Then I scold myself. John’s a work colleague, nothing more. If Ben has an issue with that, he’ll have to get over it. Besides, it’s not like he’s avoiding contact with certain icy, leggy brunettes I don’t particularly care for. The fact that I started cracking my knuckles when I saw them walking together the other day is neither here nor there.
John and I chat about several of our shared projects as we eat, and before long he’s filling me in on some behind-the-scenes drama I’m thrilled not to be a part of. I’m only half listening when he says something that makes my ears prick up.
“I assume you heard the latest tax drama?”
“Tax drama?”
“You won’t believe it. They’re doing away with the two-hundred-fifty-dollar deduction teachers can claim for school supplies. Or trying to, anyway.”
“What?Where did you hear that?”
“Where did Inothear it, you mean? It’s all over the news.”
“It is?”
I grab my phone to search for it and quickly scan the first article that pops up. I’m dumbstruck. How could Ben support something like this? His ownmotheris a schoolteacher!
“Whoever came up with this bright idea should be named and shamed,” John sniffs. “But then again, they all go along with it like the power-hungry pricks they are. I mean, how dumb are these people? They’d have to know this would result in horrible press. It’s like theywantto give us ammunition.”
A protective instinct roars to life inside me like a lion. I could leap across this desk and tear John’s eyes out.
“There has to be more to the story,” I insist. “Maybe they’rereplacing the deduction with something else? The tax cuts are supposed tohelpthe middle class.”Or so Ben claims.
“Yeah, right. The cuts only benefit large corporations and the one percent. Who cares if the little guy gets screwed as long as rich guys get their loopholes? That’s their MO and it’ll never change.”
I clench my jaw shut before the wordssuperficial talking pointscan spill out.
“Anyway.” John uncrosses and recrosses his legs, his polished leather shoes catching the light. They probably cost more than mine. “I actually had an ulterior motive for stopping by. Besides your charming company, of course.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, playing dumb. I pray what’s coming isn’t what I think it is.
“Are you going to the event next Saturday at the Willard?”
The event he’s referring to is the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, or what’s commonly referred to in DC as Nerd Prom. Every April, celebrities descend on the city for a night of presidential roasting and pretend politics while our bosses gleefully rub elbows with Hollywood’s elite. Post-dinner, the deep pockets behind a conglomeration of cable news networks are throwing an after-party at the Willard InterContinental Hotel. Senator Warner and her entire staff were invited, as well as every other senator and political bigwig in Washington.
“I’ll be there. Our whole office will, I think.”
He beams. “I was hoping so. I’d love to take you.”
Son of a biscuit.
“Oh, John—thanks, that’s so sweet of you, it’s just that I’m going to be working, Carol’s given me a list of people to talk to that’s as long as my arm—”
He holds up a hand. “That’s all right, I get it. I’ll have a ton of schmoozing to do too, so it’s probably not the best setting for a first date.I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity.” He smiles, eyes bright and hopeful, like he hasn’t just been rejected.
As soon as I hear the wordsfirst date, my stomach constricts.Tell him you’re seeing someone. Now’s your chance. Do right by Ben.My conscience begs me.
Instead I say, “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you there.”
In my silence, I feel like I’ve betrayed Ben. I’m Judas. No, I’m Peter, and I’ve just denied Jesus three times. I can practically hear the cock’s crows.
“For sure. Save me a dance,” he says, then winks.
I summon up my fake smile so I don’t have to answer.
He gathers up his trash, giving me a little wave as he departs. The first thing I do once he’s gone is look across the atrium.
Ben’s blinds are closed.
