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Though the conversations throughout the room have resumed, Jordan watches me like a hawk from the table. His expression asks if I need any help. I appreciate that he hasn’t leapt to my aid, which would have drawn even more unwanted attention my way. Sending him a smile, I wave to let him know I’m fine and I’ll be back soon. Then, I turn to David.

“Right. Okay. Well, it was nice to see you again—David—and I apologize for—”

“I wasn’t there for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“At the psychiatrist’s office the other day? I drove my uncle there for an appointment.”

“Okay.”

“I just didn’t want you to think…”

“Of course.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with—I mean,
you
were there. I mean—” Looking away, he combs his fingers through his dark curls. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I’m not very good at expressing myself.”

I give him a polite smile. “I’d like to stay and chat, but—” I nonchalantly glance toward the ladies room. My bladder is about to explode, and if I wait one more minute I just might have another embarrassing moment.

“Right,” David says. “Sorry.”

“You say that a lot.” I offer a little laugh, knowing that the majority of our dialogue has been based on apologies.

As I turn to go, David’s eyes remain fixed on mine. It’s a little awkward—but nice, too. He gives a little wave, tucks his tray under his arm, and turns toward the kitchen as I head straight for the bathroom.

Relieved at last, I exit the restroom while tugging my left glove back up to my elbow. Not far from where I am, Mama and Papa stand beside each other as numerous cameras snap poses of them for the press. The pics will likely show up in every major paper before dawn. But something doesn’t seem right. Papa’s arm is wound tightly around Mama’s waist, as she lists to one side like a sinking ship. Each time she starts to collapse, he props her back up for another round of pics. Then I realize—Mama’s smashed.

I’ve never seen Mama drunk before.

When the cameras start to disperse, Mama pulls away from Papa and heads back toward the bar. She lifts a glass from the counter, but Papa takes it from her and sets it down again.

“Ana, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

She doesn’t say anything, but gives him a playful little smirk. Picking up the glass, she swallows it down. This isn’t at all like her.

Papa frowns. Then he straightens his tie and half turns toward the room. His voice is louder than it needs to be, loud enough so that several people turn to look.

“Suit yourself, Ana. Just be sure to take enough insulin tonight to cover all that champagne.”

Marching away, he leaves Mama alone with her empty glass. Jordan’s already there with her, holding her elbow to keep her steady. He’s too concerned about Mama to notice me.

I’m about to join them when I feel a tentative tap on my shoulder. I prepare for the tsunami of memories and feelings that are sure to follow, but nothing comes. Mama’s shawl is a thin but adequate shield between David’s skin and mine.

“Listen Mira,” he says, his eyes locking on mine. “This party’s about over. What do you say we grab a cup of cocoa?”

“I
can’t leave,” I tell
David, keeping Mama in my line of sight. “My father would kill me.” But I have to admit, the offer is tempting. I’ve hardly had a moment alone since I’ve been home from the hospital.

“We won’t go far,” David urges. “There’s a Starbucks just outside at the corner.”

Across the room, Papa’s attention is on Mama. Even Jordan has temporarily forgotten about me as he helps Mama to a chair. I watch the security team for a second. At the moment, all eyes are on them. Maybe a few minutes away wouldn’t hurt.

“Is there a back way out of here?”

David smiles wide. “Come on.”

I follow David through the kitchen and down the back stairs. A minute later we’re in Starbucks ordering two hot chocolates with whipped cream. Taking a table in the back near the window, we jump right into conversation, knowing that there’s only twenty minutes to closing.

“So, you’re Alberto Ortiz’s daughter? Well, that’s totally intimidating,” David laughs, undoing his bowtie and stuffing it into his pants pocket.

I swirl the whipped cream into my drink with a straw; the white froth perfectly matches my gloves. “Yeah, right. I believe my bumbling has already proven that there’s nothing intimidating about me.”

“By your bumbling, you must be referring to your falling all over me.”

He cringes at his own comment, as I burst into laughter.

