Betty wouldn’t have said anything, and I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. There were strict boundaries around our lives, and while it was easy to over-rely on my staff, I never wanted to cross those lines.

I went down to the flower shop early one morning, but there were a few people there, and I lost my nerve. During my retreat back to the office I assured myself that this was for the best, and keeping my mouth shut about Ram was the only ethical thing to do. There was no future there. At least not while I was the president and he was in my protection detail. And I couldn’t be certain the entire thing wasn’t my overheated brain, spinning from some mixture of residual grief and the intensity of daily life.

I wouldn’t have said it before I was elected, but there’s something to being married in this job. You need someone you can trust at the end of the day to debrief with, and I missed that. It’s not the same talking to friends, even close ones. Familiar intimacy is something I didn’t realize I needed until it was gone.

Betty—being Betty—came by the second floor while I was eating dinner “to change out some arrangements,” i.e. check up on me.

I withstood her time-wasting futzing with the flowers until I couldn’t bear it, then invited her to the family kitchen for a cup of tea.

We stood around the island and I asked her the thing I’d decided not to ask her. Both because it wasn’t all that polite, and it was certainly crossing the line between employer and employee.

“After your George, did you find other men attractive? Did you ever feel for someone else what you…felt for him?” I bit off my apologies, since there was no point in asking a question you dearly wanted answered and only pretending to take it back a second later.

“Oh, I feel things, but it’s not the same. It’s different when you love each other when you’re young, I think. A different quality of love. Not better, or worse. But different.” She sipped her tea and nodded almost absently. “A different journey when the two of you grow together. When you’re older, you come to each other fully formed. Like I said, not better or worse. Why, ma’am? You conducting a survey of sorts?”

“Not a survey, no.”

“Mm hmm.”

I squared my shoulders. “Don’t you take a tone with me, Mrs. Sanderson. I’m no wayward child who needs scolding.”

“No, you’re not. And if we were just two women having a conversation I’d say it’s been time enough, and Mr. West would have never wanted you to be alone a second longer than you wished, and I’d tell you I was happy that you were feeling something for someone.”

Warmth spread through me until I replayed the first part of her sentence. “But we’re not just two women having a conversation.”

“We are not, Madam President.”

“I know it’s bad when you start calling me that. After all this is over, will you call me by my name, Betty? Just once?”

She smiled slightly. “Probably not, ma’am.”

“You don’t think I should…I mean, I don’t think I should say anything to him. I’m the president. It would be a nightmare for any man, and this one especially.”

“And he has a job to do that you telling him something like that would only get in the way of.”

I froze, caught between flat denial and relief that I didn’t have to be so careful with my words.

Betty held up a finger. “Oh, you don’t have to confirm it, I have eyes. You know nothing can happen with him in that position.”

“I know.”

“And even if he wasn’t, they’d come for him for other reasons if you started seeing each other.”

I’d been trying not to think about that. “Yes. I’m sure the phrase ‘don’t like the optics’ would be involved. But catering to the world’s transphobia isn’t a reason not to do something.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You’re saying something.”

She straightened up, all seventy years and five foot four of her. I realized suddenly that I had no idea if she’d even voted for me. “Ma’am, I don’t doubt that if you wanted to pursue a man, you’d find a way to do it.”

“But I shouldn’t. I know.” I didn’t want to slump. I wanted to show Betty Sanderson, who’d seen me in very dark times, that I wasn’t going to pout just because I couldn’t ask a man out on a date. “I’m probably making it up anyway.”

She snorted. “Now you’re just talking nonsense. If he was any more captivated by you, he’d have to step down for a conflict of interest. Oh, he hides it well—when you’re not in one of those pretty dresses, anyway—but he’s no fool.” She finished off her tea. “We’ve found ways of coordinating things in the past. You let me know if there’s anything you need, ma’am.” With that, she nodded and left me.

Specifically, left me standing in my kitchen wondering about the legacy of men in my office asking the residence staff to “coordinate things” for them, and pondering if I really wanted to join their number. It was at least true that I wouldn’t be cheating on anyone, but it wasn’t the way I wanted to live.

And in the age of Twitter and cell phone cameras, I doubted it could be gotten away with long anyway.

No, if I was going to date someone, it would have to be above board. Except the person I wanted to date was entirely off limits. I could hardly approach him and ask him to give up his career for the chance we might enjoy each other’s company over a cup of coffee.

We would enjoy each other’s company over coffee. I knew it. And I thought Ram did, too.