Chapter 30
thirty
Alex
Remember to smile. Smiling is what vice presidents do on late night talk shows. The host’s politics match mine, there’s a beautiful car sitting in front of us, and I have no reason—that people know about—not to smile.
The host, an amiable man known for his dad jokes, already teased me about how my hobbies—old cars and legal marijuana—make me some kind of “Ron Swanson but with real power.”
Instead of getting uptight about being reduced to one issue, I responded that Ron Swanson could move the cogs of city government much faster than a vice president can change the country.
“He moved at the speed of fiction,” I joked.
My Corvette is parked in the circle drive in front of the White House. Thor is curled up on the grass. The sun is out, but the humidity is low for once, so it is a nice day to be outside.
If only I was having more fun with this than I am. My team told me that I need to do more media to get Americans used to my presence and the idea of me as a leader. I’m going through the motions, uncertain I’ve got a clear runway toward a goal anymore. I don’t feel like a leader; I feel like roadkill.
“Communication strategy is about repeating the message,” Toby keeps saying, and I keep hoping that strategy will work on myself .
According to Toby, there’s some book coming out in which a former White House staffer refers to me as “the boy wonder” and it’s important to get out in front of the idea that I’m just Tim’s sidekick. More solo appearances, “more kicking ass in headlines like you did this week,” more personality , Toby had told me.
“Having hobbies makes me a man?” I’d asked.
“Having a cool car makes you Bat man,” Toby replied dryly.
Once Toby makes me laugh, it’s hard to disagree with him.
So here I am, filming a segment in which I climb behind the wheel for the first time in five years. The Secret Service is out in force, surrounding us although we’re on White House grounds and I’ve been warned not to hit the gas. I only have a few yards of driveway, so there’s little danger of me gunning it through security like some kind of attempted escape back to the real world.
Keep smiling. I smile as I climb in my car and the host climbs into the passenger seat, putting Thor on his lap. I visually check on Thor, who loves strangers and seems content enough to sit on one. I buckle my seatbelt and wait for my passenger to do the same.
“Safety first,” I say, mugging for the camera poked in my window. Another one is affixed to the dash. That glue better come off.
I start the engine and rev it a little for the sake of the show. The host laughs, joking, “Is that the engine or is she just happy to see you?”
“It’s been awhile.” I’m not allowed to drive on the open road as vice president. If I become president, I basically won’t be allowed to drive myself for the rest of my life. “It’s a real disincentive for the job,” I add.
“I’ll say!” the host agrees. “Driving like a maniac is as American as apple pie. Can you even be a true American without experiencing road rage?”
“Don’t get me wrong, flying through traffic in a motorcade is a perk, too,” I tack on, not wanting to complain too much and ruin my relatability on national television. Toby would kill me.
The host leans in. “Ever gotten up to anything in the back seat of one of those limos?”
I keep my smile lit. I absolutely don't want to relive one of my best personal moments as vice president on TV. “Let’s just say the other disincentive is the Secret Service is always watching,” I deflect, earning another easy laugh.
“Are we ready for this?” the host demands, shouting it out the open window like he’s at a NASCAR race. We’ve already gone over what the show wants from the segment, so I go through the motions.
When I put the car in neutral, it rolls forward slowly as the cameras follow it down the asphalt driveway away from the White House. For comedic effect, I bet the show adds the sound of a revving engine in post-production.
Inside the car, Thor gives a yip.
“That’ll put the wind in your hair,” the host says, straight-faced, as we inch forward. I laugh a little, because yes, my life is ridiculous.
Glancing at the rear view mirror, I expect to see a mix of TV production crew and Secret Service agents. What I see is Cindy Wight, wearing blue and standing with her hands on her hips amid a bunch of suits.
I hit the brakes, jerking us to an unexpected halt. I murmur an apology and climb out of the car, walking back to her. She meets me half-way between the car and the group of people watching.
“How did you get in?” I ask, ridiculously, because I don’t know how to ask what I’m thinking: Why are you here? Did you change your mind about us?
“I know the owners,” Cindy replies. It takes me a second to realize she’s being funny. She smiles at me, like everything between us is fine.
“Are you here for me?” I mean it as a question of fact, but it comes out painfully vulnerable. I look around. The cameras are still aimed at us, and likely still rolling. I lower my voice. “I’m in the middle of shooting.”
“I know, and I am,” she replies. She seems different: More like the Cindy that I first met here at the White House than the Cindy I’ve been dating. Sure of herself, her eyes on a goal. “Alex, are you going to become president?” she asks.
Both because of our surroundings and because she’s never asked me that question directly before, I hesitate. “I don’t know,” I reply, and then I decide to be honest. “I’d like to have a partner first.”
She smiles, with only a little surprise in it. “This country needs you.”
“This country can wait.” I mean it. If I have to wait a few more years to take this office, I will. There are other things in this world I need right now.
“Maybe you can have it all.”
I tilt my head at her. Something hopeful is bubbling between us, something I can’t examine yet. “Can I?”
She keeps smiling, like she knows something.
Behind her, the crowd is growing. The press is trickling out of the wing where they have offices under the briefing room. This whole conversation is likely being live-posted on social media along with photos of the two of us standing close together, clearly having a personal conversation. But I wouldn’t put this talk off for a world of bad optics.
I gesture at Cindy to follow me back to the car.
The host is standing on the other side of the Corvette. Thor runs up to Cindy as she approaches and she bends down to pick him up.
“Do you mind if we steal this back for a few minutes?” I ask the host, already sliding in on the driver’s side.
“Hi,” I hear Cindy saying, as she walks around to the other side. “I love your show.”
“I’m a big fan of yours, as well,” he replies. “I caught the video this morning.”
If she responds, I can’t hear it. She slides into the car beside me, putting Thor on her lap.
“What happened this morning?” I ask, after the host closes her door and steps away.
She glances at me and then at the camera on the dash. I grimace. I wonder if I can cover it up or mute it. Asking the crew to take it out seems like a big hassle that would cost me time when I feel so much urgency to have this conversation now.
She must see in my eyes that I don’t care if we’re still being watched. She puts Thor down in the foot well and turns to me in her seat. “I basically declared my love for you at a press conference,” she says.
Blinking, I’m trying to take this in on multiple levels. First, I can’t believe my staff didn’t already brief me. Second, I can’t believe the press didn’t brief me. Third, is she saying she loves me? Present tense?
“I love you, Alex,” she says, confirming it. “And I think, if we’re on the same page on that, and we’re honest about what we want, we can figure out the rest.”
The crazy mess buzzes around us—the people waiting to pounce in the driveway, the cameras, the White House and all the responsibility it represents, the tourists standing behind the fence down the driveway, aiming their phones at us. But Cindy’s eyes are focused on me and not any of that stuff. She’s right.
“I love you, too,” I say.
Her expression doesn’t change so much as settle, accepting this and our new reality. We gaze at each other, and then at the camera on the dash, mutually agreeing not to give the whole world a glimpse of us making out. We’ve already given the world enough pieces of us.
“Take a ride with me?” I ask, quietly. I put all the hope I can in the words, along with all the understanding that the future will be a winding road. She puts on her seat belt. Safety first, even for a leap of faith. I grin.
I turn the key and roll over the engine. I see the Secret Service come running toward us in the rear view mirror. I rev the engine, like we’re a couple of rebels instead of people who’ve carefully weighed this decision.
We take off for a very short drive down the White House driveway and into our future. Together.