“. . . running for President of the United States of America.”
Something inside of me somersaults; I’m hit by a series of emotions—shock, excitement, disbelief. I fall back on the couch and press a hand to my stomach to keep the winged things inside of it from moving. My mother continues telling me how much my father and she would love my company, but I hardly listen.
How can I, when Matthew Hamilton is on TV?
He is so gorgeous I bet every woman watching wants him to father all of her babies, put those lips on nobody but her, and use those eyes to look at nobody else …
This god.
The prince of America.
Has decided to run for president?
He speaks from a place of confidence and strength.
I know firsthand that politics are not for wimps. I know what my father has gone through to reach and keep his seat in the Senate. I know the kind of sacrifice, patience, and discipline that serving the people requires. I know that despite doing his best, criticisms have kept him awake at night more times than he’d care to admit. I know that being president cannot be easier than being senator. And I know that Matt hadn’t really wanted this.
But after his father was murdered, our economy went to shit. We’re all basically at the point of reaching out for lifesavers, and the situation is so dire that there are probably not enough to go around.
So he’s doing it?
Stepping up?
“So there’s really no excuse for you not to come!” my mother continues.
“Okay.”
“Did you just agree, Charlotte?” My mother sounds so shocked that I smile at having managed to surprise her.
Hell, even I’m surprised that I’m not singing my same song. Blame it on my birthday and another year spent waiting for a big neon sign to point me toward my ideal life path that has yet to appear.
Another year spent waiting for that “this is who you are, this is what you are meant to do” moment. When I remember the night the Hamiltons came for supper, I felt like I was touched by something exciting, historical, and meaningful. That moment branded me in so many ways. You cannot express in words the awe, honor, and complete amazement of being faced with the President of the United States. It makes you want to do great things too.
Maybe seeing Matt again will bring me clarity. Or at the very least, I might actually get to know him and see what he is made of. See if he really is capable of living up to the Hamilton name.
I’m curious.
I’m … intrigued.
Maybe I’m even a little bit in need of convincing myself that my infantile crush has, indeed, been crushed.
Or maybe, like the rest of the world, I’m just excited. That there’s finally a man who can really earn the respect of both parties, cut through the red tape, and get serious work done.
“I’ll go with you,” I agree, much to my mother’s delight. “When is it?”
5
STILL THAT GIRL
Charlotte
I’ve moved into my own flat close to the offices of Women of the World. One bedroom and a sizeable closet. My wardrobe is filled with more power suits than anything, they’re a must for hunting down sponsors and job opportunities for our women ... new opportunities that inspire them to be better.
But there’s a short row of dresses in the crammed closet of my new apartment. I might not have dozens of options to choose from, but the night of the kickoff party, I have more picks than the one dress I had when I was eleven.
Kayla is dying of jealousy, and Alan and Sam have been hinting on being willing to escort me to the event—in case I needed an escort. I’ve declined, since I’m going with my mother. My father, as a current Democrat, is not really up to coming to support an Independent candidate. But my mother has a mind of her own, and when it comes to anything Hamilton, it seems so do I.
I wonder what sort of man Matt Hamilton has become, and if he’s the player he’s made out to be through the years as the fascination of the press with him has continued to grow.
I end up going for the yellow dress with an open back.
I comb my red hair down my back, add a shiny crystal clip to hold it back from my forehead, and head downstairs, where my mother waits in the Lincoln Town Car.
The last time I saw Matt, it was two years and eight months after that dinner at my parents. I’m taller then, officially a woman, and like my mother, I’m wearing a black dress. He’s dressed in black as well, standing next to his mother, who looks tiny and beat up as he puts his arm around her.
He’s older, a little thicker, a lot more masculine, and his eyes don’t shine on me anymore when I follow my father and mother to give him my condolences. And then I sit in the back, trying to hold back my tears as I watch Matt bury his father.