I can’t stop smiling. There’s something about being at the fair on a sunny summer afternoon in jeans and flip-flops that makes me really happy. It reminds me of my mom taking my sister and me to the state fair when we were little.

“You’ve got powdered sugar on your nose,” Lexi tells me. “And your chin.”

“There’s no shame in my funnel cake-eating game,” I say. “This thing’s amazing.”

“You sure you want a lemonade shakeup, too?”

“Completely sure.” I rub my fingertips over my nose and chin, brushing off the powdered sugar.

I’m campaigning at a downstate county fair, and Lexi and I are on a break from shaking hands in the county Democratic Party’s tent. I gave everyone else on staff the day off. I’ve been feeling under pressure, and they’ve been doubling down on campaign efforts to help.

I’m still leading in the polls, but I’m taking nothing for granted. With several months until the election, anything could happen.

Lex and I both get a lemonade shakeup, and we walk over to the carnival rides. My excitement level is childlike because I didn’t go to many carnivals as a kid. Since we lived in Chicago, there weren’t many to be found.

“Look at that,” I say to Lexi in a breathy tone.

It’s a huge slide with a wave design. People walk up a bazillion stairs and then slide down on what looks like burlap sacks. I don’t even ask Lexi, I just grab her hand and take off for the stairs.

“Really?” she says skeptically as she sips the last of her shakeup.

“Really.”

She stops. “I think I should stay at the bottom and take your picture. We might be able to use it in campaign materials.”

I laugh heartily. “Or not. I take so much heat for being young, the last thing we need is a picture of me on a slide at the carnival. Titan would have a field day with that.”

“That’s true.” Lexi groans. “Okay, so we’re going on the giant slide.”

“Damn right!” I take her shakeup and drop both of our cups in the trash can on our way to get in line.

I laugh the entire way down the slide, my hair blowing behind me in the breeze and my arms thrown into the air.

“Let’s go again,” I say as soon as Lexi reaches the bottom.

She looks at her watch. “We have thirty-five minutes until you have to kiss the pig.”

“I’m kissing a pig?” I kind of already did that a few days ago, but I don’t mention it.

“It’s for charity. A children’s cancer hospital. People put money into cans to vote for who will have to kiss a pig and you won.”

I shrug. “All right. It’s for a good cause. And I’m guessing the pig won’t think a kiss means I’m putting out like most men assume.”

Lexi snort-laughs. “And he won’t suggest you kiss him a little lower, either.”

“Right? I’m liking this pig more and more.”

“We’ve got time for a couple rides before we have to go over there.”

A giggling little girl glides down the slide on her father’s lap next to where we’re talking. I look at them wistfully. There weren’t any moments like that in my childhood. Dad’s been serving as a senator for twenty-four years now—most of my life. It’s been a demanding career that’s required lots of time away from home.

What if I meet someone I want to marry and start a family with? Would I have to leave my children all the time for work, as my father did? I don’t even want to think about that choice. It was one of the reasons I agreed with my dad when he encouraged me to run now—because I’m able to give everything to my work.

“Let’s do the slide again,” I say to Lex. “Then the Ferris wheel.”

She groans in protest. “Reagan, that Ferris wheel makes me want to puke. The cars are shaking back and forth. And it’s rusty.”

“Come on, live a little.”

“Or die a lot.”

I drag her back down the slide and then head for the Ferris wheel.

“I’m not riding that instrument of death,” she says, shaking her head.

“You know, I was thinking that a picture of me at the top of the Ferris wheel would be good for the social media accounts.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You whore. You know I want to be the best campaign manager ever, and I won’t say no to you.”

“Attagirl.”

“If I die, get rid of the box under the bed in my apartment.”

I laugh at her mournfully serious expression. “Girl, if you die, I think I’ll be sharing your fate. Text your mom about the box before we get on.”

“Oh, God.” Her cheeks darken. “I can’t even think about my mother seeing that box.”

I furrow my brow, curious now. “What the hell is in there?”

“Just…toys and stuff.”

“Stuff?”

She shrugs. “You remember the sports broadcaster I dated. He was a freak.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I laugh so hard I have to cover my mouth. “He was into really weird stuff like numbing cream for his knob.”

“Mandelay.” Lex bursts into laughter. “And it didn’t help. He was still a minute man.”

“And didn’t he buy you a strap-on?”

She rolls her eyes, still laughing. “Oh, God. He did. It was so freakishly hysterical. I tried to put it on, but I couldn’t even.”

“It’s so hard to find a good man,” I say.

“And good to find a hard one.”

“Word.”

We step into our Ferris wheel car and close the safety bar over our laps. Lex is white-knuckling the metal bar and muttering about dying young. I’m picturing Jude without his shirt on. It’s tough to hear a hard man mentioned and not think of him.

He didn’t respond to my text the other night, and we haven’t been in touch since. It’s for the best. Of all the men I could carry on a flirtation with, he’s the worst choice. No matter how attractive he is, I can’t afford to get distracted by him. I’m too close to the finish line to risk screwing it all up.

