3. #3
The kind of person who can rewrite a narrative in real time, who can look at a crisis and see it like math.
She's always been like that—right is right, wrong is wrong—until her job requires her to make wrong look manageable.
I glance at the rearview mirror. The car behind me stays steady. The world looks normal.
My life doesn't.
"How was it?" Reese asks, returning to the point like she always does. "The consultation."
"It wasn't a session," I tell her. "Fifteen minutes. He wants to do weekly sessions. He didn't want to prescribe anything today."
Reese exhales. "That's not surprising."
"He thinks therapy is... a better place to start," I add, my mouth tightening around the words.
"And do you think he's wrong?" Reese asks.
I pause.
I can hear the turn signal clicking as I merge. The low hum of the road. My own breath.
"I don't know," I say honestly, which feels strange coming out of my mouth. "He's... calm. He didn't push. He signed my NDA."
"Good," Reese says immediately. "You should've made him sign it in blood."
I laugh under my breath, then catch myself.
Reese continues, "I've heard good things about Dr. Lennox. A lot of politicians and political spouses go to him. He's discreet."
My chest tightens at the word spouses.
"I'm still thinking it over," I say, even though the appointment card is already sitting in my purse like fate.
"Thinking it over is fine," Reese replies, and I can hear her smile again. "But you booked a follow-up, so your body already made the decision before your pride could stop it."
I don't answer that.
Reese changes gears like she always does. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Rodney's out of town," I say. "You could come over."
Reese groans dramatically. "I'd love to. Truly. But I have a meeting with Alexander Ward tonight and I'm dreading it."
I glance at the road ahead, then smirk slightly. "You're lying."
"I am not lying," Reese insists too fast.
"Reese."
"Naomi."
"You are not dreading that meeting."
I've never met Alexander in person yet. In my head he's all structure and stillness-pressed suit, sharp eyes, the kind of presence that makes a room quiet without asking.
Reese swears he's impossible, rigid, "no personality," but the way she says his name always betrays her a little.
Still, from what I know, he seems like a nice guy.
Or at least the kind of man whose "nice" is shown through discipline, not warmth.
And Reese-Reese found a way to make him useful to me in the only way that matters.
She swore him to secrecy. Not just him-everyone who will be following me now that I'm FLOTUS.
She made sure the security detail assigned to my movements wouldn't report my whereabouts to anyone unless it was a true emergency.
Not to Vivian. Not to Rodney's staff. Not to Rodney.
"I do not like him."
"Mm-hm."
Reese clicks her tongue. "You're delusional."
I smile, eyes on the road. "You have a crush."
"I do not have a crush."
"You have a crush," I repeat, because it's fun to watch Reese pretend she isn't a human being with a pulse.
Reese sighs like she's tired of me. "Focus on yourself."
"I am focusing on myself," I say, and the irony of it almost makes me choke. "And focusing on the fact that you have a crush at the same time."
We talk for a few more minutes-nothing heavy, just Reese complaining about the transition meetings, about Vivian being a demon, about staffers already acting like Rodney's presidency is a kingdom.
Then I see the sign for the senior living complex.
My stomach drops the way it always does when I'm almost there.
"I'm here," I say quietly.
Reese's tone softens a fraction. "Okay. Give her a a hello for me."
"Shauna's on shift today," I add. "I'll say hi to her too for you. Bye, Reese."
"Bye, First Lady," she teases automatically, but there's something protective under it.
The call ends.
I pull into the lot, park, and sit for a moment with my hands still on the wheel.
Then I take one slow breath and step out of the car.
The senior living complex looks like every building designed to feel like a promise.
Clean landscaping. Soft beige walls. A fountain out front that gurgles quietly like it's trying to convince you this is peaceful. The sign has the word Garden in it, even though there are more parked cars than flowers.
I walk in with my face composed and my shoulders relaxed, the way I walk into every place now-like I belong there, like no one can touch me, like I'm not holding my life together with thread.
The lobby smells like a chemical cleaner. There's a holiday wreath hung near the front desk because Christmas is close enough that everyone has started pretending cheer is mandatory.
The receptionist smiles a little too brightly when she sees me. "Mrs. Housner."
I nod once. "Hi."
She doesn't ask why I'm here. She never does. My face answers questions before people can ask them.
I sign in anyway, because protocol matters in places like this. Then I follow the familiar hallway toward my mother's wing. The carpet muffles footsteps. The lighting is soft and constant, like time is meant to move slower here.
Once I find her apartment I knock before unlocking the door. I see Shauna sitting on the couch reading something on her phone and sipping from a cup. She looks up immediately, and her face warms.
"Naomi," she says. "Hey, baby."