10.
Dinner feels like the same performance.
Rodney sits beside me, angled just enough toward the table that it looks like we're happily married, like we arrived together and will leave together and exist in the same emotional orbit.
His knee brushes mine once beneath the table—an accidental collision, nothing more—but my body reacts anyway, stiffening before I remind myself where I am.
Smile. Breathe. Don't flinch.
Crystal glasses catch the light. Linen napkins are folded into something architectural. Every place setting looks identical, perfectly spaced, as if order itself has been enforced.
I nod along to a conversation happening to my left without hearing a word of it.
Because all I can think about is Grant.
The way his hand hovered before it touched me.
The way the kiss was brief but unmistakable.
The way I pulled back first—and how my body still remembers leaning in.
It's ridiculous. It was nothing. A moment. A lapse. Something easily filed away if I just stop replaying it.
I focus on the plate in front of me. Something expensive and artfully arranged. I haven't touched it.
"Naomi."
Rodney's voice cuts through my thoughts, low and sharp. He nudges my knee again, this time on purpose.
I blink, startled, and turn to him. "Yes?"
Clay Bowers' wife is looking at me expectantly from across the table, her smile patient, practiced.
"I was just asking," she says warmly, "how the criminal justice reform work has been going. I saw the initiative you spoke about last month. It was really impressive."
There it is.
The switch flips automatically.
"Oh—thank you," I say, my smile settling into place like it belongs there. "It's been really encouraging, actually. We're working on expanding the reentry programs now, especially for nonviolent offenders. There's been a lot of collaboration with local organizations, which has been exciting."
The words come easily. Confident. Measured.
I talk about data. Start up programs. Long-term goals. I mention the next roundtable discussion scheduled for later this spring, the partnerships forming quietly behind the scenes.
Clay's wife nods along, genuinely interested.
Rodney says nothing.
I don't look at him while I speak. I don't need to. I can feel his attention on me in that detached way—like he's watching a press clip in real time, deciding whether the optics land.
When the conversation shifts, I exhale softly and take a sip of water.
Focus, I tell myself. Just get through dinner.
But my mind keeps drifting.
To Grant's voice.
To the careful way he asked questions.
To the fact that the kiss didn't feel reckless and I wish it lasted longer.
I push the thought away and listen as someone across the table tells a story I've heard before. I laugh in the right places. I nod.
The evening passes in a blur of handshakes and pleasantries. When dessert arrives, I realize I'm exhausted—not physically, but in that deep, hollow way that comes from holding yourself together too tightly for too long.
Eventually, chairs scrape back. Goodbyes begin.
Rodney stands and places a hand at the small of my back for the cameras. His touch is firm, possessive. Familiar.
We smile. We wave. We thank people for coming.
Then we're in the car.
The door shuts with a solid click, sealing us inside the quiet.
I wait for it.
For the critique.
For the irritation.
For him to comment on my attention drifting, my pauses, the way I had to be nudged back into the conversation.
Rodney doesn't say a word.
He pulls his phone from his pocket immediately, thumbs moving across the screen, absorbed. The glow lights his face from below, casting shadows that make him look unfamiliar.
I stare out the window instead, watching the city slide by.
Halfway home, he glances up. "I've got something at the White House," he says. "I won't be back tonight."
Relief hits me so fast it almost feels like guilt.
"Okay," I say evenly.
The car slows in front of the house. Before I can reach for the handle, he's already opening his door.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he adds, already distracted.
"Goodnight," I reply.
He's gone before I finish the word.
Inside, the house feels at peace, like it's holding its breath. I move through my routine on autopilot—shoes off, makeup wiped away, hair twisted up. I change into a soft lounge set and climb into bed without turning on the overhead light.
Only then do I let myself lie still.
The ceiling fan hums softly above me.
My phone rests heavy in my hand.
I should sleep.
Instead, I think about how easily my mind went to him tonight and these last three days. How quickly.
I close my eyes.