From the top of the Ferris wheel, I look out over the rural fairgrounds. Past the barns where livestock is being exhibited, green cornfields stretch into the horizon. It’s a beautiful, quiet place.

“How about that picture?” I say to Lex. “If you lean out of the car you can get more of the background in it.”

“Fuck you,” she mumbles.

I laugh and nudge her. “I’ll just take a selfie.”

I take some photos of us, and she tries to smile but looks like she’s on the edge of passing out. Apparently facing her fear of rusty carnival rides wasn’t the key to overcoming it.

The color returns to her face as soon as we get back on the ground. She leads the way to the arena we’re due at, and we find a crowd waiting when we get there.

“Reagan, can I get a picture with you?” a teenage girl asks.

“Of course.”

One picture leads to another, and after I’ve done photos and handshakes with everyone who wants to, a man in jeans with a big belt buckle and cowboy boots leads me over to a small stage.

The arena’s stands are filled with people. Kids are tending to horses and other animals, some with ribbons on their enclosures. There’s an earthy, fresh dirt and grass smell that I suspect won’t last in the summer heat. Soon the arena will smell like sweaty people and animals.

“We’re honored to have Reagan Preston with us today,” the man with the belt buckle says into a microphone. He reads my bio and then talks about the charity the pig-kissing event raised money for.

When he passes me the mic, I only speak for a couple minutes. This doesn’t feel like a political event to me. It’s a place I can unwind and step away from the rigors of campaigning, and when I tell the crowd I’m honored to be here, I absolutely mean it.

When the cowboy comes over to me with a piglet in his arms, the crowd roars to life. It’s little and pink and cute as hell. I wish I could take it with me.

“This is Mortimer,” the cowboy says into the mic. “You ready to pucker up for him?”

I lean over to speak into the mic. “So ready. Mortimer is cuter than most of the guys I’ve been out with.”

The crowd is laughing and clapping as the cowboy holds Mortimer up, and I lean forward to kiss his snout. It’s soft and firm at the same time. I hear the clicking and see the flashing of cameras catching this moment.

The cowboy puts Mortimer in my arms, and I snuggle him close. He roots around my face, sniffing and making piggy sounds. News photographers and my campaign photographer are still taking photos so I enjoy the moment. It makes me wish I had a pet.

“You’re a good sport, Ms. Preston,” the cowboy says into the microphone. “You’re invited to take part in the pig chase too, but we’ll give you a pass if you want to keep your clothes clean.”

He winks at me and is about to continue when I lean over and say, “I’m not worried about my clothes getting dirty.”

The people in the stands clap and yell their approval.

The cowboy gives me a skeptical look. “You think you can catch a muddy pig, city girl?”

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

He throws back his head and laughs. The crowd is loving this. I’m not even sure what I’ve just gotten myself into, but how bad can it be?

I have my answer five minutes later when I’m standing in the center of the arena with a handful of teenagers. Our mission is to catch the tiny pig casually walking around a large, very muddy fenced-in area.

Lexi is watching from the sidelines, and I meet her gaze. She’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Why is it impossible for me to back down from a challenge?

I tie my long hair into a ponytail as the cowboy reads the rules to the entire arena. First one to catch the pig wins $100. I decide to donate the money to the children’s cancer hospital if I win.

It’s me, three teenage boys, and one teenage girl. The boy next to me is staring at my chest, and I give him a pointed look. He just grins and tips his John Deere cap at me.

When the cowboy tells us to go, the teenagers take off at a run. I lag behind, my flip-flops squishing through the mud.

The small pig sees what’s up and takes off for the other side of the enclosure. One of the boys dives for it and ends up face planting into the mud.

It’s coming my way, so I bend down and creep closer. I’m just a few feet from the pig when one of my flip-flops slides in the mud, and I fall flat on my ass.

The crowd roars with amusement. The mud is thick and wet, and I’m covered in it. I figure I’m all in now, so I might as well get that pig. I crawl toward it on my hands and knees, seeing two of the boys edging in on the other side. One of them lunges for it, and the pig squeals and takes off in my direction.

I reach for it, grabbing ahold of it for just a second before it slips through my very muddy fingers. Then I slide out of control and end up facedown in the mud.

Well, this was not my best idea. I’ve got mud everywhere, from my hair to in between my toes. My campaign bus is a mile away, so that’ll be a fun walk.

If I stand, I’ll just slide and fall over again, so I crawl over to the edge of the enclosure. I’m debating whether to keep chasing the pig I’ll never be able to catch when I see a pair of shiny black dress shoes on someone standing on the outside of the enclosure. I’m only a couple feet away, and I almost hate to look up because I have a sinking feeling in my gut.

I draw a mud-covered hand over my face to move my hair away from my eyes as I look up. The shoes lead to a tailored dark suit, a bright red tie over a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and then up to a face covered in dark scruff wearing a smirk I know all too well.

“Hello, Reagan,” Jude says.