Chapter 20
Three months later
Gabe hit snooze on his alarm.
Again.
He had to be in the office in twenty-seven minutes; the drive took him twelve. He had nine more minutes to lie here.
He hadn’t dreamed about Anya all week, which was the worst. Sometimes in the dreams she screamed at him, or sometimes they were kissing in his bed, or in his car, or in an imaginary field of bluebells underneath a sunny sky.
Sometimes he was just looking at her—watching her across a train platform, calling her name, but she couldn’t hear him.
Sometimes the dreams felt like real life, how angry she was, how much she hated him, the crushing shame he felt about everything he’d done to deserve it.
But then, sometimes, it was like she had amnesia—like he’d done everything right.
Like he’d asked her out that first day in New Hampshire, like he’d kissed her in the snow in Ohio, on the beach in Vieques.
He’d taken her dancing in Las Vegas, they’d had dinner with her parents every weekend, he’d gotten to spend real time with Judy.
He was by Anya’s side at the funeral, and at shiva, and every sleepless night after. He shared her grief. He made it better.
Real life wasn’t like that. In real life, he made everything worse.
At first, he was convinced he could fix things with Anya.
That first week after the breakup, he’d called her crying, he’d offered to quit his job, he’d told her he’d do anything.
But she never picked up her phone; he left it all on voicemail.
He didn’t even know if she’d ever listened—until Simone told him, gently, that the messages were really upsetting Anya and asked him to stop.
Fuck, he’d thought. Add this to the list of ways I’ve hurt her.
So he didn’t call, didn’t text. And he didn’t quit his job, because working long hours was the only thing that took his mind off how much he missed her.
Ironically, this was the slowest time of the cycle, the lull between winning the primary and the heat of the general.
There was still a lot to do—endorsement events, a convention to plan, endless swing state visits, and fundraising, always fundraising.
Cable news panels where Gabe appeared almost daily, smiling and witty and charming, never letting his heartbreak reflect badly on his boss.
He was a professional. One of the best to ever do it.
Most days, he fantasized about disappearing and never being heard from again.
“Gabe, you got a second?” Lev stepped into Gabe’s office. Gabe desperately wanted to say no, but he didn’t think that would stop Lev from taking as much time as he wanted.
“Sure, Lev. What do you need?”
“I’m looking over the budget for the convention. Do we really need a union print shop for the signs? This bid is four times higher than the alternate.”
Because the union printer pays its workers a living wage, Gabe thought but did not say.
“Is it a problem?” Gabe asked. “We can afford it. Our fundraising numbers were through the roof last month.”
“Most of that was for the PAC,” Lev said condescendingly. “Hal asked me to look for budget cuts.”
“If you want to save money, we could cut back the number of private planes we’re chartering to fly donors to the convention,” Gabe quipped, but Lev didn’t smile.
“Is there any downside to cutting the union printers?” Lev asked.
Gabe exhaled. “Not a huge one. The convention center is all union, so labor will be happy on the whole. The president of the printers’ union could raise a stink, but honestly, if we invite him onto one of the private flights, that’d probably take care of it.”
“Huh,” Lev let out a little laugh. “That’s actually a good idea.”
“I’ll try not to be offended by your surprise,” Gabe said.
“No, no, don’t be!” Lev smiled wider. “I’m glad you’ve finally gotten Anya out of your system.”
Gabe’s stomach dropped. Why was this asshole bringing up Anya?
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Gabe said stiffly.
“All those bleeding-heart ideals you used to fight for in meetings—I figured that was her influence,” Lev said.
“I didn’t realize you knew her.”
“Sure, from way back. I gave her her first job, at my old consulting firm. Smart kid, very hardworking. But not cut out for politics. She had no sense of self-preservation.”
Gabe clenched his fists under his desk. He could feel his pulse thrumming through his fingers.
“I thought you might be like her. You certainly used to sound like her,” he laughed. “Anyway, glad I was wrong. Thanks for your help with this.”
He thwacked the budget against Gabe’s doorframe and went on his way.
So many thoughts were reeling through Gabe’s mind, he wasn’t sure where to start.
Lev was the same asshole who made Anya do all his work and wouldn’t put her up for a promotion?
