OATH
Matt
Present Day
I suit up in black. Knot my tie. Add my cuff links. And step out to the living room of Blair House to greet the senior officer from White House Military, who’s here to hand over the top-secret codes in case of a nuclear strike. With him is an aide with the nuclear football that will be passed on to me—as of noon, the man who carries it will be my shadow for the next four years.
“A true pleasure, Mr. President-Elect,” the shadow tells me.
“Likewise.” I shake his hand, then the senior officer’s hand as the nuclear codes are handed to me, and they leave.
Customarily, the departing president holds a brunch for the incoming president on Inaugural Day. Not the case with Jacobs and me. I grab my long black coat and slip my arms into the sleeves, nodding at Wilson at the door.
It seemed fitting that I pay a visit to my father today. The day I become the forty-sixth president of the United States.
* * *
My father is buried at Arlington National Cemetery, one of three presidents there.
The wind is freezing, flapping my gabardine at my calves. As I walk up to my father’s grave, I know the silence will soon be broken by the twenty-one rifle shots from the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
I kneel before his grave, scanning the name—Lawrence “Law” Hamilton, President, husband, father, son—on his tombstone.
He died a long time ago, tragically, in the kind of way that stays with you forever. Branding you.
“I take the oath today.” My chest feels heavy when I think of how much he’d love to have seen this. “I want to promise you, Dad, that I’m going to fight for truth and justice, freedom and opportunity for us all. Including finding who did this to you.”
The day is fresh in my mind: my father’s lifeless eyes, Wilson cowering over me, and me, fighting to pull free so I could run to him. The last thing he’d said to me was that I was too stubborn. He’d been wanting me to go into politics; I’d insisted that I wanted to carve my own path.
It took a decade for me to feel the need to do what my father had always hoped for me.
I’m proud, today, to come visit with the sort of news that would make him as pleased as any father could be.
It seems at times that I talk more to my father here than I did those last few years we were in the White House.
“Mother’s well. She misses you. She’s never been the same since that day. She’s haunted by what happened—and by whoever did this to you still being out there. I think she mourns the years she wanted to build back your marriage. She’d always hoped once we left there that she’d get her husband back. Yeah, we both know how that went.”
I shake my head mournfully and spot the frozen flowers resting at the foot of the grave.
“I see she came to see you.”
I once again feel the protective instinct of a son wanting to prevent his mother from hurting.
I think of how my father would tell me you’re meant for greatness; don’t cheat the world of you. And today, out of every day since he’s been gone, I miss him the most.
“I have met the most wonderful girl. Do you remember I told you about her on my last visit? I let her go. I let the woman I love go because I didn’t want her to go through what Mom went through. And I’ve realized that I can’t do this without her. That I need her. That she makes me stronger. I don’t want to hurt her if it’s my turn to end up here—I don’t want her to cry every night like Mother does because I’m no longer here with her. Or cry because I’m across the country and she needs me and turns around to find out I’m gone. But I can’t give her up. I’m fucking selfish, but I can’t give her up.”
Frustration simmers in me and I finally admit, “I’m going out there to take my oath, and I’ll devote my every waking breath to this country. I’ll do what you couldn’t and a thousand other things that need to be done. And I’m going to win her back. I’ll make you proud.”
I rap my knuckles on the headstone as I stand, my eyes locking with Wilson’s as he nods to the rest of my detail.
We head back to the cars, and I stop to level a look at Wilson before I board.
“Hey, I checked up on her, like you asked,” Wilson says.
I inhale the cold air, shaking my head and shoving my hands into the pockets of my black gabardine.
She is the one relentless, constant thought in my head and tug in my damn chest. The only she that has ever existed in my life.
She left for Europe after Election Day. I know because I went to see her when the voting results became official. I kissed her. She kissed me. I told her I wanted her in the White House. She told me she was leaving for a few months in Europe with her best friend, Kayla. “It’s better this way,” she said. “I’m not going to keep my cell number. I think—we need to do this.”
It cost me everything not to go after her. To stay away. She changed her number. I found it. Tried not to call. Barely succeeded. I couldn’t keep from having my staff check up on when she’d be returning to the States.
She wants to be done with you, Hamilton. Do the good thing here.
I know that, but I can’t give her up. Two months without her is two months too long.
And I’ve had enough.
“What did you find out?”
“She’s back from her trip and she RSVPed to one of the balls tonight, Mr. President-Elect.”
She’s back from Europe just in time for my inauguration.
My chest tightens. I’ve stayed away and every inch of me wants to see her. I’ll have the keys to the world, but turned my back on the key to the woman I love’s heart. How can I be proud of that? She shed one tear that day. Just one. And it was for me.
“Good. You’ll be taking me there tonight.”
I climb into the back of the car, the Secret Service hot on our tail, and I drum my fingers restlessly on my thigh—my blood simmering at the prospect of seeing her tonight, already envisioning the red hair and blue eyes of my woman as she greets her new president.
* * *
Charlotte
It’s a historic day.
