The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2) (25 page)

I’m admitting to a secret so shameful, I couldn’t tell my lover. (But it’s not too shameful for national television.)

I’m God’s gift to the Republicans: a self-destructing candidate.

OK, I made the last one up. But the headlines twist everything, whipping speculation into a frenzy, and my phone vibrates incessantly with emails and texts from my team.

Grace: On a scale of 0 to 10, how much damage did I do?
 

Sasha: 1,000,000+

Grace: Fuck x 1,000,000

Sasha: Please tell me there’s some good news.

Grace: Have you heard from Jared? Know where he is?

Sasha: No and no.

Grace: Then there’s no good news.

The interview airs and there’s still no contact. I hide in my D.C. condo, drinking wine just because I can. I call Aliza and she promises to book a flight right away so she can keep me company with a ridiculous quantity of fro-yo. I call Trey and he gives me sass and comfort in equal measure.

“Tell me I did the right thing. Going on the show. Saying Jared’s name.”

Trey hums, thinking. “When you come out with a secret, there are always consequences. The question is, can you live with them?”

“I don’t know. The only question I was asking myself was whether I could live without him.”

“That’s a great question, baby girl. Maybe the best there is.” Trey’s tone is melancholy.

My heart squeezes in my chest, as the real possibility that
I might have to live without Jared
sinks in. But I catch Trey’s double-meaning, his connection with Joel that’s still deep in the closet. “So what about you? Have you told Mama Bea anything yet?”

“No.”

“But will you?”

“I don’t know.”

I pause, expecting him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I catch on. “So Mama Bea’s there in your hospital room right now?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re going to talk about this when you get out, OK? Because I don’t believe for a minute that Mama Bea’s going to love you any less.”

Trey’s voice drops to a pained whisper. “Thank you, Grace. I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too. Now, get the hell out of the hospital. It’s depressing.”

“I’m trying,” Trey says, his cheerful voice returning. “I can’t take much more of this food.”

***

Maybe I’m foolish to believe that going on the record—going on national television to proclaim my love—would be enough to make Jared haul his head out of his ass and talk to me.

Surface from wherever he’s been hiding.

Reach out. React. Dammit—something.

But the only reactions I get are from pundits and press. Sasha manages the media firestorm like the pro that she is. I sit back, take the hits, and some sick need to torture myself further forces me to flick between channels, zeroing in on the most horrible things people say about me.

As if they know me. As if they have a right to judge.

I knew when I first ran for Congress that I’d be scrutinized. I’d be a public figure—but then, after Seth and Ethan’s murders, I already was. I never grieved privately because the photo of me bent over their headstones was a
Time
magazine picture of the year. I became a poster girl, first for gun violence, and then for anti-gun activism.

Now I’m the poster girl for loose living and everything that’s wrong with a morally bankrupt Washington. If you believe what they’re saying in the media, I’m the worst kind of politician—the one who can’t be trusted to tell the truth.

Even though I told the truth and saw it looped in endless replays.

My pity party is interrupted by a quick triple-rap at the door of my condo, the signature pattern that alerts me it’s Mac or Eric or another one of my security detail.

I pull open the door and Mac’s nearly hidden behind a massive bouquet. My heart soars. Could this be
 
from Jared? Could this be him accepting my apology?

I take the arrangement of multicolored roses and thank Mac, then place them on the table next to Ethan’s picture. Even though I don’t take much stock in religion, I send up a silent prayer that he’s joined in heaven by the child I carried for too short a time.

The tiny card speared within the bouquet includes this note:

You’re brave. You’re strong. You’re the best running mate anyone could ask for. Let’s make the next four years something to be proud of.
 

—Shep

I blink back tears, once again thankful for his kindness. Through the ups and downs of our campaign so far, even when Jared’s been angry with me or gone dark, Shep’s never failed to stand by me.

I can’t take that gift for granted. But sitting on my couch in yoga pants, drinking cheap riesling and wallowing in my stupid choices, isn’t doing him proud. So for Shep and Sasha, for Trey and Mama Bea and Aliza, I shove myself into the shower and get ready to go another round.