This changes nothing, I tell myself.
It was a moment.
It doesn't mean anything.
He could be in a relationship.
But my chest tightens anyway.
And I know I'm lying.
I curl onto my side instead, knees tucked in, phone warm in my hand like it already knows what's coming. I stare at the ceiling for a long second before I press call.
Bianca answers on the third ring.
"Hey, stranger," she says. Her voice sounds a little breathless, like I caught her mid-movement. "What's up?"
I close my eyes. "Hey, nothing much." I let out a breath that feels like I've been holding it all evening. "Are you busy?"
"Nope," she says immediately. "I just finished reading. What's up?"
I hesitate.
"How long has it been since we talked?" I ask.
There's a pause. "Too long," she answers. "Which is how I know this isn't a casual check-in."
I smile despite myself. "You know me too well."
"That's literally my job as your best friend."
I shift onto my back, staring up at the fan as it spins lazily overhead. "What's new with you?" I ask, buying time.
Bianca laughs softly. "The same old same old. Barely slept for three days. I'm coming to D.C. for spring break if I can swing it."
"That's amazing," I say, meaning it. "We should do something. You, Reese, I."
"Absolutely," she says. "Now tell me what's going on with you."
I chew on my thumbnail, a habit I thought I'd broken. "Oh you know nothing. Same old same old."
"I find it hard to believe the first lady has nothing interesting to tell me."
I stare at the ceiling for a second.
"Well maybe I have to tell you something," I say.
"Oh God," Bianca groans. "Why do you sound like that?"
"It's not bad," I rush to say. "I mean—maybe it is. I don't know."
"Naomi."
"I'm not pregnant," I blurt out.
Bianca exhales loudly. "Thank God."
"I know," I say weakly. "But that's... kind of related."
There's silence on the line now. Focused. Waiting.
I take a breath. "I've been going to therapy."
Her response is immediate. "Okay. That's good."
"Yeah I think it's a good thing."
"You should," she says firmly. "That's a great thing. How long?"
"A few months."
"And how is it?"
I hesitate. "It's... good."
Bianca hums. "I don't love that tone."
"No, I mean it," I say quickly. "It's actually been helping. A lot."
"Okay," she says slowly. "Then what's the problem?"
I roll onto my side, facing the dark window. "My therapist's name is Grant Lennox."
"That name sounds expensive," Bianca says. "And vaguely familiar."
"He's... very well-known here," I say. "Especially in political circles."
"Okay," she says carefully. "And?"
"And I've been opening up to him," I continue. "More than I expected. He's been there. Even outside sessions. When I get anxious."
"Sounds like he's good at his job," Bianca says.
The word job lands wrong in my chest.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "He is."
There's a beat. Then Bianca asks, "Naomi. Why does it sound like you're building to something?"
I swallow. "Rodney's been talking about me having a baby."
"Woah," Her sharp inhale is audible. "That just went completely left field."
"It happened right before one of my sessions," I continue. "I had a panic attack. Like a bad one."
"Are you okay?"
"I am now," I say. "Grant helped me calm down."
"Grant?," Bianca points out. "You're on first name basis with your therapist?"
The realization hits me at the same time.
"I didn't even—" I stop, rubbing my forehead. "My head's a mess."
"Okay," Bianca says gently. "So what happened?"
I squeeze my eyes shut. "I had his jacket."
"For what reason?" she asks.
"I'll explain later," I say. "But he followed me to my car to get it back."
"And?"
"And we kissed."
Silence.
Long enough that my stomach twists.
"Please say something," I blurt. "Anything. I can't do the quiet right now."
Bianca exhales slowly. "Have you talked since?"
"No," I say. "It's only been three days."
"That's... a lot," she says carefully.
"I know," I say. "I don't even know how it happened. I keep replaying it and I can't remember who leaned in first."
"That usually means it wasn't one-sided," Bianca says.
"I feel like a terrible person," I whisper. "Am I the asshole cheater now?"
