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  The news anchor stood with a microphone positioned near her face, her eyes bright. The White House stood far behind her, almost looking like a model. It was strange to me that I stood in that very building as I stared at it on the screen.

  “The president’s re-election campaign has released a statement regarding the drop in polls,” the woman began, her hair rattling around her slim face with the wind. “It states: ‘The president’s recent decision to enact positive change throughout the country’s education system has been misconstrued by a variety of people—and that is not the American people’s fault. Rather, our decision to make such change should be brought to you every step of the way for your complete comprehension and to insure absolute transparency. We are working day and night for a better, brighter American future, and we need your involvement.’”

  The news anchor went on from there, as well, stating that this was good news for the re-election campaign and for the president’s future. “A president that looks to the needs of the American’s future is a president we can trust,” the news anchor finished.

  The re-election campaign team cheered all around me. I felt my heart grow in my chest; I felt so assured. I turned toward Jason, who was shaking his head in amazement. “It seems we chose the exact right words,” he said, his eyes wide in his head.

  Suddenly, I felt something else: a hand on my shoulder. I spun around and felt my heart drop into my stomach. There, before me, was the President of the United States. He was wearing another one of his dark, brooding suits. And his eyes seemed to tear into me with such expressiveness. He smiled for only a moment. “Thank you for your hard work,” he said. He spun around, then, and disappeared without a trace, around the corner. I wondered what he’d be up to in the Oval Office, all by himself.

  I wondered what he thought about in there.

  But I shook it off and began clapping my hands in front of my crew. “Attention, all!” I called to them. “Please. Know that this was the first of many obstacles on our way to re-election. Get back to your computers, and let’s get ready to promote some votes!”

  Cheers rallied from all around. The people swept back in their suits, their trim dresses. Faces spun back into comprehensive work mode. I nodded primly toward Jason, as if to say: “That’s how it’s done.” But I knew he already felt a bit too shitty, as it is: after all, he’d been passed over as leader of the re-election team.

  But something still lingered in the back of my brain. What was going on with Xavier? Why was his touch on my shoulder so intimate, so outside of our surroundings for some reason? It felt like when he looked at me, we were the only two people in the room.

  This, of course, was silly; we were two people in outrageous exposure. We had no business looking at each other in any manner beyond a quick, furtive glance and perhaps a nod. I was his employee, I reminded myself. Nothing more.

  I sat at my desk at the helm of the great sea of workers and began analyzing the numbers. I buried myself in the work for a few hours, allowing the sun to ramp up in the sky over the White House.

  My phone started ringing, scaring me senseless for a moment. I brought my hand to my heart as I answered it, expecting to render another, short comment to a news source.

  “Hello, Miss Martin.”

  The words made my whole spine shiver.

  “Mr. President,” I said. I tipped my tongue to the top of my mouth after I said it, waiting in such apprehension. I watched a frenzied girl in the sea of people before me as she tapped at her computer keyboard over and over, her eyes anxious and wide.

  “I’d like it if you come to my office. I have something to ask you.”

  I stood unsteadily from my desk, feeling the world spin around me. I felt so many things when we were together around other people; what would I feel when it was just us? Together in a room, alone? My feelings from the day before had escalated greatly, I knew. Could I handle it?

  “I’ll be right there, Mr. President,” I said. I placed the phone down timidly and tapped toward the door, leaving the chaos behind me. I walked down the hallway, toward the oval office. I remembered the sheer anxiety I felt before the initial meeting with him. I was so sure I wouldn’t make the position! What anxiety—and all for nothing.

  I found Dimitri outside the door. He nodded at me, friendly.

  “He called me,” I shrugged, making light of it. “When the boss calls, you know.”

  Dimitri nodded, laughing. “Right? A bit scary when the boss is President of the United States. I suppose we’re united on that front now.” He winked at me and let me into the room, opening the door behind him.

  I found myself back in the Oval Office with the commanding president before me. He stood from his desk as I stayed, staring blankly forward. “Mr. President,” I addressed him, politely.

  He smiled in a small way and gestured toward the couch in the center of the room. “Please. Make yourself comfortable,” he said. It was a polite gesture but it felt more like a command.

  I sat, obediently. I blinked toward him. “Can I help you with anything?” I asked him coolly, not wanting to seem eager. Truly, however, his entire ego, his beautiful smile, the stunning way he walked toward me—it all made me crazy.

  “You did something really incredible back there,” he stated, bringing his hand through his dark hair. “You saved the campaign. On your first day.”

  I shrugged lightly, still allowing the compliment to glimmer through me. “It was worth saving.”

  He sat across from me, digging his hands into his pockets. “Have lunch with me,” he suddenly said, his eyes still faraway.

  I swallowed. “Lunch with you?”

  He nodded, almost half-heartedly. “I want to thank you for turning the news around, for making today a triumph instead of a disaster. Please. Say you’ll come with me. Just a private lunch downstairs, near the kitchen. You’ll love the room.”

  I felt the word come from my lungs so swiftly, like I couldn’t stop it: “Yes.”

