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 dis
play 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 me 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 Seven
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 feel 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, and 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 1 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 of 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 allow 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.”