I righted myself and then peered over at the clock on the bedside table. My eyes grew large. “Shit!” I pushed myself from bed and sprang toward the shower, knowing that I was already 30 minutes late for work. I scrubbed at my scalp, at my back quickly, my mind rushing. Shit! I knew that we had a big campaign meeting again that morning—one to right the mistakes of the previous day, of course. I pulsed from the shower and wrapped a towel around my body, shaking at my hair. The water splashed everywhere. God, I didn’t want to go to work this day—I wanted to lounge around, cure myself of this terrorizing headache. Why! So much wine!
I stood out in the hallway, shuffling into my clothes and preparing for the day. I grabbed my briefcase and began shoving papers into it, feeling so frazzled. I tried to remember everything that we were meant to do for the meeting, every topic I was meant to cover. But the hangover hung over me like a cloud.
I heard the door creak to my right, and Rachel shuffled from the room, rubbing at her eyes. “What happened last night,” she teased in a croaking voice. “God, we’re not in college anymore. Do you want me to call you in sick?”
I laughed, feeling the strain of it hurt my back, my sides. “Everything hurts,” I murmured. “I have to go to a campaign meeting. I’m already late.”
I shuffled into the hallway and down the steps. A taxi was poised at the intersection outside the apartment building, and I pummeled into it, spewing the words: White House. I thought I was going to throw up.
But by the time we arrived at the White House, I had applied my makeup, brushed through my hair. I was feeling a bit better already. I sniffed and paid the taxi driver a bit extra than normal, thanking him for the use of his mirror. He said he did it all the time.
I rushed into the White House and flung myself down the hallway, knowing that everyone would be lined up at their tables, looking up at Jason—or perhaps Xavier—expectantly. Waiting and searching and waiting for me.
I took a deep breath and then shoved the door open, blinking out over the crowd. Standing next to the computer was Jason, who was wearing a typically wrinkly shirt and a pair of black, wrinkled pants. He turned his nose down to me and scoffed. “Look who decided to show up,” he stated, his eyebrow raised.
I smiled. A few of the people on the campaign team whopped and hollered from the innards of the crowd. I waved. “Sorry, sorry. I have no excuse beyond my aching headache.” I winked at a girl in the front row. In that moment, I realized that the president hadn’t arrived to the meeting yet, either. I turned toward Jason expectantly. “What have you covered?” I asked him.
Jason smacked his hand on the board. “We can’t cover anything! The president hasn’t showed his face in here yet, and you’ve only just arrived. We’ve been sitting here, scratching our asses!”
Only a few people snickered in the first few rows. I felt embarrassed for him, even though he was the one holding my entire livelihood over my head. I swallowed and tugged at my skirt. “Okay, Jason. Let’s get started. Shall we?”
The campaign team cheered for me as I righted myself up toward the front and began where I’d left off the previous day. I gestured wildly, made a few jokes, and generally made Jason steam where he stood, so incredibly angry that I was successful, the life of the party. And he was just the maniacal douchebag, ready to ruin my life through ill means.
“Do you have any questions?” I finally asked.
A few of the campaign members raised their hands, asking about the president’s stance on one thing or another. I realized that it was strange that Xavier hadn’t arrived yet to watch over the meeting. I bit my lip.
“Jason. Do you want to take over from here? About our press release about the tax reconstruction?”
“Giving me the fun parts, huh?” Jason teased. But I wouldn’t laugh at him; I wouldn’t give him anything.
I scurried toward the door and opened it, ready to go find Xavier. But suddenly, I met him—face-to-face outside. I gulped almost audibly and touched my hair, fe
eling like a nervous middle schooler.
“Xavier,” I gasped. I opened the door a bit wider, and his eyes met with mine with such zeal, such life. In that moment, I wanted to kiss him, to have him take me right there.
He entered the conference room, interrupting Jason’s spiel about taxes. He held up his hands and greeted the crowd. Each member nearly stood with their adoration with him, clapping their hands for this man they were going into battle for.
“You’ve all done such an excellent job this week. Which is why I want to make sure you all have a decent time off. Please. Everyone. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon. This is one of the last beautiful days of the year. And I’m certainly not going to miss it.” Xavier allowed them to see his stunning smile.
The campaign workers cheered and began scurrying from their chairs, toward the door. Jason stood, deflated, by the computer, tapping at the PowerPoint over and over. I smirked at him, if only for a moment.
As the people began to exit the conference room, Xavier leaned toward me. “I was actually hoping we could have a private meeting. Just you and me,” he whispered. “I have a few things to go over with you.”
“About the campaign?” I asked him, blinking wildly and smiling at him in that girlish way.
He nodded, placing his hand lightly at the small of my back. “Yeah. Of course. The campaign. I totally care about that right now.”
I allowed my head to drape back; I allowed myself to laugh for perhaps the first time in weeks—to truly laugh. Behind Xavier, I saw Jason looking on with a black expression on his face. “You can’t ruin me forever,” I thought all at once.
The president led me down the hallway, continually looking behind him to make sure no one was watching. When we skirted around a side hallway, he reached down and grabbed my hand, looking at me with these boyish eyes. “This is my very favorite, secret room of the entire White House,” he whispered.
The butterflies rose up in my stomach, nearly strangling me with my nervousness. I could hear my heels trample beneath me with every step, and thus I reached down and removed them, walking in stocking feet through the most beautiful building on earth. I swallowed with fear.
Finally, he pushed open a door at the end of a long, blue hallway. The door led us into a small, four-seat movie theater with a long, skinny table before the seats. The place was designed in the spirit of the 1940s—or perhaps during the 1940s. I spun toward him and squeezed his hand, allowing the door to close behind us with a commanding seal.
“This is it? This is your favorite secret room?” I whispered.