"Naomi," she says, her voice firm, "you're married to a man who scares you."
"That doesn't make it okay," I say quickly. "No one deserves to be cheated on."
"No one deserves to be controlled and beat on either," Bianca replies. "But that's a longer conversation."
I go quiet.
"What are you going to do?" she asks.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't even know if I should keep going to therapy."
"I don't know if it'll be weird now," I say. "Or if he'll be."
"Then ask him," she says.
"Absolutely not."
"You'll never know unless you try," Bianca says. "Avoiding it won't make it disappear."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes.
My heart jumps. "Oh my gosh."
"What?" Bianca asks.
"He just texted me," I say.
"What did he say?"
I unlock the screen.
I read the message to her out loud.
Bianca lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. "Oh my God."
"Am I busy?" I whisper. "Should I say I'm busy?"
"No," she says immediately. "Absolutely not."
"You're right," I say, fingers already typing.
"He read it," I whisper.
"Really?" Bianca says.
"The little thing disappeared."
"Oh no," she says immediately. "That's worse."
Three dots pop up.
"He's typing again," I say.
Bianca makes a panicked noise. "Okay. Relax."
The dots vanish.
"He stopped typing," I whisper. "Fuck. He stopped."
"Maybe he's just—"
The dots come back. "They're back."
"Oh my God," Bianca says. "I'm stressed."
"They're gone again," I say. "Why would he start and stop?"
My phone rings.
It's him.
"He's calling."
"I'm hanging up and you better answer," Bianca says. "Text me everything."
She hangs up before I can respond.
I stare at the screen for half a second, then answer.
"Hello?" I say, trying—and failing—to sound relaxed.
"Hey," Grant replies. His voice is calm, familiar—and suddenly very real in a way a text never is. "I hope I didn't catch you about to go to sleep."
"No," I say quickly. Then I soften it. "I was just... reading."
There's a pause.
"Okay," he says. "Good."
I shift onto my back, staring up at the ceiling again. My heart feels like it's beating a little too close to the surface.
"How are you?" he asks.
The question feels heavier coming from him.
"I'm okay," I say.
"I'm glad to hear," he says, and I believe him.
Another pause settles between us. I can hear quiet sounds on his end—maybe movement, maybe just breathing.
"I wanted to talk about the other night," Grant says finally.
My stomach tightens, but I don't interrupt.
"I've been thinking about it," he continues, careful.
I sit up slightly, pulling the blanket closer around myself.
"I've been thinking about it too," I admit.
"Okay," he says softly. "Then we're in the same place."
That makes something in my chest ease—and tighten at the same time.
"I was wondering," he says, "if you'd be open to talking in person. Just to clear the air."
My pulse jumps. Clear the air?
"When?" I ask.
"I know it's short notice I doubt I'm as nearly as busy as the first lady," he jokes. "What days are you free this week?"
I glance at the clock on my nightstand, then instinctively think about Rodney's schedule—where he'll be, how late he stays, how unpredictable everything is.
"I leave for Atlanta on Tuesday," I say. "But I could do tomorrow night."
"That works," Grant says easily. "Whatever time feels comfortable for you."
I hesitate, then say, "Late."
There's a brief pause—just long enough for him to understand why.
"Okay," he says. "Late works. How late are you thinking?"
"Eleven," I say.
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"Eleven's fine," he replies. "I don't know anywhere that might be open at eleven, but I don't live far from the office if you want to swing by."
My chest tightens.
"I can text you my address," he continues. "If that's okay. No pressure."
"It's okay," I say.
"Good," he replies.
Silence settles again.
"Nonetheless I'm glad to hear you're doing better," Grant says. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Okay," I say. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Naomi."
The line clicks dead.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen like it might say something else.
My heart is racing now—but not with panic.
With anticipation.
And fear.
And something dangerously close to relief.
Tomorrow night.
Eleven o'clock.
I lie back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling, the fan still spinning overhead like nothing has changed.
But everything has.