“That sounded very wrong,” he says with a groan.

The TV hanging over the counter is way too loud, so I lean over the table a little to hear David better. “But you knew who I was before, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” he says. “I mean, I saw you at school sometimes, and I knew your name, but I didn’t make the connection until now.”

“I see. So, if we went to the same school you must live in Flintridge.”

“Actually, I live with my Tio Ramón in North Hollywood. I got special permission to go to school in Flintridge because he’s the custodian there.”

“And you work as an events server on the side?”

“Just for the summer. I’m socking away every penny to pay for college.”

“Really? What do you want to study?”

David drops his head, seemingly embarrassed. “Government,” he answers quietly. “I want to go into politics.”

“Now you’re just trying to impress me,” I tell him. His smile vanishes and his eyes get wide. Now I
am
intimidating him. I fish for something to say to set him at ease. “I thought for sure you must be studying herpetology.”

He laughs at my allusion to our first meeting. “The study of reptiles and amphibians?”

“Charlie
is
a reptile, isn’t he?”

Leaning back in his chair, David’s face relaxes into a comfortable grin. “A bearded dragon, actually; and Charlie is a
her
. I take her with me sometimes to keep me company. She jumped off my shoulder just as you came into the room that day. I made a nose dive for her, but you—well, the rest is—”

“The rest is history I’d rather forget.”

“Really?” asks David, a twinge of disappointment in his voice. “I’m kind of glad it happened.” When he smiles those dimples of his send pleasant chills through my body.

“So, what about you?” he continues. “Other than the fact you’re the future first daughter of California I know nothing about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me one thing that no one else knows.” Unwrapping the straw, he plunges it into his drink.

Something no one else knows. For a second I actually consider telling him about my condition, but I don’t want him to realize how weird I really am—at least not yet.

“Well, I was adopted. But I guess my parents know about that, and a couple of other people, so that doesn’t really count.”

“Adopted? I would have never guessed. You look so much like your dad.”

David takes a long, hard pull on his straw. A moment later he’s gasping, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

“Oh gawd!” he says, his words distorted. “I burned my tongue!”

Rushing to the counter, I ask for some ice water. While the cashier fills a Styrofoam cup, I glance up at the TV to see a local anchor covering a story about a murder trial.  As soon as I get the cup, I promptly return and hand it to David. He fills his mouth with the water, swishes it around, and swallows.

“Better?” I ask, trying to restrain myself from laughing. This guy is something else. Handsome as heck, but naïve and sweet and…

David nods, shrugs, and then laughs again. “I’m making a great first—I mean, second impression, aren’t I?”

Is he for real? Could
any
guy be this nice?

“Hold on.” I raise my hand to point out a spot of white at the corner of his mouth. He flinches, jerking his head back. We both freeze.

“I’m sorry.” I say, feeling suddenly awkward. “You have some whipped cream…”

David licks off the cream, groans, and drops his head onto his arms. Then raising his eyes, he looks at me with a pained expression. “Could we just start over?”

“Sure we can.” I try not to giggle like a relieved schoolgirl.  “As long as we erase my tripping over you at the doctor’s office, stabbing you with my stiletto heels, and flinging mushroom puffs and mums all over the place.”

“Done. But only if…”

“If what?”

“If you let me take you out tomorrow night.”

I hesitate. This isn’t quite what I had planned when I got all gussied up tonight for an event I didn’t even want to attend. Grabbing a cup of cocoa is one thing, a date is quite another.

“I just recently got out of relationship.” The words come out so fast, I sound almost robotic.

“Oh.” Lifting his cup, David takes a cautious sip.

His single word response catches me off-guard. What did I expect? For him to protest? To insist? To beg and plead? Was he really giving up on me so easily? I had recently broken up with my boyfriend. At least…he would have broken up with me if I’d given him the chance. So would a date be so terrible?

The sound from the TV is now so loud I can hardly hear myself think. The cashier must have turned up the volume. I’m about to get up and ask him to turn it down a little, but the face staring back at me from the screen stops me in my tracks.