  And from there, I felt my future forming before me. Like I couldn’t stop it, suddenly. Like it wasn’t mine to create.

  Chapter 6

  The president led me downstairs. I felt my hands shaking a bit at my side as I walked behind him, almost in his shadow. I’d never been in anyone’s shadow before, but I knew this was my natural place: he was President of the United States. That mansion was his home.

  The various staff passed us and nodded to him, not even looking at me. I felt invisible.

  He led me through the kitchen, through the bubbling soup pots, the fiery oven. I was amazed at the many workers who were poised over the heat, spinning their spoons wildly over the water. One of the chefs—a man with a white, poufy hat—turned toward me in an instant and winked at me. He pulled back to his work so quickly that I almost didn’t believe I’d seen the entire thing.

  Xavier pushed the final doors open and led us into a tiny nook with these incredible windows. The windows were open, allowing the breeze to waft over the perfectly-set table. The white table cloth seemed to glow in the sunlight.

  “Wow,” I couldn’t help but say.

  “I always have them make this table up for me when I’m feeling a little low,” he said, pulling the chair out and allowing me to sit. “I always come here to think. And eat, of course. But nearly no one knows this room exists. It’s my secret hideaway, I suppose.”

  I nodded, sitting across from him. I couldn’t believe he’d brought me there. I couldn’t think about what to say, and I sputtered: “Where do you see the campaign going over the course of the re-election season?”

  I almost wanted to bury my face in my hands. My words lacked so much tact. I’d jumped too far. He wanted to be friendly with me, and I’d stepped on his friendliness with formality. I bit my lip.

  But he took it in stride as he splayed the napkin over his lap. “Honestly, I’m open to much of what you stated in your interview. It seems that you have a good way of going about it—about the election. You have enough v
ision that you could be my competition.”

  The waiter came, then, and poured us both a small glass of white wine. The president brought his glass toward me, and I tipped my glass to his, offering a slight clink into the world. I shivered once more, sipping the wine.

  The president called back to the waiter. “Hey! Grant! Might we start with some of that fine garlic bread Yvonne made last week?”

  “Very good, sir,” Grant responded, darting back into the kitchen.

  I looked at the president, taking him in. “Anyway. I don’t know what you mean, running for the presidency,” I continued, laughing a bit to myself. “I’m not even eligible at my age.”

  He tipped his head to the right, eyeing me serenely. “Ah. Yes. You’re twenty-nine, correct?”

  I nodded, feeling my face grow hot. It was strange that we were there together, so intimately in the secret room of his mansion.

  “And already you are chief of the re-election campaign for the President of the United States. You must feel pride in that, no?”

  My face continued to burn as I searched for what to say. “I am very honored to be chosen for this position, sir,” I said, trying to project an air of confidence fitting of my job title.

  A stagnation occurred between us, then, as we searched for things to say. The waiter burst back into the room and placed the garlic bread between us. “Enjoy,” he said, winking at me. What was it with all these winks?

  I turned back toward the president. “Anyway. I just work too hard, that’s what my mother says,” I stated, digging into the garlic bread. My stomach was eating me alive.

  But the president laughed at this, good-naturedly. “Yeah, my mother says that, too. You should be proud of all you’ve worked for. I admire it, you know. I was backed by some very important people when I was quite young, charging me into my future. But you: it seems you’ve worked from the ground up. And look at you, Amanda.”

  I felt so strange, like I was on display in that moment. I turned my head down, gazing at my slim-cut power suit. I bit my lip. “I don’t know. I had a great deal of support.”

  Xavier placed his wine back on the table. He positioned his fingers only a few inches from mine on the white cloth. “I just want you to know, Amanda, that you have a future here at the White House. Chief of Staff, maybe. Secretary of State. Even the presidency itself.” He smirked

  My eyes began to water as a mixture of emotions welled up inside of me. On one hand, I felt pride in the fact that he could see great things in me. On the other hand, I felt as though he was playing a game. Chief of Staff? Secretary of State? He could see me in those roles based on a press release? And that smirk—what did it mean?

  I felt so restless, so unsure. His eyes seemed so focused on me; I suddenly wanted to burst from the windows and fly across the green lawn, back to freedom. But this place, I knew, was where I belonged.

  I cleared my throat. “I appreciate your assurance in me, Mr. President.” I said the words with sterility. “Of course, you’ll understand that I’m not so sure of myself just yet. It’s only my first day in the position. I think I should test myself a bit more before I go entertaining such grand ideas.”

  “But look at you. You’re here in my secret lair, eating garlic bread—only one day into your job,” he laughed, bringing his arms wide with a bit of charisma. “Surely you must be special.” I liked this side of him: the playful side.

  But I needed to change to topic, to find another course. “So. Your wife. How is she doing, these days?”

  He brought his hands down slowly, down to his side. The garlic bread sweated before us, emitting such amazing smells throughout the small breakfast nook. “Camille?” he asked.

  I nodded, knowing that I had suddenly touched on a sore spot. I felt terrible, knowing in my heart that I had asked for inappropriate reasons. I wanted to know what was behind the curtain; I wanted to discover the intricacies of their relationship. I tried to tell myself I needed to know for professional reasons, to manage his image.

