Chapter Three
I brought my hands to my forehead and shook out my displeasure from the previous moment, from hearing Jason’s voice—so icy—in my ears. I lurched my watch to my eyes and noted I still had a few more hours in the White House. To rip myself from the strangeness of the day, I decided to march back to my desk and do serious work.
As I sat in my chair, making countless phone calls and arranging meetings with various members of Congress, I peered around me, feeling a sense of relief, finally, at being away from Jason, from the first lady, Camille, and from Xavier—yes, even Xavier. Here, in my desk, I could pretend that I was a member of the normal, politically-driven society. Only here did I feel like the person I’d been attempting to build, to strive toward for the past decade (since day one of college, of course). It had been an accident that I’d fallen in love at all. The biggest mistake? He was the president. He controlled everything. And his wife controlled him.
But things seemed to be coming together, although I wasn’t completely sure how or why. I certainly hadn’t slaved to create this fantasy—like I’d slaved to get every other position I currently had. Rather: I’d gone with the flow, allowed myself to fall, fall, fall. Was it actually going to work out? Was it actually going to go smoothly?
I pushed myself from my desk that evening and swept back to Rachel’s house, knowing that I’d spend an evening of relaxation, of joy with one of the only people I could trust. I didn’t tell her much about the day’s events. Rather, I allowed her to tell me about her day at work. I allowed her to rant about one of her co-workers, and I made her laugh. Bringing a fresh smile to my friend’s eyes. We drank wine heartily. We cooked a meal together, as well—a frittata, for dinner. We cracked eggs into this great glass bowl, and she whizzed at them with a fork before pouring them over zucchinis, broccolis, sausages, onions—everything cut with such precision. The colors sparkled beneath the well-lit kitchen. Outside, the growing darkness was alerting us: it was nearly winter, it was coming. But in the warmth of her kitchen, we couldn’t care. This was all we needed.
We ate the frittata and drank further into the night. I allowed my mind to glide away from the truth of the White House. I tried not to imagine the first lady and the president’s conversation that evening.
“Amanda?”
I heard the words, as if from a distance.
“Amanda?”
Finally, I jostled my head toward my friend beside me. Rachel held her wine up, and it glittered in the light. “I wanted to present a toast. To your career. And to your commitment to this—this political field.”
We clinked glasses, and then I set my finger up, pointing at the light above. “And to you. For knowing when to get out of a bad situation—“
“You mean my own political career?” Rachel asked, laughing. Her laugh was always so good-natured, hearty.
I nodded. “For knowing yourself well enough to work for what you want.”
We drank then. And we giggled into the night, allowing ourselves to ease into the morning.
The next morning, I sat at my desk in the West Wing and swept my eyes over the campaign team. Everyone seemed so rooted in the belief for this president. It was inspiring to see how everyone had firmed their work efforts in the hours since the previous campaign meeting. I nodded toward Jason, across the room. My eyes burned toward him, and he gave me an evil grin. The fear of it made my shiver.
I knew that I had a great deal to think about—that I hadn’t allowed my mind to consider all my options the previous evening. Better, I’d thought, to cling to the fun moments I had left with my friend. Surely, the seasons would change. Surely, I wouldn’t see her as often, very soon. It seemed that everything was coming to a head. We would resolve our friendship with the occasional dinner and drink; we’d find lackluster things to talk about. But we’d drift apart. Our lives were too different now.
I stood from my desk and tapped out of the West Wing, winding my way down the staircase. I nodded toward a Secret Service agent, one that held eagle eyes toward me. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked me.
I nodded toward him primly. “For a walk in the White House grounds,” I murmured back, blinking my long eyelashes toward him.
“It’s quite chilly today. Below 50, I’d say,” the Secret Service agent answered back.
I shrugged, showing him the black coat I’d draped over my arm. I brought it around my shoulders like a cape, and I murmured toward him. “I won’t be gone long.”
At this time of the year, the Rose Garden had been shrouded up, brought to face the dull and driven winters of the Washington D.C. area. However, I felt a sense of solace out there by myself. In the summer, it was swarming with tourists, with guests of the White House. But then, it was only me. My thoughts swirled around me, staying low beneath the shaded, cloudy skies.
There, in the rose garden, I considered a future in which Xavier and I could stay together. I hadn’t given myself over to such fantasies, not yet. Falling into them felt oddly like falling asleep. So satisfying.
In this daydream, Xavier and I stayed together—continually sneaking around, keeping our love and our affair a secret from the greater population and from his executive staff. We would meet in our small, hidden rooms throughout the White House, and we’d allow work to fall from us with our clothes. We’d bring our bodies together, and we’d fuck until the sun came up. Only then, would we scurry back into our natural, political personas. Only then, would we face the music.
But what would happen? Would we even make it that long—all the way to the end of his term, a whole year from now? And if he won the election? What would happen, then? Would I have to find a new job? I remembered what Xavier had told me: that there was always a position for me at the White House. But if his wife knew about our affair—surely she’d want me out of the White House, for fear that I would somehow give myself away and make her life a living hell?
If I ultimately had to leave the White House, as a result of my love for Xavier, where would I go? Certainly, I’d want to receive the position on my merits alone. I wouldn’t want any sort of handout from Xavier. Sure, he’d still be the president. He’d have all the power. But I’d never gotten anywhere on simple handouts. Although, sometimes, I was inclined to believe that men gave me these higher-up positions simply because of the size of my ass or because of my breasts. I hated that feeling.
I stood at the edge of the Rose Garden, looking up at the illustrious White House before me. I stomped my foot in the ground lightly, knowing that many things about the horizon had altered with the comprehension that Camille knew about our affair. I knew that I had to reevaluate my entire career—that I had to stay out of her way. She wouldn’t destroy me, unless I made myself apparent. In many ways, I had to disappear.
This ultimately brought me to the question. Should I simply fade away from this relationship? Was my love for Xavier actually equal to the love and hard work I’d churned into my position in the political sphere? My heart ached with the question, and I sat on a bench, feeling the October wind whip against me.
Okay, okay. I sighed into my fingers. If Xavier and I did stay together, all throughout both this term, and the next one, what would happen, then? I’d heard of presidents all but retiring, folding away from the public sector. But that wouldn’t be for me. I’d be at the height of my churning career; 34 years old, at that time, and rearing toward Congress, toward a greater position, perhaps. Would I be satisfied getting married to the president at that time? Would it look “off” if he immediately divorced his wife after the four years were finished and married me? Would there be questions about my “right” to the White House, to the political world?
I knew that I needed to address many of these questions to Xavier. I knew that, beyond anything else, Xavier had a very valid comprehension of the political sphere. He had made all the right moves, climbed the correct ladders, and made friends with the right people. As a result, he was nearing the entrance to his second rally as president.
I tried to reach the root of my internal problem, and I supposed it was simply that I didn’t want to tell the public a false story of myself. I didn’t want to label myself as a money-seeker, as a woman continually looking for power and using her body to get it. God, I had slaved. I had marched the march, walked the walk. I stabbed my heel into the dead grass in the Rose Garden lawn, and I knew, in my heart, that the only person I needed to discuss these many fears with lurked, somewhere up there in an Oval Office. I wouldn’t allow him to wrap his arms around me; I wouldn’t allow him to place his lips over mine. Instead, we’d become two grown, confident, and ever-intelligent adults, discussing next steps as one discusses the peace in the Middle East.
I sniffed and righted myself from the bench beneath me, winding myself back to the gleaming White House. I felt each of my heels dipping into the mud beneath. I felt my back arch with a spark of confidence. I knew, in so many ways, that I would find my way to the top without the guiding hands of my lover. I knew I had it in me.