The Phoenix Candidate(35)

My phone pings with a text and I dip my hand in my pocket to silence it. But I can’t resist checking the message, expecting that Trey’s sent more instructions.





Knock ’em dead, Grace. You’re living this.





Warmth floods my chest and my lips spread in an involuntary smile. Jared. I want to hate him for disappearing, for leaving without a single communication.

I want to hate him, but I don’t. Maybe the frozen part of me is thawing, or maybe I recognize that there’s some frozen part of him, too. The part that won’t let him kiss me. The part that would rather run than be confronted by something too real.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, remembering the way he cupped my cheek, the tenderness in some of our connections. There’s something real here, even if he denies it. Even if he ignores me.

And I haven’t tried to reach him, either. I’ve got too much pride to go begging.

“A text from your mystery man?” Lauren asks, and my head snaps up to meet her smile.

I guiltily stuff the phone in my pocket. “No.”

“That’s some reaction for an un-special text, then.”

I sigh, letting down my guard for a moment because I’m ridiculously happy to hear from him, like he’s a seventh-grade crush who just dropped a note in my locker. “He’s the very definition of ‘it’s complicated,’” I confess.

Lauren’s brows knit. “Married?”

“No.” I bite my lip. I don’t think so.

“Powerful?”

I nod. “Very.”

A smile spreads across her lips, though her forehead remains Botox-smooth. “That can be a very good thing, Grace. Choose the right powerful man and you could be invincible.”

I think of Lauren’s husband Aaron Darrow, arguably the most powerful man in Democratic politics, and wonder whether she’s followed her own advice. I lower my voice, thankful the makeup artist is turned away, rifling through her supplies. “It’s not something I’m ready to make public. OK?”

Lauren touches my shoulder, a gesture that makes me feel awkward, smaller. “Of course. Timing is everything, and making your relationship public could have a major impact on your career. The question is, does he control you, or do you control him?”

Her bold question stuns me, but before I can answer, a business-suited woman with a clipboard and earpiece interrupts us and shuttles Lauren to the opposite side of the greenroom.

I grab a water bottle and down half of it. Then I text Jared back three words:





I intend to.





They’re not the three words I wish I could say, like I want you or Come back soon or Kiss me—hard. I could also go for How dare you? and You’re a bastard. Damn him for hurting me. Damn him for making this complicated.

In seconds, his reply comes back:





Jared: Don’t go down the whole family values track. Lauren’s going to want to drag you there with her. Just. Don’t. Do it.

Me: It’s a panel discussion. There’s a moderator from Princeton, and most of the questions have nothing to do with that.

Jared: I know, but watch for her bridges. She’ll say, “That’s an interesting question, but what matters is…” and then she’ll go there. And you don’t want to touch that shit with a ten-foot pole.

Me: Why not? I had a family. I have values.

Jared: It’s a hot potato, Grace. It’s not a winning issue.

Me: I could win it. I don’t think family values have to be all church and marriage.

Jared: Keep your eye on the ball, Grace. This is a leadership conference. Talk leadership. Not third-rail issues that will get you killed.

Me: It’s not going to hurt me to talk about my family. You said so yourself. I need to use Seth and Ethan’s legacy.

Jared: Listen to me for ONE FUCKING MINUTE, Grace! You can talk about them in the context of gun control. Not family values. Don’t you dare.

Me: I’d like to see one fucking minute when you don’t tell me what to do.

Jared: You’re wrong.

Me: I have a spine, remember?

Jared: This conversation is over. Now get focused and break a leg.

Me: I’d say thanks, but I’d rather break a few of your bones instead.





“Lovers’ quarrel?” Lauren’s smooth voice breaks into my singular view, where my hand grips my phone so hard I could crush it, and a scowl creases my face.

“It’s nothing.” The makeup artist tips my head back and dusts finishing powder across my cheeks, chin, and forehead, then pulls the drape off my shoulders, declaring me finished. While she’s been fussing with my face, a hair stylist twisted and pinned my frizzing hair into a soft up-do, with wispy curls escaping at the edges.