  “Camille and I, well. We met so long ago, as you probably know.”

  “College, right?” I asked him, reaching for another piece of garlic bread. God, was it good. The bread melted in your mouth, leaving a buttery sensation that sent me to the clouds.

  The president nodded. “So long ago. We were just kids. And even then, I knew there wasn’t something—well. I knew there wasn’t something right about us.”

  I felt the garlic bread dissipate in my mouth. I allowed the crust to drop to the plate, knowing that he was about to deliver something to me—information that was hardly confided in anyone, ever. I leaned forward, craning my ears.

  “Well,” Xavier began, tapping his fingers on the white cloth beneath their plates. The table shook a bit, casting strange sunlight through the glass. “Sometimes, what you see on the outside isn’t the real picture. There’s the pretty picture, of course—the one everyone, the precious voters, wants to see. But then there’s the at-home life. The troubled life. The one you know you never really wanted.”

  I nodded for a moment, pitying him in a way. For so much of his life, everything had worked out in his favor: he’d had his career, his marriage. The great country was at his feet. But then, everything was complex, as well. He wasn’t happy in his marriage. He was stuck sneaking around with me—this girl he hardly knew, telling her things he shouldn’t tell anyone.

  I wondered, in those moments that dripped between us, filled with such tension, if he felt he could trust me. I wondered if he delivered this information to be in a sort of sealed package, reaching out to me as if to say: help me, please; I’m drowning.

  I concealed a smile with my garlic bread, then, feeling as though the winds of change were shifting in my favor. The president was peering toward me, curious about me. And all the while, it seemed I simply had to sit there, filled with such longing for his mind.

  Chapter 7

  Over the following few weeks, I found myself continually in the president’s presence. We’d built a rapport that seemed so natural. We’d speak sincerely—with these small smiles on each other’s faces—as we discussed the seriousness of the polls, of the employees. I’d fight with him a bit, still feeling like we were playing this strange game—one that had begun in earnest with that private lunch. I felt like every time I walked away from him, back toward my desk, I could fee his eyes on my body, on my slim waist. I shimmied this way, then that as I walked, playing to his wants. I couldn’t help it; I just loved to win.

  The lunches grew more frequent, as well. And the late-night drinks in the office happened more and more. Often, other people were there, complaining about the other party, wringing their hands about the polls. But a few glasses of wine in, Xavier and I would be laughing, holding our stomachs in such a way that looked nearly comical. I can say honestly that I’ve never laughed that much, not in all my years. I’d always been so serious. But I felt it fall away from me like a shadow whenever he was around.

  Of course, I tried to shake myself out of it every evening when I arrived home. “What are you doing?” I’d whisper to myself in the mirror, removing my shirt at nearly one in the morning, tired from a full day of working and a full night of drinking. “Get a grip!”

  A few weeks after our initial lunch, we sat together in that same room off from the kitchen. Again, the light filled it. But the light was different, illustrating a different time: the coming of late summer, the coming of fall. By this time, the waiter had learned my name and my tastes. He made me a beautiful green salad with strawberries, blueberries, and spinach. “For the lady,” he said, winking at me once more.

  I pierced my fork through a strawberry and lifted it to my mouth. I looked up at Xavier, who hadn’t touched his food yet. His eyebrows furrowed into his eyes. He was thinking about something that troubled him.

  “Are you all right, Xavier?” I asked him softly. I’d grown to understand that he liked a soft touch, sometimes—that the stresses of his presidential lifestyle didn’t a
llow for simple, easy conversation. He was always concerned with the state of the world, and he wasn’t allowed to look inwardly. Not often, at least.

  He shook his head, trying to push beyond the muddled nature of his brain. “Of course,” he said. “Of course.” He smiled at me, shifting in his chair. “Can I ask you a personal question, Amanda?”

  I raised my eyebrow at him, sensing a serious issue fueling from his lips. “Sure.”

  “I just. I wondered about your love life. If you’re—if you’re seeing anyone.”

  My face burned, suddenly. I shifted my gaze out the window, where I saw a small, white bird floating through the easy, late-summer breeze. The question felt innapropriate—as though it was leading to something more. I instantly told myself I was silly; had I not asked him questions of a similar nature? But I told myself that I had reason—his personal life is his professional life, as far as the public is concerned. What interest should he have in mine?

  Though I was beginning to suspect that I knew.

  “I’m not seeing anyone,” I said, disallowing myself from giving him another response, telling myself to not let things go there/

  He hung his head. “I shouldn’t be talking about this, of course. I just feel like we’ve grown close over the weeks—that you understand me, in a lot of ways.”

  I nodded, biting my lip. God, I was usually confident and commanding but every time I was around him he made me nervous. “I feel the same way,” I said quietly and with more sincerity than I had anticipated. “I don’t have many people to talk to.”

  I still gazed out the window, uncertain about the ways in which my words would affect our relationship, the very beautiful friendship we had cultivated. And while I knew my feelings were growing, surely it could go no further.