Wait, Anya had a crush on Lev?! He couldn’t touch that one—nor could he linger on how ashamed Anya would be if she knew Gabe had just thrown union workers under the bus by bribing their president with a private plane ride. What the fuck was he doing here?
And then another thought bubbled to the surface: Why were they sending so much money to the PAC that they couldn’t afford some decent rally signs?
“Hey, Hannah?” Gabe called.
“What’s up?” She popped up from her desk and stood in his doorway.
“Where does the PAC keep its spending reports? Do we have access to that?”
Hannah frowned. “I’m not sure. I could look into it?”
“Thanks,” he said. “That’d be a huge help.”
“Anya, where the hell is that speech? We need it onstage right now!”
“Sorry,” she said into the phone. “Sorry, I’m coming!”
Anya printed out the speech, then rushed downstairs and sprinted across the alleyway. She wasn’t far from the stage, but everyone was waiting on her—
“Is this it?” Some guy she didn’t recognize wearing all black and a headset held out his hand expectantly; Anya nodded and gave him the speech. “Great. Thanks.”
He took off toward the line of waiting camera operators. The director was talking loudly and making agitated hand gestures, and the actors all looked deeply stressed out. Anya could relate.
“Was working in actual politics this much fun?” Miles was a writer on the show and Anya’s favorite colleague. He was Japanese American and slight with an understated sense of humor, and he always wore big glasses and cool sneakers.
“Almost never,” Anya snarked, and Miles smiled. “Do you know what time we’re supposed to wrap tonight?”
“Hopefully by seven?” Miles adjusted his glasses. “I’m planning to drink copious amounts of alcohol immediately after, if you want to join me.”
“Oh, maybe?” Anya felt uncomfortable; was he asking her out? Not that he wasn’t attractive, and not that she wasn’t single—fuck. “Um, the Mets are in LA tonight, so I have plans to watch the game on the phone with my dad.”
“No way, you’re into baseball?” Miles lit up. “We should totally catch a game sometime, if you can tolerate the presence of a diehard Dodger fan.”
Anya’s breath caught. She hated that she could still remember the exact smell of Gabe’s sweatshirt.
“Sorry, I actually— I left something at my desk,” she stammered. “So I’ll be right back.”
“Cool.” Miles gave her a gentle smile; he obviously didn’t want to make things awkward between them. “See you in a bit.”
—
Anya wasn’t really sure what she was doing in Los Angeles, or why she’d agreed to come here, or how long she would stay.
Jo’s old donor in Brentwood—the one they’d all stayed with the night of the Jeff Rooney fundraiser—was a bigwig Hollywood showrunner, and she’d called Jo to ask if there was anything she could do to help after they suspended the campaign.
It turned out her newest show was a political soap opera on basic cable, and she was happy to offer Anya a job as a story consultant.
It was a landing spot, something to do for a few months to get over the heartbreak of the campaign.
Anya stood to make more money in six months on this job than she had on any campaign she’d ever worked, and the studio put her up in a posh furnished apartment near the lot.
Wooden furniture and everything, a view of the Paramount gates and the Hollywood sign behind them.
They gave her a car too, but it was an easy walk to the studio and a cute nearby neighborhood with a string of fancy shops and restaurants, so Anya rarely drove.
She was only a few blocks from a great little pasta place that had a TV at the bar.
She liked to go there after work to drink a glass of Nebbiolo and eat a big bowl of Bolognese while she watched baseball.
The apartment was too quiet to spend much time in.
It was nicer than any place she’d ever lived, but god, she hated living there.
Kira and Simone were still in DC. They’d stayed longer on the campaign to wind things down, to handle the office closures and take care of the staff, and to help Jo with anything she needed.
Anya had been welcome to stay too, but after she broke up with Gabe, she needed to get away from that campaign and everything it represented.
It all hurt too much. She needed a clean start.
Unfortunately, moving to the city where Gabe grew up, and where they’d first talked about their real feelings for each other, was not an ideal escape.
That night at the wedding, she’d been so sure that ending their relationship was the right thing to do.
She expected to feel some measure of relief afterward—sadness too, of course, even crushing devastation—but at least the decision was made, the matter resolved.
She could start the thorny work of processing what had happened so she could begin to move on.