4. Lottie
four
Lottie
I press the phone between my ear and shoulder while scrolling through three calendars on my desktop screen.
Although the phone is always busy, today proves to be another level of inundation as people keep demanding interviews.
My mom has a personal calendar and another for work.
Then I cross-reference those with what I have available on my calendar, since I’m her executive assistant.
Though I don’t know why I bother with my calendar at this point.
I have no life beyond her work. Aside from a rare dental cleaning, my schedule is pretty much her schedule.
“Yes, ma’am, I can schedule an interview on Monday at one.
” I click the speaker icon and set the phone next to me.
I type so fast my fingers blur. If I had one superpower, typing would be it.
I love the clicky-clicks of the keys. “Yes, Senator Halloway looks forward to meeting you. Thank you for calling.”
I end the call and shove a handful of plain M&Ms in my mouth from the bag I have stashed by my monitor right as my mom strides past my doorway. Her Jimmy Choo heels click with purpose as she rushes down the hall between two staffers. She doesn’t even glance into my office to say hello.
She never does.
Mom assumes I’ve got everything under control.
For the most part, I do. I’m excellent at smiling through the drama.
I’m the senator’s daughter, the one who absolutely must uphold a “perfect image,” as Mom puts it.
Which means, not dating anyone she doesn’t approve of, which is about 99.
99 percent of the population. That brings me back to the main reason my calendar is forever empty of personal events.
Well, that and the guy I want to date is halfway across the United States…
Leaving her calendars open, I dramatically close my tab, because really, there’s no point in leaving it open.
I shift my focus to the little window next to my cubicle, my mind restless.
There might as well be bars on it to match my current mood.
I know better than to let her know I’m daydreaming about another life while I’m at work.
I’ve already been caught once doodling goats on government sticky notes.
That resulted in a twenty-minute lecture.
“If you want to draw your goat things, do it on your own time,” she hissed. “Not in a federal office.”
What she didn’t know was that I wasn’t just drawing.
I like to call it my scheduled dissociating, and it’s likely the single activity that allows me to stay sane.
I want a new life.
The problem is, I don’t even know what that life looks like, because I’ve always done what my mom says is best—and my new life definitely doesn’t involve listening to her.
I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but somewhere in the last few years I’ve become disabled in my own thinking.
I get so anxious when it comes to making decisions that I let her take control, which she loves.
I hate it here, but I can’t see a way out.
Not when the public is so invested in my family’s business.
Until my mom gets out of politics, I’m sort of stuck here too.
The closest thing I have to an escape is sneaking outside on my lunch breaks, where I race through the city park like I’m starving for air.
Maybe I am.
The horrible part is I always come back.
My watch buzzes. I check the text and groan.
Dad: Gate’s busted again. Goats are loose.
Of course they are.
They hate their pen. Just like me. Maybe that’s why I have so much patience with them.
With rolling grass, a picture-perfect red barn, and a flower garden my mom pretends she tends for photo ops, they much prefer roaming free over the hills.
I haven’t given up on them yet.
They may be a tad feral, but I know they’re still trainable.
Toast is my sweet baby, and he only responds to my voice.
I got lucky enough to bottle-feed him when he was little.
Not that him losing his mama was lucky, but me getting to be his nanny was.
Then there’s Cinnamon, the only female and a real easy keeper.
She’s hardly any trouble. Well, unless the other two pressure her. She’s not totally innocent.
Lastly, there’s Crunch. Let’s call him the instigator. Together they make the Cinnamon, Toast, Crunch trio. Yes, it sounds cute, but it turns out it’s not. It’s actually a giant, throbbing headache. But they are my headache and, oddly enough, I love them. I text back:
Tell Crunch if he keeps running away, I’m going to lose my job from leaving work so many times.
Dad replies with a single photo of Crunch standing proudly in the middle of my mom’s prized flower garden with a mouthful of something he shouldn’t be eating.
I snort-laugh loudly. Two seconds later, my mom pops her head in my doorway, and she snaps her fingers at me.