I start by calling Sasha.

“What is it? What happened?” Her voice is taut with worry, unaccustomed to
me
calling
her.
Usually it’s the other way around, Sasha barking instructions while I follow them with reticence.

“Nothing happened, other than the interview. How long do you think this ugly is going to last?”

“Couple of days. I never want to hope for a national crisis, but maybe some rock star could throw us a bone and get arrested?”

Her hopeful tone cracks me up. “That would be very considerate.”

“Right? Like, let’s have a nice juicy Hollywood scandal. Pity we can’t move up the World Series to start right now.”

“I’ll make that the first legislation coming out of the Conover-Colton administration. More silly scandals, less depressing shit.” Sasha and I share a long laugh, thoroughly wrung out after a day that took both of us to the ends of our respective ropes.

“I like that you’re still thinking White House,” Sasha says. “I like that you’re staying positive. Even if you never hear from Jared again, I think we’ve got what it takes to win this. Right people, right policies, right message. Don’t give up now, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Captain,” I say. “That’s why I’m calling. It’s after ten and all I’ve accomplished this evening is drinking wine and feeling sorry for myself about how the Gloria Alton show is playing. Give me something to do.”

I hear Sasha’s breath on the line and for a moment I think I’ve stunned her into silence. “You serious?”

“Absolutely. You told me at the beginning that you weren’t going to let me waste a single hour until November eighth. And I’m telling you, time’s a-wasting. Give me a job.”

“I don’t want to push you too hard.”

I laugh, remembering how hard Sasha grilled me in on-camera practice sessions, and how she pushed me to finish writing the speech for Trey’s school by her deadline. “But … there’s something.”

“There is. We’ve got some new info on the Republicans’ agenda. I think with what’s happening with Trey, you might want to take a stronger stand on hate crimes.” Sasha launches into a technical description of the legislation winding its way through various subcommittees.

“But what can I do right
now?
” I ask again. “I could pull out my laptop and write something. Or take a West Coast media interview. I feel like you’re stalling me.”

“Maybe I am,” Sasha admits, “but I’m glad you’re ready to get back to work. Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll throw you in the deep end.”

***

My body refuses to obey Sasha’s command to get some sleep, even after a few glasses of wine. I wriggle in bed to find a comfortable position, flip my pillow to the cool side, and even try meditation. But my mind pounds with one word.

Jared. Jared. Jared.

I imagined it would be easy. I’d make this grand gesture—proclaiming my love on national television, leaving myself painfully exposed to ridicule and his rejection—and then he’d come riding back to me on a white horse to say he can’t live without me.

That’s fantasy. This is politics, where you never get what you want. There’s always a compromise.

Maybe I’ve done what Shep warned me about. I took the political calculus too far, traded who I want to be with for what I want to accomplish.

The fact that Jared’s gone dark again eats at me. It infuriates me. He’s done this time and time again—when the going gets tough, he gets the hell out.

Why would I give my heart to such a man? What other outcome can I expect than a chasm of hurt and silence the
next
time we have a breakdown? Because we undoubtedly will.

I slide out of bed and go to my dresser, picking up the locket he gave me. It’s too precious. He says he believes in me, yet he doesn’t believe in
us
deeply enough to push through the crisis and stand by my side. I fold the locket’s chain carefully into the small box, replacing the lid on his gift, preparing to return it.

I gave him my heart, but if he won’t give me something,
any
communication, it’s time to cut my losses. It’s time to take back my heart and move on.

***

I’m still fighting a losing battle with insomnia when I hear the knock. This time, it’s not the Secret Service’s signature
rap-tap-tap.

I open the door and my knees buckle.

It’s Jared.

I stand there, mute, motionless, as Jared fills my doorway. He looks haggard—his stubble seems grayer, more sparse, and heavy bags rim his eyes. His hair is disheveled and his shirt has no business making a public appearance anywhere but the dry cleaner’s.

But he’s here.

“Can I come in?” Jared glances to Mac and Eric, who flank my front door but stare down the hallway as if they are deaf to our conversation.

