Domestic Affairs (38 page)

He looked at his watch. “It's only eleven forty-five. I've got plenty of time to sleep.”

“Not if I can help it!” She smiled slyly and then put her head down, amazed with herself for even saying that. “Oh, wow, this is bad.”

“What is?” he asked, totally amused.

“Do you know how comfortable I must be with you to say something like that out loud?”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes,” she answered, decidedly more serious than him. “Talking to you . . . it's as natural as talking to myself.”

“That's a good thing. It's not supposed to be hard to talk to me.”

“No, I know, I just . . .” She struggled to explain her feelings, suddenly ironically aware of her vulnerability. “I just want you to know”—she paused, swallowing down the “I love you” that was pushing out of her lips—“I . . . I feel like I fit in when I'm around you. It's not something I thought I'd ever really feel.” She tried to make sense of the words that came out discombobulated, as words often do when they're covering up the truth. “You just, you help me to see my place in the world.” She giggled self-consciously, “I think that's a song.”

He answered in that unwavering tone that just added to the secure feeling he left her with. “If it is, I want the download.”

She welcomed the reprieve from seriousness.

“Okay, I guess I'm just saying you make me really happy.”

“Oh, Liv,” he said bittersweetly, “you make me happier than I ever thought I could be. I wish things were different.”

“You do?”

“Of course. I mean, my situation is what it is, unfortunately, and changing it now . . .” He breathed in. “I would never put you through what that would be.”

“Oh,” she said. It was nice to hear but it left a pang of sadness for what could never be. She grabbed a few French fries and tried to hide her disappointment.

“Hey, baby.” He must have sensed her deflation. “I'm here now.”

“Right. I know. Let me get us those drinks.” She walked over to the bar and to the waiter/bartender, who hadn't looked up from his game since delivering their food. Olivia stood at the bar for a minute before pressing for his attention and furtively lifted her finger to the corner of her eye, where she could feel tears starting to form. She pressed down, grabbing a tear.
What am I doing?
she asked for what seemed like the millionth time. When the bartender finally turned around, Olivia placed her order. She sniffled and stopped trying to answer her lingering questions. Olivia told the bartender she would be back in a minute and went to the bathroom to regain control.

In the bathroom, which was a more grotesque extension of the bar, Olivia looked in the sticker-clad mirror. She ran cold water on her hands and patted her eyes. She breathed in, careful not to look back at her reflection, sure that if she did, she would begin to really cry.
Not being able to look at yourself in a mirror is definitely not a good sign.
But processing that thought seemed too much to handle. She took her hair out of the ponytail she had tied it in and headed back to the table.

Landon looked up as she sat down. “All okay?”

“That bathroom would need to be painted before they could even condemn it!” she said with a laugh.

When the bill finally came, Landon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of money. He counted out forty-two dollars and put it with the check under a salt shaker. She watched with dismay. Of course he had to pay in cash. She was with someone who couldn't leave a paper trail. The tears she had stopped in the bathroom began to form again. Landon caught the look.

“Liv, you okay?”

“All good,” she said, feeling the strain on her jaw as she spoke.

They walked out into the dark night, Olivia staying a few steps away from his side. The weather was getting a bit cooler in New York and the wind blew a plastic bag past them on the Upper East Side street. As they walked around a corner, two blocks from her apartment, he
grabbed her hand and she entwined her fingers into his.
Damn, he's good
. She knew he sensed even the momentary drop in her mood.

The public display of affection was risky at a minimum, stupid at best, but as she scanned the street for potential spies, still not wanting to let go of his grip, she realized that no one was looking. That was the thing about New York City: the truth was everyone was so self-conscious about their own situation they didn't have the headspace to notice anyone else's. Maybe that held true all over the world. She kept clasping his hand, relishing the new feeling of his fingers interlaced in hers, until they were inside her apartment.

She locked the door. “Listen,” he said, grabbing on to her coat and tugging it, leading her into the bedroom. He took the jacket off and let it drop to the floor. Slowly, he pulled her shirt up and over her arms. “I want you to come to Cartagena with us.”

“You're kidding.” She began to take his coat from him.

“I'm serious. We're going with the Foreign Policy Committee. Their membership is practically all donors, so I can absolutely justify you going.”

“Okay, crazy man,” she said. She dismissed him as she unbuttoned his shirt. It was the kind of outrageous thing he might say to make her know he would like her to go, also knowing full well she would shoot down the idea as too reckless.

“Picture this—you and me on a beach in Colombia, away from the press, the world.”

“It's a campaign trip! Not a vacation!”

As ridiculous as it was, she couldn't imagine anything better.

“Do you want to go?”

“Landon!”

“Do you want to go?” he repeated with seriousness, grabbing her shoulders.

“Of course I want to go.” She held his gaze, knowing that was the wrong answer and wishing the right answers, the ones she knew she
should
give, were easier to come by.

W
hen the word “delayed” popped up next to their flight number it seemed to Jacob apropos, if not expected. This was just how things were going.

“I'm just going to grab a coffee. Anyone want anything?” The team—Governor Taylor; Billy; Michael Maddox, who was the head of the Foreign Policy Committee, the group sponsoring the trip; and, of course, Olivia—looked up at him sort of blankly and declined.

