The First Affair (15 page)

“That’s . . . great.”

“Yeah, though,” I said, setting the groundwork for November, “I still think if something opened up at the White House, I’d go back, you know, maybe after the election.”

“Oh. How’s your family?” she asked politely.

I sat on a bench in the marginally cooler shade, unable to believe that this was us. That things could have gotten so strained. And I still wasn’t entirely sure why. Was it me, what I did? Or was that just the excuse? Were we friends all those years because she’d had only a few hundred people to choose from and now she had all of Los Angeles? “My what?”

“You texted that your mom was calling Erica late at night—is she worried about her?” she flailed.

“Um, she idles there and you never ask about my family,” I had to point out.

“That’s not true.”

“I meant it as a good thing.” The ice in my drink was already transforming into a watery top layer.

“Jamie, I have to go.”

“Lena—”

“Look, my mom says the RNC’s just waiting for Rutland to sneeze wrong. You have to be beyond careful. They’re searching for anything—
anything
—to hang him on. If the Supreme Court rules that Brianne Rice’s case can move forward, the way my mother’s friends are talking, they’re going to mobilize behind Rice and it’s just going to make them bolder.”

“It’s disgusting, the way she’s gone after him with this trumped-up witch hunt.”

“How can you say that now?” she asked too vehemently.

“
This
is not that. For you to even compare the two—”

“Fine. I’m sorry. But I know.
I
know I voted for a liar.”

“No, you don’t!” I was shrieking, but I couldn’t reel myself back.

“You’re doing that D.C. thing, Jamie, and you don’t even see it.”

“What?”

“Pretending the truth is flexible.” She sounded pained, furious.

“And this has nothing to do with Greg and everything to do with your dad.” Bringing up his infidelity was a low blow, and I didn’t know why I’d dealt it.

“Okay.” I could hear her breathe. “I see now why you don’t tell anyone shit. Because then they can’t throw it in your face.” She hung up.

I wanted to call right back and tell her,
I’m sorry! I’m on the next plane!
And,
Greg who?
And,
Wasn’t that crazy?

But I didn’t. I didn’t. Someone thought I was special and I wasn’t ready to let that go.

• • •

The Indian summer gave way to the first burst of an autumn that reflected my mood. The splashy reds and oranges arced overhead, forming a passionate canopy above my mind filled with equally passionate anticipation.

But as the chilling nights rolled on, one after the other, silent, the leaves drifted into the gutter, and my lust smoked like a damp fire in all that gray. The pumpkins were carved, the pumpkins were lit, and now they were starting to rot. And still he hadn’t called.

Matt McGeehan had changed his Facebook status to “In a Relationship,” and Rachelle and I were collectively spending too much money on crap wine and cigarettes. Halloween night she invited me to a DNC phone-banking party at the Marriott. It still amazes me that wherever I go, Halloween is the universal equalizer. Even there, in the nation’s capital, we looked like a roomful of prostitutes working a pledge drive. I thought I was being pretty conservative in my navy yoga shorts and red tank top, my hair knotted up with a braid of rope I got at the hardware store; my red hair and blue brain had inspired me to go as a swing state. But I was surrounded by an astonishing amount of fishnets and cleavage, ass cheeks and high heels. The guys sported fake mustaches, crotch padding, and chest wigs, making it hard to tell what they were costumed to be, other than just generally repulsive.

“Hello?” the next person on my list answered.

“My name is Jamie and I’m calling from the DNC on behalf of President Rutland—”

“He can go fuck himself.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said, jumping down to the end of the approved script.

“Ew.” Rachelle practically tossed her receiver on the table. She was dressed as a very sexy version of the Majority Leader’s miniature Pomeranian. You have to take my word for it. “In hindsight, phone banking on Halloween was a horrible idea. Are we going to get through to a single sober person?”

“Doubtful.” A man dressed as Callista Gingrich leaned in between us.

“Oh my gosh, Paul!” I leapt up. “What are you doing here?”

He sized up the room like he was expecting to run into someone. “I’ll go anywhere for a free Oreo.”

“I
love
your costume,” Rachelle complimented.

“Ronald?” he appreciatively confirmed hers.

