Chapter 28
twenty-eight
Cindy
I take the few steps toward the red and blue balls on their rack by the other wall, looking for a distraction. “We should bowl a round, shouldn’t we?”
Alex turns and follows me with his eyes. “Sure,” he says, voice turning up at the end like it’s a question.
What does he expect? We broke up. Even if he’s uncertain about what direction he wants to go, I’m certain our directions are different. I need independence; he needs a loyal soldier. Right?
Unwilling to consider that I might be wrong, I shrug. It’s too late. “What color do you want?”
“I have my own,” he says, pointing at the bag on the floor by the door.
Smiling to myself at this display of nerdiness, I nod. “Great. I’ll be red.”
So we bowl. Alex is bad at it but I watch him throw gutter balls repeatedly before I offer to show him a few tips. He waves me off .
“Tim tried to show me before; I can’t be taught. It’s my one weakness,” he says, self-deprecatingly. “Bad bowler.”
I raise my eyebrows, trying not to soften in the face of cuteness. “I can think of a few others, so maybe we better work on the one that can be fixed in an afternoon.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fiiine.” But he smiles a little when I wrap my arms around him from behind to show him how to move his shoulder and hips and when to release the ball.
“OK, don’t get your hopes up,” he says, but he does it exactly how I showed him and earns a spare. He holds his hands up in victory, face incredulous. I laugh; I can’t help it.
“You’re welcome,” I say dryly. “That’ll probably make the difference for a voter some day.”
Shoulders bowed, he nods. “My one priority,” he murmurs.
“Isn’t it?” I keep telling myself I shouldn’t poke at him, but I have nothing else to do in here: It’s bowling or harangue the vice president. And he seems so unhappy, I can’t help wanting to fix it. And being angry that I care.
“Well,” he sighs and sits down on the couch opposite where I’m leaning against the credenza. “I don’t think you get where I am without being a little single-minded about your ambitions. But there are other things I want, too.” After a pause, he adds: “I wanted you.”
The room is quiet, except for the mechanical humming and the sound of our breathing.
“Just not enough,” I suggest.
“Not enough for you ,” he replies promptly.
“Not enough to make time for me,” I snap back.
“Not enough to…” he trails off, ending the pointless competition. He sighs. “No, that’s fair. I didn’t make enough time because I wasn’t sure how much time to make. I wasn’t sure how long it would last, or what it required, so I didn’t dedicate calendar space to it when I should have. And if it’s not on my ca lendar, I feel like I’m messing up—shirking other responsibilities—if I do something.”
I nod, wrapping my hands around the edge of the wooden credenza so it digs into my palms. It’s what I suspected, but more than I expected him to confirm. Not that it makes a difference. “And the bill…?” I look pointedly at the folder, still on the couch beside Alex.
Running a hand through his hair, he asks, “Well, I tried , didn’t I?”
“You did the bare minimum!” she snaps. “You don’t care how it passes, only that it does.”
“That’s politics!”
“That’s cowardice!”
We fall silent again, the harshness between us unnatural.
Then, because it doesn’t matter if I’m vulnerable now, I offer, “I wanted you, too.”
Silently, he nods, looking at the floor. We are silent for a beat, except for the humming from down the lane.
“It’s hard to build trust,” I continue, even though I should leave it alone. “At our age, in our jobs. I’m not sure it’s possible. And without trust, everything is a potential betrayal.”
He says nothing, but sits up and leans back on the couch. He straightens both legs of his pants, one at a time, and I follow his hands as he does it. He lifts his head.
“I’m sorry for the many tiny betrayals, then,” he says quietly, meeting my eyes. It’s almost too intimate, the way he’s looking at me, when too much sits between us to ever be this close to him again.
My body tensing, I hesitate. I know what I want in this moment, but I’m not sure it’s the smart thing. It means breaking down my shields, admitting to vulnerability. At a time when it might be too late. But we’d ruined everything by letting smart become the enemy of going after what we wanted .
“Are there cameras in here?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” he says, glancing around.
I push off the credenza and take the steps to the couch so I can slide my legs on either side of his, straddling him. His head turns back to mine, suddenly very close, and his hands wrap around my waist, one palm resting at the small of my back.
“I still want you,” I say. “I never stopped.”
Then I kiss him. For that moment, it’s like we’re back in California, standing in the golden sunshine on the beach amid the soft music of the waves. He tastes like spearmint gum and smells like spice. His lap is warm and his shoulders are hard against my hands.
This time, I don’t want him to take control, to roll me under his body and have his way with me. I flip his tie over one shoulder and unbutton his shirt enough to slip my hand inside, then under his undershirt, over his warm chest.
I’m in awe of the fact I get to feel this—the vice president’s heart, buried under layers of clothes and protocol—and he lets me. One of his hands is on my back and the other is at his side, like he understands I’m driving on this particular journey.
I kiss him again, an unhurried meeting of our lips like we have all the time in the world to explore one another, again or for real this time. We spend what could be an hour like that, making out slowly, like adults who care about each other rather than frantic like teenagers. It feels like it could be the first time we’re together. His body is still new to me. The way the pulse in his neck beats and the sharpness of his breath against my neck are still surprising.
It changes nothing. But it means everything.
“I meant it,” he whispers, the first thing he’s said since I kissed him. “When I told you I loved you.” His eyes catch mine and I can see almost to the beating heart of him, to the sincerity at his core .
“I know,” I say. “Me too.”
Someone knocks on the door.
I jump, feeling the tent in his pants as I do, and meet Alex’s eyes, panicked.
“Just a minute,” he calls out. I carefully slide off him.
“Sir,” Ted says from outside the door.
“OK,” I call back, once my clothes are adjusted and Alex has taken off his jacket and covered his lap. The room smells like arousal. But the Secret Service has probably seen it all.
Ted opens the door and pokes his head inside, zeroing in on Alex, who is rumpled but covered, shirt once again buttoned. “Sir, the president sends his apologies but you’re needed in the Situation Room.”
“Thanks,” he says, and leaps to his feet. He visually checks in with me, and I nod, because what else can I do? National security comes first. “I guess we managed to deflect a serious conversation again,” he says. And then he’s gone, out the door and possibly out of my life. He’s right that we had our chance and did nothing with it.
There isn’t anything I can do about it. I can’t chase him through the halls of the White House. I’ve reached my limit on vulnerability for one day.
“Ma’am? Whenever you’re ready, I can lead you out.” A female agent, now standing at the open door, is much more put together than I am right now. I hear the sound of people down the hall laughing. It’s just another day in the office for people working here.
I nod and sit down to put on my shoes.
He’s not what I need. I repeat it to myself as I’m following the agent through the White House toward the exit, thinking about how Alex went from disheveled on the couch with me to some national crisis in the West Wing without batting an eye. About how he told me in so many ways, even if it wasn’t always verbal, that he wants me as much as this job he’s worked for for years.
The farther I walk away from him, the more my body floods with adrenaline.
Nothing about this is right. I’m giving up what I want for the sake of a goal that I can’t say for certain was ever out of reach when we were together.
I imagine running back through the White House to find Alex. Breaking into the Situation Room. Getting killed by some Secret Service agent. This isn’t a rom-com, Cindy, this is real life. I might know what I want, but sometimes, wanting—and even needing—are not enough.