“Hey, isn’t that your dad?” asks David.

I nod and listen.

“Alberto Ortiz, former Rawley Pharmaceutical CEO and frontrunner in the race for the Governor’s mansion, denies any knowledge of wrongdoing on the part of Rawley researcher, Gregory Stark. Three weeks ago documents were turned over to law enforcement stating that Stark allegedly performed human trials of the ‘wonder drug’, Gaudium, prior to FDA approval. Unfortunately, Stark is unavailable for questioning. He has been dead for sixteen years.”

The TV switches off and the Starbucks cashier announces that it’s closing time. David and I empty our cups and toss them into the garbage on the way out. It’s barely midnight, but from the trail of well-dressed guests streaming out of the convention center, it looks like the fundraiser is officially over.

We laugh as we step out of the shop, but our laughter is cut short by the sound of a sharp metallic
click
. David sucks in a nervous breath and freezes in place. His eyes widen in fear, and for good reason. Someone’s got a gun pressed against his temple.

I
immediately recognize the gun
as Jordan’s Colt pistol, and take a deep breath.

“You move, you’re dead,” growls Jordan.

“What are you doing?” I’ve never seen Jordan draw his gun before, let alone point it at anyone. “Put that thing down!”

Jordan ignores me, roughly shoving David’s head with the gun barrel. “Who are you?” he shouts. “Put your hands where I can see them!”

David obliges, raising his hands in the air immediately. This is crazy. What does Jordan think he’s doing?

“Jordan, stop!” I yell. “You’re scaring him!”

“Where have you been?” asks Jordan, finally acknowledging me.

“Here!” I yell back, trying to steady my voice. I’m starting to feel scared. “We’ve been right
here.
We had hot chocolate, for God’s sake, not holding up a bank!”

“You’re in serious trouble, Mira.” Jordan’s voice is loud and angry. “Luckily one of the kitchen staff alerted us when you turned up missing. Jesus! What the hell were you thinking?”

I’ve never seen Jordan like this before, his eyes wild with rage. But his hand—the one holding the gun—is frighteningly steady.

“I-I guess I wasn’t thinking,” I’m trying to find the words that will calm Jordan and allow David to run. God knows, by now he should want to run as far away from me as he can.

“And you,” Jordan continues his tirade, aiming his words at David, “I should shoot you right here where you stand. Kidnapping is a very serious charge.”

Shoot David? Would he
really
do that?

“I didn’t kidnap her, sir,” says David, his voice
surprisingly calm.

Four members of Papa’s security detail exit the convention center. One spots us and begins speaking into the mic on his lapel.

“It was my fault,” I stress. “I needed to get out of there, Jordan. I’m sorry I snuck away. I was only going to be gone for a few minutes. I swear! I just lost track of time. Please put the gun down.
Please
.”

The security team jogs toward us, guns drawn. Jordan looks at them and then at the few spectators that have gathered to gape at us.

Finally lowering his pistol, Jordan tucks it beneath his jacket. “It was nothing, boys,” he shouts out to the team, stepping away from David. They secure their weapons and turn their attention to dispersing the crowd.

Just then Papa’s Mercedes pulls up to the sidewalk. The back window rolls down and Papa’s angry face appears. “Get in the car,” he demands.

Jordan climbs into the car beside the driver, slamming the door shut. I turn to David with an apologetic expression. “Thanks for the hot chocolate.” I search my brain trying desperately to say anything that will make sense. “I’m so sorry about this.”

To my surprise, David smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “No problem. It’s not every day I get mistaken for a criminal mastermind.”

“It’s not funny, David.”

“Maybe not, but it’s over now.”

“Yeah,” I say. It is over, isn’t it? I barely know this guy and I’ve already blown it. I turn toward the car.

“Hey,” David adds, “what about that date?”

Our date? 
Is he serious?
After all this?

I really am shocked. “Sure. Okay.”