Matthew Hamilton, the youngest president of the United States of America.
I’m amidst a crowd of hundreds of thousands gathered at the U.S. Capitol. I was sent a seated invitation, along with a plus-one. So I brought Kayla. I sit tightly in my seat. One where Matt will be so much closer than he will be to the crowd below.
They opened up the National Mall to the citizen spectators, something that had never been done until his father won—and now. The country is simply too invested in this outcome, too eager to celebrate him, to stay away.
A chorus of children have been singing “America the Beautiful,” and I sit on a bag of nerves, excitement, and feelings as the song ends and the U.S. Marine Band picks up with a wildly happy, patriotic tune.
Trumpets start blaring.
Through the speakers, we hear the presenter introduce the departing president, along with his wife and other members of our political engine. Claps erupt across the crowd as people file into place, taking their seats. And then, to the crowd’s mounting excitement, after a trail of high-profile names are announced, the presenter finally announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President-elect of the United States, MATTHEW HAMILTON!”
Okay, breathe.
BREATHE, CHARLOTTE!
But it feels like some invisible rope is wound tightly around my windpipe as Matt walks down a blue carpet to the platform, the people chanting at the top of their lungs: “HAMILTON! HAMILTON! HAMILTON!”
He’s greeting all the cabinet members as well as his mother, shaking their hands. His mother is seated to the left of the microphone, and after greeting the crowd with a huge smile and a sweep of his hand, Matt settles his big body next to hers.
I’m wringing my cold fingers, my eyes so starved for him they hurt.
He looks imposing in his seat as Vice-President-elect Louis Frederickson from New York takes his oath.
He looks just like I remember. His hair a little longer, maybe. His expression calm and sober. I watch him duck his head to listen to something his mother tells him—and a frown creases his forehead, but then a smile tips his lips and he nods.
Butterflies.
Mean, evil little butterflies are flapping in the very core of me.
I inhale and stare at my lap, at my reddened, freezing fingers.
It’s bone-chillingly cold outside, but when Matt is called up, and his baritone voice comes on suddenly over the microphone, it warms me like a bowl of my favorite soup. Like liquid fire in my veins. Like a blanket around my heart.
I lift my head. He’s standing on the platform. Calm and towering in a black gabardine and a perfect suit and red tie, his sable hair blowing in the wind, his expression somber as he places his hand on the Bible, the other hand raised.
“I, Matthew Hamilton, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” the presenter says.
My head spins.
Holy.
FUCK.
Matt is now president of the United States.
The cheers erupt like a wave crashing upon us. People stand. Everyone claps and revels in the euphoria, the country welcoming their new commander in chief.
My body jerks from the sound of the twenty-one guns exploding—one after the other.
Trumpets blare.
The crowd waves small U.S. flags side to side.
People are crying.
The music of the orchestra plays, louder and louder across the U.S. Capitol and National Mall.
All while Matt salutes his crowd. His smile the most dazzling thing I’ve ever seen. His gaze sweeping across the hundreds of thousands of people here. People who’ve loved him for decades, since he was their president’s son. And now he’s simply their president.
The youngest, hottest president in the world.
The people in the crowd below keep waving their small flags.
Once the gun salute is over, the presenter leans in to say, “It is my deep pleasure to present the forty-sixth president of the United States, Matthew Hamilton.”
He steps up to the microphone. Hands braced on the stand, he leans into the mic, and his voice rings out, powerful and deep. Just the sound of it affects me intensely. Causing both a pang of nostalgia and a surge of excitement in me.
“Thank you. Fellow citizens . . . Vice President Frederickson,” he greets. “I stand with you today, humbled and in awe of the true change we can set forth in this country when we as a collective contribute to putting it in motion.” Claps interrupt him and he pauses. “Citizens, I am thankful for the opportunity.” He nods somberly, glancing one way, then the other, his powerful shoulders straining the fabric of his gabardine.
“In our country, we fight for truth and justice.” Pause. “We fight for freedom, for what’s right.” Pause. “We fight for it, and we die for it—and if we’re lucky, we die having those on our side . . .” Pause.
“These aren’t times to stand back and hope for the best. These are the times where we make it the best. Giving back to our country. Putting the best pieces of ourselves out there. America was formed on the principle of freedom, has embraced the promise of unity, peace, justice, and truth. It is only by preserving and honoring who we are that we can do justice to the very core of what we stand for. And what we will continue to stand for. A beacon to other countries across the globe. The land of the free. The home of the brave. Let’s fulfill our full potential, and ensure our enjoyment of that which our ancestors have so fiercely fought for, not just for ourselves, but for our generations to come. You wanted a leader to take you into this new era with courage. With conviction. And with an eye for getting things done. Citizens.” Pause. “I will NOT. LET YOU DOWN.”
A roar goes out across the crowd. HAMILTON is the name they call. HAMILTON is the man of the hour. The year. Their lifetime. He smiles at that warm welcome, and he closes with a deep, gruff, “God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.”
A warm glow flows through me and a ball full of spikes sort of gets stuck in the middle of my throat.
