He scoffed, shaking his head. “That old crabby man. You don’t want to talk to him.”
I felt offended for Jimmy, even though I was lying. “I’m certain you don’t mean to speak of your supporters that way,” I reprimanded. I readjusted my folders. “You’re going to need all the help you can get next fall. I crank these numbers every day. Talking to Jimmy is going to give me insight on how to proceed.” My words were so forceful, brimming with anger. I could feel him deflating before me, and the thought of his sadness brought me a small sliver of pleasure.
He brought his hand out to grab my wrist as I walked by. I turned my head, frowning. I still didn’t give him my eyes. “I told you. After the meeting with Jimmy, sometime before the next re-election campaign. Please respect that I’m doing everything in my power to get you re-elected.” These final words were my stand, assuring him that I was capable, that I wasn’t some silly 29-year-old bimbo. I wasn’t Clinton’s intern. I had pounded my way to the front door of the White House and I wasn’t turning away without a fight.
“But—Amanda.” He was pleading with me now. I could hear it in his voice. “Know that this isn’t a work matter. I need to speak with you about something private.”
I spun toward him once more on my way to the door. I was sure that the president was not used to being walked out on. I tipped my head to the right, thinking that a private matter was nothing I wanted to talk about then. Not now. Perhaps not ever. “A private matter?”
“Yes. It’s incredibly urgent.” More words of pleading, of anxiety. His heart was clearly lurking beneath his eyes.
But I just turned my eyes toward my papers. “I’m incredibly busy the next few days. But I’ll see what I can do,” I said to him, still speaking as if this was about the campaign. My voice was rimmed with authority. “My best to you and Mrs. Callaway.”
And then I was out of there, leaving that final spurn in the air between us. I caught my things up at my desk, and then I spun toward the door. I sped down the steps, my heart still in my throat. I couldn’t believe I’d just turned away from the man I truly loved. I felt so strong, so empowered in this moment—even as I felt that my heart was breaking.
I soon found myself speeding away in a taxi. I felt myself diving into a state of solitude. I couldn’t even dredge up the words to say thank you to the taxi driver. I found myself dragging up to Rachel’s apartment, feeling so low. I thought of the events coming over the next few days, and I couldn’t picture myself at any of them. Something was shrouding over my mind, over my muscles. It forced me into the chair by the window, a glass of wine in my hand. I didn’t know yet that I was coming into sadness, into a sense of mourning. I had never fallen in love before; I’d never lost love before. I sipped at my wine.
Rachel burst through the door about an hour later. She placed her bag on the table and sat beside me, placing her hand at my back. She pursed her lips before asking, “So. Did you tell the media? His wife?”
I shook my head slowly, feeling a bit of laughter churn up from my stomach. Of course I didn’t tell on him. He was my love; he’d been my life. I was trying to shell myself to him. But I was rattling around, feeling empty. I laid my head on my friend’s shoulder, and she sighed beside me. “It’s going to be okay, Amanda. Do you think—do you think you could stay home?” she whispered.
I shook my head, feeling the anxiety ramp through my arms, my legs. “I have so much to do for the campaign. I can’t stay home. Not tomorrow, not ever.” I felt my voice break as I said the words. I felt myself begin to shake.
“Shh,” Rachel began. She rubbed at my neck and held me. I didn’t realize that I was crying so profusely, that I was allowing all the emotion from the previous few days to exit my body. She brought a Kleenex toward me, and I sighed into it,
quaking.
“What am I going to do?” I kept asking her—her and the world. I hadn’t realized that all this emotion had been brimming to the surface all along. The stress I had been under was too much, far too much for any one person to handle. However, I had thought I could handle it, like I could handle anything else. I had thought that it would work itself out. I had thought I could beat Jason at his game.
As I sat and cried with my friend that evening, I knew that I had to stay home, at least for the rest of the week. I knew that I needed to escape the penetrating anxiety of the White House if I was going to live through the campaign. This would be the wayward way I worked through the emotion of the previous few weeks. I would release the emotion I held inside of me. I would say I was sick—say anything at all to get me out of the office. Then, I would return a brand new person, the type of person who would never be caught with her skirts up around the President of the United States. No. Never.
Rachel tucked me in that evening, and I stayed in bed the following day until noon. I stretched my arms high above my head, still feeling the stifling anxiety glimmer through my brain. I knew this meant I wasn’t ready, that I couldn’t face the music. I reached toward my cell phone and dialed a number I thought I’d never dial again.
“Jason,” I croaked into the phone. I even sounded sick to myself. My heart pumped slowly in my chest.
“Amanda,” Jason hissed, his voice urgent. “Where the hell are you? We’re supposed to have the re-election campaign meeting in 10 minutes. I don’t have any of your notes.”
I nearly laughed out loud, but I kept it cranked in tightly. Clearly, Jason hadn’t been doing his job. If he’d been following along in our countless meetings, during our countless discussions about the campaign, he should have everything he needed to guide the troops, so to speak. But he didn’t. Not even close.
“I’m sick, Jason,” I said sweetly. I turned over on my pillow and gazed toward the wall. “I’m so, so sick. I probably won’t be there tomorrow, either. Please. Just do the best you can. Fake it till you make it. I know that’s what you do, anyway.” My voice croaked a bit as I spoke, but the sentiment lingered strong.
He paused, huffing into the phone. “If you don’t get here immediately, I’m going to tell your boyfriend I know all about yours and his little shenanigans.”
This threat didn’t make me quake, even for a moment. My “boyfriend” already knew about Jason’s comprehension of our non-relationship. But I just giggled into the phone. “I’d love to be there when you tell him, so please, please don’t yet.”
“Um.” Jason’s surprise was apparent over the phone. “Well. You’re sick, huh? Okay. Um. I can get through this. Just—if you could send me a few of your notes?”
I snorted and pretended it was all a part of my illness. “Oh, excuse me. Um. I don’t honestly know where they are right now. I’m on my way to the doctor. But I’ll try to get them to you as soon as possible. Okay, Jason? You can do this, man.” I hung up the phone with a smile, loving the feeling of tossing Jason out on a lifeboat, into the wind-tossed sea. Would he sink? Would he float? One was better for me, as a campaign leader. And one was far more likely and far, far more hilarious.
But this happiness—this joy at his struggles—flushed away in the following few moments, as I lay in silence in that comfortable cloud bed. I tucked the sheets around my shoulders and zoned in toward the ceiling, counting the wayward lines in the whitewash. Work was calling to me. But I had to rebuild myself from the inside. I remembered pushing myself through every illness throughout my life; I remembered bickering with my mom about not wanting to stay home because of my flu—telling her that I wouldn’t fail any quiz just because of some microbe lurking in my body. I remembered turning my nose toward people who fell prey to the workings of their tumultuous bodies.
But now, I understood. The mind had such an effect on the body. It held you tightly, like a gloved hand around your throat. It allowed you to breathe, but only if you struggled and fought for it—only if you allowed everything else to fall away.
In those days when I avoided work—four days in total—I learned how to breathe once more. I learned how to stand. I learned how to train my thoughts to fall away from Xavier. I learned how to be a better version of myself: one that didn’t require the desire of the President of the United States to survive.
I stood tall on the final day—a Friday, of course. I drank coffee, like a past, stronger version of myself. I pretended to be that Amanda, and not this current shell. I would get through this. I’d scrape the grime from my past life and propel myself into a better future. I was made for this world.
Chapter Four