Papa honks the horn, or at least he’s instructed his chauffeur to do the job.

“Six o’clock tomorrow night?” asks David expectantly. “I’ll come by your house and pick you up.”

He asks for my number, and I quickly recite it while he inputs it into his phone.

“The media’s going to show up any second,” Papa states in an annoyed voice from inside the car. “And your mother’s not feeling well. Mira, get in the car. Now.”

“Meet me at the park on Foothill Boulevard instead,” I tell David in a quick whisper.

“You’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there.”

Opening the back door, I slide into the car beside my mother. Her head rests against Papa’s shoulder and her skin looks a tad bit green. Jordan shoots me a reproving glare from the front seat before Papa slaps the driver’s headrest and the car lurches forward.

I don’t dare look back.

“Was
that
really necessary?” I ask once we’re on our way. My question is directed at Jordan, but Papa answers.

“How could you be so irresponsible?” His voice comes out in a forced hiss. “Do you have any idea of the commotion you caused? Somehow I managed to keep the guests from finding out that the future governor’s daughter had outwitted security and run off to God knows where.”

Papa’s eyes dart angrily to the back of Jordan’s head.

“Don’t blame Jordan,” I snap. “The last place I wanted to be tonight was surrounded by a bunch of people I don’t even know. I just needed to get away for a few minutes.”

Clamping his mouth shut, I can see the muscles tense along Papa’s jaw. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He’s calming himself down, trying to act dignified.

“I called your cell phone several times,” he says in a restrained tone. “You could have just told me where you were going.”

“And have half your security team hovering over my shoulder? Your little surprise attack back there was embarrassing enough, thanks.”

“If I’d been able to reach you, maybe we could have avoided a scene.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I left my phone at home.”  Where would I have carried a cell on an evening dress with no pockets?

“That’s a bad habit, Mira. There’s a reason I bought you that phone.”

Yeah, so he can track me day and night. Stupid parental controls. GPS sucks.

“It was all good,” I tell him. “We just got something to drink and were on our way back.”

“Who the hell is he anyway?” Papa asks.

“His name is David. He was a server at your party.”

“Oh, that’s just great. You ran off with the hired help.”

“That’s not fair, Papa, and you know it. He’s actually very nice.”

“Fine, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

“He plans to go into politics.”

Papa casts me a derisive glance. The car radio is playing and a news report comes on, but Papa tells the driver to shut it off.

We drive for a few minutes in silence. Mama’s eyes are closed. I’m jealous. She’s the lucky one; she’s fallen asleep. Papa looks down at her. He tugs off one of his evening gloves and touches her hair, gently shifting it away from her face.

“I was worried about you,” he says, his voice so low that I doubt Jordan or the driver can hear him. He looks up just long enough for me to catch the apologetic expression on his face before turning back to Mama.

The city is quiet, just the lights from the shops and gas stations, and headlights from the occasional car can be seen. I let the events of the day play over in my mind, taking care to avoid the part about stepping on David’s foot and the evening’s disastrous
ending. Instead, I think of David’s eyes. Deep, warm brown. The kind of eyes you can get lost in and never want to be found. I think of his hands. Strong hands with long, lean fingers and broad palms. I felt them when he stopped me from falling at Dr. Walsh’s office, and again when he helped me up from the floor at the fundraiser.

I glance at Papa. He’s got the evening glove clutched in his fist and he’s slapping it against his knee.

“You really are worried, aren’t you?” I ask.

“Hmm?” The slapping stops. “About the inquiry? Heavens no.” 

It’s not what I meant, but I don’t tell him so.

“Like I told the press,” he continues, “what that Stark did on his own time has nothing to do with me. The matter will soon be forgotten.”

He offers me a smile but quickly turns away, staring out the window. I can see his reflection; he looks apprehensive, and soon he is lost in thought again. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to intrude, so I turn to my own window. And yet I cannot shake the feeling that no matter how adamantly Papa insists everything will be fine, deep down he knows it won’t be.