“Oh.” I step back, my eyes searching for something concrete to hold onto. They land on Ethan’s photo and I pick it up, holding the frame against my body like a shield. I step back, wary, as Jared closes the door behind him.

“I never heard—”

“I came to say—”

We both start and stop at the same time, tripping over the easy words. The truth is so much harder.

“You go first.” The crinkles around Jared’s eyes reveal pain and longing.

I shake my head. “I don’t even know what to say. You left me. When things were at their very worst, when I needed you most, you just walked out of the hospital and … vanished.”

Jared slumps. Beaten. Defeated. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry’s not a soundbite.” My brittle words are hoarse with emotion, cutting him the same way he cut me with them weeks ago.

He straightens and I see a little fire behind his eyes. “No. But it’s a damn good start.”

I take another step away from him, still clutching Ethan’s photo. I’ll hear him out, but I can’t take
sorry
as payment for so great a debt. It’s not enough. “Then keep going.”

“I came to apologize and find a way to make things right.”

I let out a shuddering sigh. “How can they ever be right? I ruined what’s between us with secrets. And you ruined it with distance. You quit me when the campaign got tough. You went dark when you learned the truth. How can I trust you to stick, and stay, and be there for me through the worst of things?”

Jared drops to his knees, his head bent. “We can’t be over.” He reaches for my hips, pulls me a step closer to him and wraps his arms around my waist, his head pressed against my stomach, just beneath the picture frame I hold tight against my chest.

“Loving you isn’t enough to get us through this.” My voice breaks with grief, because now I have him here, near, on his knees and full of apology. It’s everything I wanted, and still not enough. I can’t accept the possibility that we’re strong enough to survive this.

A campaign. The loss of a child. The loss of trust.

“Let me love you anyway,” Jared whispers, his arms tightening around me. “Let me spend the rest of my life showing you that I can, that I won’t run from whatever comes our way. Let me be the man who makes it worth the fight.”

I twist away from Jared’s arms, walking a few steps to set Ethan’s picture down on my dining table. The air feels too thick, too heavy, and I blink against the rush of tears as I prepare to tell him again: no. I turn back to him and Jared’s still on his knees, but this time he has a small box in his hand.

Realization hits me and I shake my head frantically. “Jared—no.”

“Yes. I came to apologize and to show you that I’m in it for the long haul. All those times you asked me what our future would be? I kept what I really wanted a secret from you. I told you to keep it casual, to keep it light, even when every cell in my body screamed that I wanted to make you mine in every way I could. Permanently.”

He touches the top of the box and I’m afraid he’ll open it. He’ll ask the question.

“Stop. Don’t do this. Not now, when there’s so much we don’t know.”

Jared’s wry chuckle scrapes in his throat. “That’s the point, isn’t it? We don’t know where we’ll be in a month, on our way to the White House or packing up campaign headquarters to head home. But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t care what my future looks like, so long it’s with you.”

He flips open the box and I scrunch my eyes closed, afraid to see a ring inside. How can he do this
now,
when we’ve lost so much, when we’re still so fragile? I peek open an eye and do a double-take.

There’s no ring inside. Only a small key.

My brain swims with confusion. “What’s that?”

Jared gives me a half-smile. “It’s my ticket to anywhere—a key to a storage unit in Branson where all of my stuff is stored. I spent the last couple days moving everything out of my house and into that.”

“Why? That was your childhood home.”

“But it’s not my future. I mortgaged the home last month to take care of something. I could have made the payments and kept living there, but I realized that it doesn’t have what I need. You.”

My mouth drops open. “You’d move? For me?”

“Anywhere in the world. I don’t care if it’s One Observatory Circle or a cabin in Oregon. You pick the place and I’m going. If you’ll have me.”

“But … Shep?”

“I talked to him a few times. It’s going to be tough for a while, but he asked for my forgiveness. He’s too important to me to hate him forever. He was twenty-two and stubborn and ambitious and wrong”—Jared smiles slightly—“and I guess that runs in the family.”