Mr. President(88)

I would like to tell him that I love him, but this is not something you do to someone when you know he may have such a hard, demanding path ahead. This is something you might do if he didn’t, if the public chose someone else, and maybe then he’s free . . . to choose me.

But I don’t want to imagine anyone not choosing him, denying what he has to give. I also am human and no matter how much I want to make a difference, I want things for me too. Those things have narrowed down until all I am aware of wanting, every second of the day, is him, in any way I can have him, even if it’s just a tiny piece.

Tonight I could have him whole, all of him. And I want him—I want to hold nothing back, except the words. But I can tell him with every kiss that I cannot help the way I tremble, the way being touched by him makes me feel like the only thing in the world for me is him in those moments.

I sit down and think of him, and before I can think better of it, I text him and ask if I can see him.

I don’t know what it is I want, but I know I cannot go to his house, nor could Matt come here. He’s too closely watched, and I’ll be too tempted, and it won’t be fair. It needs to stop at that last night we shared, but I’m no longer going to be his campaign scheduler. After tomorrow, I’m not sure where to go from here, and if I’ll ever see him again.

We meet at the Abraham Lincoln Memorial. We sit by the steps, gazing out at D.C. as the wind whips through my hair and stings my cheeks.

“You could really win tomorrow,” I whisper.

“I know.”

“I want you to.”

“Do you?” He studies my features.

Silence. I shiver. “What’s done is done, what isn’t done isn’t done, I guess.” I shrug. “We did all we could, didn’t we?”

“That’s right.”

Before I know it, he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. “Charlotte,” he says softly, “we wouldn’t be here without you.”

“Yes, we would,” I assure him.

We wait for a young couple to walk past us, then he inches his hand close to mine, on the steps, under the fall of his jacket, and drags his thumb over the back of mine. “If I lose, I want you to go out on an official date with me.”

I drop my head and suddenly feel more emotional than I’ve ever been, a whole year of campaigning both for him and against my feelings for him hitting me hard. I don’t want him to lose, but I hate yearning for it, just for this second. “That’s really unfair.” My voice cracks.

My face is suddenly wet. I don’t know why I’m crying; I just am.

“The chances of you losing are this big,” I say with my fingers.

I’m sniffling now, and I stand and tuck his jacket closer around my shoulders so I can hide my face inside the collar.

He stands too, stepping closer, his voice tender. “Show me my chances again,” he says.

I clutch the jacket closed with one hand and lift the other, making the space between my fingers slim.

He takes my fingers in his hands and widens the space between them just a little. “I’d say more like this.” He smiles down at me, trying to cheer me up, and I love him all the more for it, because the smile doesn’t reach his eyes at all.

“I love you. I love you and your silly glasses,” I say, widening my fingers as much as I can, and then I add, laughing and crying, “I can’t even use my arms to show you.”

One second his smile is there, the next it’s replaced with a look of fierce emotion. His eyes roil with it—with something I’d never seen in Matt’s eyes before. Impotence.

I start to leave, ducking my head into the jacket to hide myself from another group of passersby. I hear him start after me before they stop him.

“Holy shit, Matt Hamilton!” the guy says. “I mean, sir . . . it’s a pleasure, a real pleasure.”

I hear Matt greet them, but I can feel his eyes on me as I slip my arms into the sleeves of his jacket and use it as a shield against the cold and leave.

I take the train to my apartment. The first thing I do when I arrive is splash cold water onto my face. I’m drying it when I hear a knock.

Dropping the towel, I open the door, and Matt stands on the other side. His hands are at his side, his eyes a little wild.

I gasp. “Matt!” I glance around the hall, relieved to find it empty. “What are you doing here? My neighbor could see you—”

One second Matt is on the other side of the door, the next he’s shutting it behind him and the back of my head is in his hands, and his lips come crashing down on mine.





38





ELECTION DAY





Charlotte



The next morning I wake up alone in bed. Across the floor, only a few feet from the bed and next to my clothes, is Matt’s jacket.