between my legs, I nod. “I guess I deserve that.”
She drops her hands and sits on the other couch, keeping several feet between us. “But you don’t plan to do anything about it.”
I scan the room again. The machine over the pins at the end of the lane hums a little, but otherwise the room is quiet. “What can I do?” I ask. “We aren’t...weren’t on the same page. We didn’t work out. Nobody’s fault.”
She doesn’t say anything. At least we agree on that.
She picks up the folder I dropped on the couch and flips it open.
“Don’t…” I say, but trail off because it’s too late. Her eyes have narrowed when she raises them to me again.
“You’re throwing your support behind the watered-down bill?”
I sigh, letting my shoulders slump forward. She has every reason to be pissed. It is a back-stabbing thing to do, even if it’s just politics. “I was going to ask Tim about it. About that scenario.”
“You would torpedo our coalition.”
“The legislation would still pass. Your legislation.”
“Shut up,” she snaps, tossing the folder aside. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were anything more than another politician clawing your way to the top. You don’t want a partner, you want a...a supporting actor, a woman who would be happy to play a blank slate for your agenda.”
I don’t raise my eyes, because there’s no way to defend myself from that charge. Is it true? It’s possible I don’t know how to want anything else. “Hey, don’t knock it,” I say. “That’s the role I play right now. ”
Her eyes are on me. “That’s not who I am,” she says. “That’s not who I want to be.”
“Well, me either,” I snap, frustrated. I stand and start to pace in front of her, because that’s the only space. “How am I ever supposed to be something greater when my role means I’m not supposed to make any waves?”
She puts a leg out in front of me, stopping my movement. “Your boss is a year into his second term. Who ever said you’re not allowed to make waves? Your days of standing quietly in the background are over. You’re in a new chapter now.”
I turn toward her. It’s an off-hand answer when the situation is much more complicated. But her gaze is steady. She’s not being glib. She means it. She sees me.
“You’ve got to know what direction you want to go before you start those waves moving,” she continues. “That’s your problem.”
She appears much less agitated than she did a second ago, but I’m the opposite.
“I know what direction I want to go,” I reply, gesturing around us at the White House with my hands. Obviously .
“But you want more than that,” she says. “I know you do. You want to be remembered as more than just a portrait in a museum. You want more than power. If that was all you wanted, you would have had this bill up for a vote by now. Without me.”
“So now you’re criticizing me for not being ruthless enough?” I run both hands through my hair. I don’t know what she wants . Did she expect me to take control of our relationship, like I did in the bedroom? In the bedroom, she told me exactly what she wanted first. I’d executed her blueprint, a task I’m familiar with.
“No, I-” she stumbles briefly and then continues, “I want you to find your own voice and use it. I don’t want you to use me to make waves for you.”
What I want is to knock my head against the wall, for all the good this conversation is doing us.