The Phoenix Candidate(61)

“Does it matter?”

His words shatter me and I can’t keep the hurt out of my voice. “I need you, Jared.”

“No. You need to get ready. Because Darrow’s going to chew you up and spit you out into something unrecognizable. And I don’t want to be around to see you when he does.”

My phone beeps and I stare at the screen, stunned.

He hung up on me.

He doesn’t want to be here for me, or with me.

He’s done with me.





Chapter Thirty-Six





There is no time to mourn the end of my relationship.

Because it never was a real relationship.

Only Trey gets me, thoughtfully shuttling Jared’s wilting flowers out of my office and into the trash.

I’m booked for a national news talk show tomorrow, so I’ve got to be on the shuttle tonight to New York, then to the studio by five a.m. I’m nervous, but just as in law school, the more I prep, the more grounded I feel.

Trey brings us lunch and drills me on what we call “Rude Q,” hard-hitting questions I might be asked on a variety of issues, all phrased and framed in a way that feels like a no-win situation.

I stick to my guns, refuting the bad information Trey laces into questions on health-care policy and educational standards. I use bridging statements to direct minefield questions on affirmative action toward a focus on equity and opportunity. I weave real stats into my answers, and when Trey lobs follow-up questions to undermine them, I back them up with stories.

A good story can kill a hundred stats.

Just ask Ronald Reagan, the Great Communicator. He could weave a tale ripe with bullshit into an urgent national priority. I don’t need to pass judgment on his policies, though. What matters is that he was insanely effective in getting elected, and then in pointing the country in the direction he wanted to go.

Darrow’s office delivers a dozen new briefs to me and Trey and I divide and conquer, each of us reading and highlighting the pages in multiple colors: yellow to remember, green to repeat as a soundbite, pink to avoid at all costs.

There’s a shitload of pink by the time we’re through.

“You really going to do this?” Trey asks, looking skeptically at the pages. “If you stick to your guns, Darrow’s not going to like what you have to say. But if you go with what these briefs tell you to say, your supporters are going to think you had a brain transplant.”

The echo of Jared’s words ring in my ears. He’s going to chew you up and spit you out into something unrecognizable. And I don’t want to be around to see you when he does. My chest tightens and I blink against my stinging eyes. I cried enough for a real relationship last night. I can’t waste my final prep time to do more of it.

“I’m going to walk a fine line,” I admit to Trey. “I’ve got to present my perspective without alienating Darrow’s supporters.”

“You mean, without alienating his campaign,” Trey clarifies.

I nod, a little ashamed that he, too, doesn’t think Darrow’s the best choice. “I don’t have to come out with an endorsement yet, and they’re not going to make an announcement of the running mate until they’re sure of the nomination.”

“They’re still feeling you out,” Trey says thoughtfully. “I’ll bet they’ve got a polling panel all set up for after this show.”

“I don’t doubt it. The theory is that I’ll have more credibility pre-endorsement, when voters see me as an independent voice.”

“You are an independent voice, Grace. You’ve tackled some of the hardest and most unpopular issues out there,” Trey says. “Nobody wants to touch guns. They don’t. They get all somber and teary-eyed each time there’s a shooting, but in terms of constructing laws that could actually protect people, most other politicians don’t want to do jack.”

He’s right. Building a coalition of support for my legislation—no matter how simple and sane—is a painful uphill climb. Even a law requiring people to report if their gun is stolen gets transformed by the gun lobby into an affront on the Second Amendment.

I reach for the Darrow brief on gun laws, the most pink-highlighted packet of all, and skim down his position statements. It’s a bitter pill to swallow and I hope desperately I won’t be asked about this.

Because if the news anchor asks, I’m dead to Darrow. He’ll crucify me.





***





My nearly sleepless night in the New York hotel room includes the following failed attempts:

A glass of wine. Feels like acid in my stomach.

A hot bath. Makes me shriveled and pruney, but not sleepy.

Masturbation. Can’t get Jared out of my head; can’t get off.