“Lottie, decorum, please. Snorting is gross.”
“It was a goat photo,” I whisper with a small shoulder shrug. She’s usually a control freak, but not this bad. She’s never popped her head randomly into my office to snap at me.
“Decorum,” she repeats as she wags her perfectly manicured nail at me.
Swallowing, I wait for her to leave, which doesn’t take long.
She never gives me more than a couple seconds of her time.
The moment her heels click away, I sag back in my chair.
My attention returns to my phone, where there’s a notification from a news app.
It’s a clip of me and Mom shaking hands with the people she met yesterday—the heiresses of some drugstore chain who donated a lot of money to her campaign. Mom is happy. I look happy.
I tap on the photo and zoom in on my smile, which I can barely tell is fake. I appear mostly normal. Absolutely nothing like the girl who crawls under fences to drag a goat by its horns while lecturing it about manners.
Or the girl who daydreams about July.
And the man I shouldn’t miss.
I close the notification before my heart gets an idea. Because I know what Mom would say. You need to date Ivy League, not hockey league. He’ll ruin the image we’ve built. Then he’ll destroy your whole life, not to mention you’ll be left broken-hearted and poor with no career.
Swiveling in my chair, I make sure my back is toward the door in case someone walks by.
They don’t need to see my forlorn expression.
This is a nice life for someone else. Sighing, I start plotting how I’m going to fix that fence when I get home.
Nothing is safe with Crunch around. He needs a barricade.
I push my lower lip out, deciding that might not be such a bad idea.
I’m pretty good at making those.
I already have one around my heart.
A shuffle in my doorway pulls my attention. I smile when I see it’s not my mom. “Hey, Brett.”
His knock on the doorframe hits the same time our eyes meet. “Your mom is sending me out for coffees. Want to walk with me?”
“Coffee sounds good.” My reply is automatic as I search for an excuse.
He’s given me the creeps ever since our weird half date.
Sure, it was years ago, but the memories still haunt me.
My attention snaps back to my phone, and I pick it up like I’m offering evidence.
“I better not. My goats got loose again. If I don’t show up to help and at least fix the gate, my dad will find a reason to make them permanently disappear. ”
His lips curve into a teasing smile. “Oh, Crunch is at it again.”
“I guess.” I stand, slide my computer off my desk as I shut it, and stuff it into my computer bag. I take a moment to sling it over my shoulder. When he doesn’t move even a toe out of my doorway, I figure something is up. “So, I’m headed in the opposite direction, but we can walk out together.”
“Yeah, I’d like that.” He’s still staring at me. My eye twitches as I resist rolling my eyes, and we fall into step together, heading down the long hallway.
“How was working on the speeches committee today?” I ask after the silence gets cringe.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” His tone drops to an almost inaudible level, and I’m forced to glance at his mouth and resort to lipreading. “That wasn’t the speech committee. That was PR cover-up.”
“Cover-up for what?” Nervous bubbles fizzle in my gut. There always seems to be some reporter falsely accusing my mom of something, and I never get used to the feeling of being on guard.
“From yesterday …” His words trail off before he interrupts himself. “You seriously didn’t hear about it? It’s been all over social media.”
My eyes bulge as I struggle to keep my voice concealed while we pass the last few offices in the hall.
“I haven’t heard a word. The phone has been ringing off the hook with requests for meetings…
” It’s my turn for the words to trail off as it suddenly makes sense.
Something disastrous went down. Hence all the phone calls. I rush out, “What happened this time?”
Slowing his steps as we reach the exit, he pushes the door wide open, letting me pass first before following behind. As soon as it closes, he slides his phone screen toward me. “Why don’t you just watch?”
The video from yesterday’s donor meeting loads.
It’s the same photo I’d seen with my mom and me shaking hands with her new donors.
I hadn’t realized there was drama surrounding it.
My chest tightens. What if it’s something I did?
That explains why my mom was snapping at me.
My hand trembles as I tap the screen to press play.