They play the national anthem, and as the chorus of the singing citizens rings across the U.S. Capitol and households around the world, I’m placing my hand on my heart and attempting to get the words of the anthem out—but that doesn’t help to ease this deep, unaccustomed pain in my chest. This is simply such a monumental day for me. Not only as a citizen; as a person this day is directly proportionate to the depth of my feelings for the new president. And the depth is endless,
fathomless,
eternal.
This is what he wanted. This is what we wanted. What the whole country did. It’s the first day of the changes that are about to come—and I’m burning with the wish to have just one tiny moment to talk to Matt. Tell him how proud of him I am. How much it hurts to not have him, but how safe I feel knowing he’ll be fighting for our interests.
I sit there among the crowd, my eyes stinging as emotion wells in my chest. We finish the anthem.
“Hey, come on, let’s go get you pretty for the inaugural ball,” Kayla says, slipping her arm around mine as she tugs me away.
I stand, but resist a little. My legs feel leaden, as if I don’t want to go in this direction—but instead, I want to go in the direction where he’s saying goodbye to those around him and heading up the platform to leave the grounds.
I watch Matthew stop at the top of the blue-carpeted stairs.
Matt cants his head back to the crowd and sweeps it with one powerful gaze.
I hold my breath, then shake my head.
He’s not looking for you, Charlotte; you can start breathing now.
I sigh and rub my temples, shaking my head as we wait for the motorcade parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. “I’m not sure that I should go.”
“Come on.” Kayla nudges me, her expression questioning. “We came back just in time for inauguration because you wanted to be here. You cannot turn down an invite to the inaugural ball.”
I keep my eyes on Matthew.
Matthew
Hamilton.
My love.
I remember the sounds he makes when he makes love, the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes cloud. I remember the taste of his sweat as he drives inside me, the way I kiss and lick him and want more, want him, anything he can give.
Intimate moments.
Moments between a man and a woman.
Moments that seem so long ago but at the same time, I can never forget, because we had them. I cling to those moments because I never want to forget them. When I see the man—the president—I want to remember what his chest feels like under his tie and suit, all that power rippling in his muscles. I want to remember the size of him, when he’s joined to me, as big as the name he now wears, and I want to remember what it felt like to have him come inside me. I never want to forget the sound of his voice in the dark, when nobody is watching, and how tender it sounds.
I don’t want to forget that for a little while, Matt Hamilton—forty-sixth president of the United States—was mine.
* * *
I head back to my apartment to shower and blow-dry my hair and prep for tonight.
I spent the last two months in Europe. It was freezing cold and we spent more time at the hotel than touring, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t in the United States, the country I love, close to the man I love, simply because I needed to heal.
I didn’t want to be tempted to call. I was afraid if I stayed, I’d see him in every headline; that the very air in D.C. would smell of him. That I’d bump into him or simply have too many memories everywhere I went to be able to breathe right. Europe was good. It centered me, and yet I was anxious to come back home. I couldn’t bring myself not to be home by the time Matt had his Inauguration Day.
I told Kayla I fell in love with him while campaigning. I didn’t give her more details. She pressed, but I didn’t budge. I understand now that when you’re as high-profile a person as Matt is, you cannot trust even those you’re supposed to trust. Not with everything. I’m afraid one drunken night she’d spill the beans of the affair. So I kept it to myself and nursed it quietly in my heart, even as Kayla kept telling me that it was a crush and I’d get over it in Paris, the city of love.
I didn’t.
My heart hurts right now no matter how much I will it to stay strong.
God.
How will I bear to look him in the eye tonight?
He will see right through me.
I’m hoping that with the several balls going on, his visit to the one I’m attending will be brief. That we’ll just say a quick hello and he’ll have to continue down the line of people eager to greet their new president.
Still, I dress with the same care that a bride might on her wedding day.
I’m seeing the man I love, and it might be the last time, and the girl inside me wants him to remember me looking as stunning as I can possibly look.
As desirable as he previously found me to be.
I brush my red hair and let it fall down my shoulders. I go for a strapless blue dress that matches my eyes. I paint my lips a deep shade of red, and I ask my mother if I can borrow my grandmother’s fur coat. I’ve never bought a single fur thing in my life due to animal cruelty—but that coat has sentimental value to me, and it’s freezing outside.
My parents are attending a different ball than I am. “You really should consider coming with us,” my mother said this morning.
“I’m going with Alison—she’s the new White House photographer and she’s got to be at this event to capture the moment.”
“Oh, all right. Charlotte?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
I knew what she was asking. She knows that there was something between Matthew and me, though I never gave her details. She knows I fell in love—and having a daughter in love with the hot, young president is enough to make any concerned mother worry.
Emotion makes it difficult to speak, but I nod, then I realize my mother cannot see me. “Yes.”
I know it won’t be easy. But I need to see him today.
I want to congratulate him. I want him to know that I’m okay, that I’m proud of him, that I’m going to move forward, and that I want him to do the same.