The Phoenix Candidate(59)

“This conversation is over,” I choke out, my head spinning with images that all too easily confirm what she’s saying.

“I’ve already dropped your schedule with Trey,” Lauren adds, moving toward the door. “Better pull yourself together, Grace. You’ve got voters to impress.”





Chapter Thirty-Five





I bend over my desk, bracing myself on my hands with my head upside down as I try to get a grip.

Jared cares about two things: his dick and his campaign.

That’s why he doesn’t do kissing or commitment.

I can’t trust him.

Conover’s going to pick Boyle.

Jared’s through with me.

I sprint to the bathroom, making it just in time to heave up my morning coffee. I’m grateful few of my colleagues are in Washington during the summer recess so I can at least puke in peace.

I take my time rinsing my mouth, washing my face, and patting it dry on scratchy brown paper towels. Still, the dampness makes the hair around my face springy and curly, and I’m ashamed that Trey notices when I return to the outer office.

“Still not feeling good, baby girl?”

I shake my head and sink into the squishy chair beside his desk.

“I’ll call that fancy seafood restaurant you went to with the Darrows and give them hell if you want.”

“Thanks, Trey, but I doubt that’s it.” It’s just too much—the stress and the intensity and the late nights and skipping breakfast and the sad, scary news on television yesterday and Lauren’s revelation today.

“Is it Jared? Because he left you a message when you were meeting with Lauren.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. He called the office because your cell phone was on silent.” Trey passes me the slip of paper with Jared’s name and number. “He said to tell you he’s sorry.”

“For what?”

“He just said you’d know. I figured it was for canceling your plans this morning, because after the flowers…” Trey’s voice dies away. “Anyway, we’ve got a big day. The schedule Lauren dropped off has your calendar packed, and I’ve had to work some magic and bend the time-space continuum to make it work.”

“So I can’t go back to Oregon?” My face falls. I need some quiet time in a kayak right now, just gliding over cool water, but Washington’s got its sticky, humid fingers all over me.

“Not this week. And next week’s the convention.” Trey raises his brows. “You’re not going to want to miss that.”

I prep hard for my first two interviews, reading dozens of past articles each journalist has published to get a sense of how they like to quote, in short phrases or long ones, how they color their stories with details and whether I can detect bias on any of the issues.

I try calling Jared a few times but his phone pushes me straight to voicemail.

Conover’s going to choose Boyle. Maybe Lauren’s prediction is true. Maybe he’s done with me as a potential running mate, and so he’s just … done.

I force myself to focus as I welcome a journalist to my office in the afternoon.

While my last round of press coverage was more abstract and feature-ish, these meetings are finely pointed: the journalists are hoping to sit down with a future running mate.

Of course, the first reporter’s first question is, “Darrow or Conover?”

I laugh lightly. “That’s the million-dollar question for all of America, isn’t it? I can’t remember a time when the race has been this close, or this exciting so close to the convention.”

“But for you, Congresswoman Colton? Who do you support? Whose ticket could you potentially join?”

“That’s up to the senator or the former governor, not me.”

“Have you been approached by the candidates? Are you considering a bid with either of them?”

“I’d consider a lot of things, and of course speaking to both candidates is always a pleasure. They’re both tremendously accomplished men.”

“And have they offered you a place on their ticket?”

“I believe it’s up to them to announce a running mate. But it’s certainly a compliment to be mentioned on a short list.”

And so it goes. I get through that interview, and another, and I leave my office dragging from the effort of the bob and weave.

Jared doesn’t call, and my mind spins a million meanings behind his telegraphed I’m sorry.

My apartment is too quiet, too lonely, and I consider calling Aliza or Lacey. But in the end, I cuddle up in my yoga pants to a glass of wine and stacks of reading that all swims fuzzy in front of my face. My brain refuses to absorb any of it.

I pour myself into bed, exhaustion overtaking me. I clutch my phone in my hand, typing, erasing, and retyping a message. Finally, I give up and dial, listening to the ring.