“You don’t have much stuff,” he said, shrugging. “You are moving here?”
I nodded, bringing my hair around my ear. “This is when I can start accumulating stuff, I suppose,” I said, laughing.
“All right, Congresswoman,” the taxi driver said. “I suppose you know best, no?”
I laughed, reaching into my purse. I paid the man double, thanking him for his assistance with my bags. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
I turned toward the grand home before me, breathing evenly. I couldn’t believe the day had finally arrived.
He appeared on the front steps then. He was clad in jeans, a sexy V-neck T-shirt. He looked so casual, so primal before me. I hadn’t seen him without a suit in what seemed like years.
Outside of the bedroom, of course.
He brought his hands around my neck and kissed me, there, in front of the house. He sighed, his eyes large. “The wait is over, Amanda,” he whispered. “It’s finally over.”
I smiled, knowing how grateful I was. The past five years had been a struggle.
Xavier began helping me with my bags, bringing them up into the house we would now share together: the house he and his wife, Camille, had purchased nearly 15 years before. “She never liked it anyway,” Xavier had declared months ago, when he’d proposed this final addition to our plan. “I don’t think she’ll miss the place.”
But already, the brick mansion was stealing my heart. The interior was well-lit, with this remarkable, stone fireplace in the center. Because it was winter, a fire was brimming in the fireplace, such a greeting after the winter chill had escalated throughout my body. I rubbed my hands next to it as Xavier brought in the last of the bags. He set them by the winding staircase and tapped the couch beside him as he collapsed.
I sat next to him, gazing at the fire. It felt so good to be natural beside him, without feeling that everything was about to fall apart—as it had, several times throughout the previous five years. The press had nearly gotten wind of it a few times, especially during the election season. The
y were continually asking us questions about each other, trying to get us to slip up. But we never did. We were professionals.
Of course, after Xavier won the election, I had to move forward with my career. He understood, and he supported me—without helping me, which had been essential for my procedure. I outlined the reasons why I was essential to Congress, how I had helped the president through every element of his campaign trail. And I’d been voted in—incredibly—as a 31-year-old woman, still a bit bright-eyed, with big, brimming ideas. I’d made great strides since my arrival.
Being at Congress meant that I still saw the president during the day. However, it had never been enough. We would pass each other, our eyes locked forward, still feeling the heat from each other’s bodies. It nearly drove me crazy some days. But most days, I understood: this was our agreement with Camille, his wife. We weren’t to ruin her first ladyship. This was her only asking.
And, all in all, she’d been a remarkable first lady. She’d made great strides with younger elementary education programs, working alongside Xavier as he altered the education program of the entire country. With a few minor hiccups along the way—and with me working Congress tooth and nail to get the bill passed—Xavier was able to make great changes. It had been beautiful. Already, people were remembering this president for his achievements. And Xavier’s incredible, bountiful presidency had actually paved the way for another Democrat, a member of his own party, to churn into the White House seat. I’d clapped heartily at his inauguration, of course, knowing in my heart that it wasn’t yet my turn. I was only 34 years old. I had so much learning, so much living to do.
“How was it when Camille left?” I asked Xavier there, as we sat on the couch.
Xavier turned toward me, his eyes a bit far away. “She told me she would have left me anyway, even if we didn’t have this deal.” He laughed a bit at these words. “I thanked her for staying, for keeping my presidency together. I know, of course, that she has to feel that she wanted to leave me. Otherwise, it would feel wrong—it wouldn’t feel like her choice. But I know that she has a boyfriend in New York. I know that she has plans to move on, to have a life of her own.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. It was strange, the way people came together. It was strange, the way they came apart.
“But now. I have you,” Xavier murmured, kissing my cheek.
“How should we tell everyone?” I whispered. It had been over a month since the inauguration of the new president, which meant it had been four months since the election. God, it seemed that time was moving both too fast and too slow, all the time. Once, I had been a young and bright 29-year-old. And now, I felt my limbs aging, every day.
Xavier thought for a moment. “I have a PR guy on it. He says it’s tricky, but it can be done. It surely won’t hurt your career, either. We were very careful. I never gave you a single recommendation.” Xavier laughed, shaking his head. “I remember a reporter once asking me if I didn’t like your policies, if I didn’t like your ideas on the bill. I wanted to scoff, to tell her everything. But I knew you’d kill me.”
I smiled. “I wanted it to feel like I’d worked my way to the top, on my own.”
“You never needed my help,” Xavier murmured. “You never needed anyone’s help.”
I bowed my head. “I need you, though. I need you more than anything.”
We sat in silence, brimming with the knowledge that we could finally be together, out in the open. We could go to brunch together, to the theater together. We could go out on double dates. I could introduce him to my family, if I wanted. Everything was different. He wasn’t the president, and I wasn’t his campaign manager. We were just people, struggling to survive and finding something particularly special along the way.
Xavier snapped his fingers then. He stood up, leaving me still, on the couch. “Do you want to make a toast? I have this aged bottle of red. I’ve been saving it.”
I nodded, standing up before him. “Of course,” I murmured, a bit sleepy. Something about making these big, overarching decisions seemed to conk me out.
Xavier was gone in an instant, rushing down toward the cellar. He left me alone, to my own devices, for several minutes. I began to roam the house by myself, gazing at the beautiful artwork. I wondered if the place had been decorated with Camille’s tastes in mind; I wondered if I could change anything, personalize anything to my taste.
I imagined the grand parties we would have at this place. The friends—and non-friends, the political socialites—would gather in the foyer, kissing each other on the cheeks, calling out to each other, eating hors d’oeuvres. Perhaps we would have my campaign party here. I imagined myself, then, 10 years down the line. A presidential candidate. The first woman to rule the office, poised with Xavier by my side. I shivered at the mere thought of it.