“Thank you. If one more guy calls me Toto,” she said as we made the lady next to us move over so Paul could sit and filled three more Dixie cups with Hi-C. Suddenly, outside the double doors, the hallway air flashed white. “Is that him?” Rachelle pushed her chair back as I leapt up.

Paul nodded affirmatively, like this was all in a day. “Leaving the fundraiser downstairs.”

We scrambled around our folding table and out to the grand staircase lined with Secret Service, skidding to a halt. “We just want to . . .” Rachelle pointed over their shoulders. I assume that since we obviously couldn’t conceal a weapon in those outfits, they let us get close enough to peer between them. “Oh, this just made the story of tonight
so
much better,” she said, sliding her phone out of the waistband of her faux-fur hot pants.

We watched him glad-hand his way across the lobby toward the exit, each person twirled inside his green-eyed charisma for a moment they wouldn’t forget. Caught up in the excitement, Rachelle smiled and squealed at me as if we were at our first rock concert. I
stared, allowing myself to drink him in, fully opening every memory until my skin ached and I was jealous of every patted shoulder, every pressed palm. “I’m so sick of feeling outside everything.” Rachelle was suddenly deflated.

“I know.”

“Like I’m on the other side of the glass from life and I can’t seem to break through.”

I nodded.

“When do we get our turn, Jamie?” I knew she was staring at me beseechingly for a pep talk, but I had no answer and just couldn’t risk taking my eyes off him. I needed to memorize everything about how he moved and smiled and waved to get myself through the remaining days. In all the frenzy, I don’t know what made him look up.

But he did.

• • •

After another hour, we gave up on polling and decamped to a bar Paul suggested. The place was packed with people who were Halloween drunk, half-naked, and ready to make a mistake. Rachelle was surreptitiously scoping, elbows clasped at her side, straw pursed between her glossed lips, while Paul lifted on his toes, actively scanning. “Shit.”

“What?”

“My ex.”

“What’s the plan?” Rachelle asked like a Charlie’s Angel, immediately fierce behind her whiskers and pink nose. “Dumping a drink, begging for more, making out with someone else—how you wanna play this?”

Paul just blinked his false lashes. “I’m such an asshole.”

“No—why?” I touched his bare arm. “That wasn’t on Rachelle’s menu.” I ducked my head and peered between the elbows and boas to see a group of guys getting bottle service in a booth. “Which one?”

“Dressed as a milk carton—I bet he’s the one percent,” he said, sounding gutted.

“He’s really hot,” Rachelle acknowledged, patting his back. “Even in that costume.”

“He underplays it,” Paul said wistfully like it was a phrase from his diary.

“How long has it been?”

“Two months. Let’s get out of here.” Paul grabbed his jacket. “I’d thought if we ran into each other—Halloween was kind of our holiday and we had an in-joke about Callista, but look at me—this is ridiculous.”

“Want me to take you home—we could pick up ice cream?” I asked.

“No! No, that is
not
the story,” Rachelle intervened, taking his jacket back. “Paul, a guy who I think is government cheese is checking you out. You’re going to let him buy you a drink, swap stories and maybe saliva. Tonight’s the night to feel
better
about ourselves,” she said vehemently. “Jamie.” She swung to me. “Donkey wants you.”

“What?” And the moment it was out of my mouth, this guy wearing long ears swept me onto the makeshift dance floor. Beyoncé’s “Ring the Alarm” was playing, and I remember he had incredibly strong legs.

I don’t know who bought the drinks.

At one point I looked over and Paul was deep in conversation with the wedge of cheese and Rachelle was kissing someone wearing a white towel who was a Bill from
Schoolhouse Rock
. And then she left with him and Donkey programmed his number into my phone and the next thing I knew, I was helping Paul stumble into a cab. “How’d it go?”

“Awful.” He clutched for the door handle. “He was boring and arrogant and I had to keep looking like I was having a blast, which just made it ten times worse.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Fucking Rutland,” he muttered as we swerved and he listed into me.

“What?” I pushed him upright.

“I’m just a little over him right now. Not that you’d understand. You ran out of that ballroom like Justin Bieber was downstairs.”

I tensed. “So? Everyone reacts to him like that.” I squinted against an oncoming car with its brights up.

“Spoken like a staffer.” He stared out the window. “She denied it, too.”