The logistics crew is running around the stage, taking down my mom’s banner.
I walk offstage. Instead of following me, my mom strides back to the podium and grabs her notes.
One of the crew members looks at her and says, “Hey, did you hear about the Mapleton hockey player who made the Stars roster?”
She dramatically throws her arms in the air like she’s beyond exasperation. “Yes, I’m a senator, but I swear, if I have to pretend to care about hockey, I’m moving to Florida.” Her lips barely move, like she’s trying to mumble, but her mic is still clipped to her collar—and it picks up everything.
Oh, no!
She doesn’t know her mic is hot. My hand flies to cover my mouth, suppressing a scream, and I keep watching in horror.
“They have hockey in Florida too.” The crew member chuckles. “Anyway, just an FYI—it might be good PR for you to tweet your congratulations, since it looks like they’ll be doing a lot of the same public events you are during Fourth of July week.”
“Ugh, seriously? The last group of people I need to be seen associating with is hockey players. My daughter’s goats have better discipline than half those guys—” The mic squeals and cuts out as someone from the crew must have finally realized it was on, but it’s too late.
My mom’s eyes grow wide—cartoon-wide—and my jaw drops.
This is horrid!
And to think she was lecturing me about decorum earlier.
No wonder she was paranoid. It all makes sense.
Ever since Mapleton got its own AHL team, hockey has been huge there.
And, sadly for Mom, a large portion of her voter base is hooked on it.
My fingers float to my temple as I press them there, trying to ease the sudden headache.
This is not the PR she needs going into one of the biggest holidays ever—the 250th birthday of our country—and we have a full itinerary of events for her to campaign at. “How bad was it?”
“Twelve points down.” Brett’s expression is grim.
“Yikes.” My gut twists into a loopy knot, weighing heavily in my stomach. “What are you doing about it?”
“Well, that’s where you might be able to help.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Turns out the player is your brother’s friend. Remember—the one I met when we were in Mapleton? Tyson. We might need to pull him in for an event, so it looks like your mom supports him.”
“Wait. What?” My brows knit together. Maybe Mom was right about me daydreaming too much? I haven’t missed an hour of work, but apparently, I’ve missed a lot of details. “Tyson is playing hockey here? In DC?”
“Yeah, he’s on the Stars team.” Brett shrugs, then adds, “Do you think maybe he could help spin this?”
I hear his question, but my mind is racing in another direction.
Ty is coming here—to DC, where he knows I live.
And he didn’t call me to tell me?
Does Ham know?
This seems so odd.
Unless Ty’s avoiding me.
“So … what exactly is this hockey tournament?” I get the question out, though my head spins with all the details I don’t have.
“This year there is a special tournament to celebrate the 250th birthday of our country. The league built two all-American teams of the best players to face off right here in DC. There’s a women’s and a men’s tournament, and it all starts on the fifth.
The players are arriving any day now for media and practice. ”
“How did I not know this?” I force my face to stay neutral, but my heart sinks.
“You do spend an awful lot of time daydreaming.” He shrugs again, adding a kind smile. “Anyway, back to my question. Do you think you can reach out to the guy and see if he’ll help us? Maybe pose for a nice photo.”
My heart slams so hard against my chest that I grab the step railing to steady myself.
It’s true, I’ve been avoiding the news a lot lately.
If it’s not something that lands directly on my desk to deal with, I don’t bother with it.
It’s all overwhelming. Brett leans forward, as if to remind me he’s waiting for an answer.
“Hmm, that’s an idea.” I nod slowly, indicating I’m considering his request before I say, “I’ll, ah, think about it and get back to you.
I have goats to take care of.” Before he can reply, I hurry off, speeding down the front steps with my heartbeat roaring in my ears.
I can’t get over the fact that Ty is coming here, and he didn’t text me.
And it will be July.
July is always our thing.
Or at least, it was.
That has to mean something.
He’s not one to forget.
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard as the saddest thought floods my brain and my legs nearly buckle.
That must mean he chose not to care .