Jacob growled to himself as he ruminated on Olivia's presence there. She was the current golden child of the campaign, which shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did, but it had started to drive him insane. He couldn't shake his conversation with Maggie about the rumor.
They're not sleeping together
, he told himself repeatedly in an attempt to force the thought out of his head.
It's just lists
, he reiterated,
just fundraising
. The thoughts grumbled in his head as he rehashed his conversation a week earlier with the governor.

“It's a complete waste of money and the campaign's time to bring Olivia!” Jacob had yelled.

“
My
campaign!” the governor had barked back. “It's
my
campaign time and money. End of story.”

Jacob had appealed to Billy, hoping it wasn't the complete end of the debate, but Billy, ever the peacemaker, sided with the governor. Even Billy had changed, it seemed to Jacob. He was always demure,
respectful, but he used to be able to tell the governor when he was wrong. Not anymore. The governor had become more brazenly insolent to everyone, even Billy.

Jacob walked past the bookstore and stopped at the display by the door. In between the newest Candace Bushnell and James Patterson books sat stacks of
Toward Tomorrow
, the book by the new senator Henry Morris. Jacob had met Senator Morris in DC a few weeks back. The book was the senator's blueprint for a new way to approach campaigns and government. Jacob had been enthralled by his speech at the Democratic Press Club and the two had wound up talking through a dinner afterward. Jacob felt an instant bond with the guy and saw in him a flicker of the old Landon, the one not skewed by campaigns and by the glamour of fundraising.

Jacob bought a coffee, a bag of sweet potato chips—so he could tell his mom he was eating something healthy—and the book. He headed back to the seats where the team was waiting. Taylor was haranguing Billy to try to get them moved to first class and Billy was nodding with submissiveness. Jacob softly shook his head, unnoticed by the governor, and cracked the book's spine.

They had only been in Cartagena for forty-eight hours and already Olivia was exhausted. She sat on the patio of the guest quarters of the ambassador's home, staring out at the red sky, and decided the night was not as terrible as she had first thought it would be. She had spent the last few hours thoroughly annoyed that she wasn't included in the dinner at the main house, which was five miles down the stone road, along the beach. The ambassador was a young woman, Maria Teresa. She and her husband, Raj, a well-known American businessman, were famous for throwing the most fabulous dinner parties in all of South America, and tonight's plans sounded like they would be no exception. It was offensive that Jacob had told Olivia it wasn't appropriate for her to attend. She knew he didn't want her on this trip and excluding her from dinner was his chance to slap back after losing the battle over her coming at all. The truth, though, was that she really felt more embarrassed and guilty than she was angry.

It was far from appropriate for her to be along. She knew that. If she were signing the budgets or reporting on the governor, she would have raised the alarm over such a choice. She had decided to fight to come, though, because of her heart. How could she not? Four days in the most romantic place she could imagine, with the man she loved. Logic just seemed to fall down a few notches on the priority ladder.

She loved sitting next to him on the plane, daydreaming about going off with just him. And the moments they caught together—the sides of their legs touching in the backseat of the SUV, walking too close in the streets of the Old City—were better than she could have imagined. But she couldn't help but be swung back into reality every time she caught one of Jacob's knowing looks. He was like the conscience on her shoulder, seemingly more aware than she knew he could possibly be. His stares carried a disappointment that seeped through the air. She knew he had voiced concern with her coming, “concern” being Landon's euphemism for what was probably actually rage. But when Jacob had pulled her aside and told her to stay back tonight, it was the first time he had confronted her directly.

Giving in, she had sulked back at her room and pulled up her emails, deciding she would at least get work done. Emails distracted her from thinking about what she was doing in Cartagena and how it could ruin the campaign, Jacob, Landon. It could ruin everything that meant anything to her.

It wasn't until seven p.m. that a woman came to her room with dinner. She wasn't sure who had ordered it—she had assumed she'd been sent to her room without dinner—but she opened the door and in came the small, stocky woman. She looked around sixty and her hair was tied back in a series of beautiful braids fashioned into a bun and accented with small flowers. Her face had soft curves and wide black eyes that made her appear kind. She pushed a large, old-fashioned silver cart that looked like it came directly from the set of a Humphrey Bogart movie. On it was ceviche served in a thick and wide margarita glass, slivers of avocado covering the pink of the tuna. Two other large plates with silver lids sat next to a basket of bread that could have lasted Olivia for days. There was one large bottle of water and a full pitcher of the delicious sangria-like punch they had been served upon arrival.
It had a stream of coconut rum in it that gave it a perfect tropical twist. The woman took in Olivia's room with a kind of pity, noticing the desk facing the wall, complete with papers, Diet Coke, and Doritos.

“
Afuera?
” she asked, pointing to the door to translate. Without waiting for an answer she moved that way and pushed the cart outside to the patio. The warm breeze blew in, bringing with it a trace of the ocean air. The sky was so red it almost lit up the room. Olivia slowly lowered her head, acknowledging that she had been holding on to her grudge so tightly she'd almost forgot where she was. She followed the woman outside and looked around in amazement.

The woman grinned and spoke in a heavy accent. “From Signora Ambassador.”

“
Muchas gracias
,” Olivia said, bowing her head a bit, thankful for the food and even more for the wake-up call.

Olivia sat and sipped the punch, staring happily at the sky, with the realization that it was actually a nice thing to have been left behind. Instead of being at some stuffy dinner where it mattered what fork you used and how straight you sat, she could dine without giving a thought to who she was or how she was acting, something she realized had become a constant in her life.