“Who denied what?” I asked.

“Brianne. That’s why he left.”

“Who left? Paul, what are you talking about?”

“Tom.” Tears dripped out the corners of his heavily lined eyes, but his voice remained steady. “Him and his friends—
our
friends. They think I’ll be a fucking embarrassment, a turncoat, toxic for Tom’s career.”

“Sorry.” Drunk, adrenalized, confused, I scrambled to catch up. “What does Brianne Rice have to do with you?”

“
Nothing
,” he said, wiping his hand under his nose. “That’s what Tom refused to get. Just because I worked with her—witnessed one small thing. I’m one of hundreds of subpoenas they served in her case, which isn’t even going to proceed. As if the Supreme Court is going to rule against the fucking President. It’s a nonissue.” His face contorted and he put his palm to his stomach.

“What’s a nonissue?”

“My having to testify against Rutland.”

That’s when he puked.

• • •

I don’t know how long Gail’s phone had been ringing by the time I got Paul to his door and my key in the lock.

“What are you doing?” Greg was breathing heavily.

“What are
you
doing?” I unpeeled the vomit-crusted Lycra and flicked on the bedside lamp.

“Picturing you, leaning over the balcony like an angel—”

“I wasn’t leaning.”

“You have the most beautiful body. Your breasts, your thighs. I love touching your wet—”

I was sober. I stank of sour liquor and Oreos. Paul’s words still clanged in my aching head. Greg was finally calling, but I was a million miles from wherever he was. “I’m taking my clothes off.” It was true.

“You wearing a bra?”

“No.”

“Panties?”

The smell was so bad I wanted to throw everything out the window, but it was across the room. Who doesn’t own a cordless phone? “Yes.”

“Are you touching yourself?”

 . . . “Yes.” If rubbing my arms against goose bumps counted. “Where have you been?”

“I miss you so fucking much.”

“You do?”

“Seeing your smile tonight—I live for that smile.”

“My smile?” I sat on the bed, my feet throbbing from standing.

“I miss your voice, how it’s just a little bit husky, your skin, your freckles, God, they’re so fucking cute, the way you smell, like flowers and sex. I want you here with me right now. Always. I want to taste you. I want to hear you make that sound, how you groan when you come—” I heard him shudder.

The heat clicked on.

I rested back, mind reeling from all these new gifts, things I would always know. He thought I had a beautiful body. I would need to write it all down immediately before I jumbled what he missed and what he wanted with what he lived for. I let myself imagine him blissed out in my arms. I waited for him to speak.

A few minutes passed before I realized he’d hung up.

• • •

Paul came in late to work the next morning with a dry-cleaning reimbursement for me. I didn’t push him more about Tom—or Brianne. I knew he was mortified. And I knew he was lonely. And I understood both.

Election night was only four days later, less then a week for me to run both potential takes on that phone call until my brain hemorrhaged. Was I the love of Greg’s life—or a sex line? When the silence became unbearable, when I wanted to push myself to pull the trigger on leaving D.C. (if only so Gail’s phone could ring on unanswered as he realized what he’d taken for granted), I would imagine every scathing thing Lena would say if I called her—which I didn’t. The fact was
Lena’s dad had married the woman he left her mom for. And he and his new wife had been together for years. They had kids. So which was the mistake? The “mistress” or the first marriage? I decided that’s what I’d become the face of for her, pushing away the possibility that she was right—that truth had lost its moorings and I was submerged.

Paul had invited Rachelle and me to an election party near the office and as we walked from work, it felt like the city had reached such a frenzy of animosity, I half-expected the opposing parties to be coming down the street snapping their fingers like the Sharks and Jets. Rachelle was waiting on the corner, hunched in her red coat and jumping in her heels to keep warm.

“Ronald,” Paul greeted her.

“Callista.” She acknowledged him with a tilt of her head before abandoning any pretense of restraint and skipping up to us. “I’m sososo sorry if I made you barf from those shots.”

“And I was worried no one would want to talk about it.”

“We all do it.”

“No,
we
don’t.” He dipped his chin into his herringbone scarf. “
You
do. Because you’re twelve. I’m a hundred. Can we please go upstairs and eat shrimp now?”