Page 4 of Solo

The epiphany or realization or frying pan to the head or whatever the hell this is, takes my breath away as everything snaps into crystal clear focus. I’m adding it all up in my head—something I should have done much sooner. Along with the slight crow’s-feet, I now spot a few threads of silver hair camouflaged by the blond. Then there’s the BMW. And the expensive clothes he’s wearing. Why didn’t I put it all together before? My eyes narrow on him as the last of the pieces falls into place. How could I have been so goddamned stupid? I know better.

So, so stupid, Kate!

“Who do you work for?” I ask quietly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Who do you work for?” I demand louder this time, a little surprised by the edge in my tone. “The Post? The Sun-Times? The Ledger? Christ! You don’t work for the National Enquirer, do you?”

Kevin—if that’s even his name—takes a deep breath. His voice is calm and soft.

“Kate, it’s not what you think.”

“No? Then what the fuck is it?”

“I’m a reporter for the D.C. Courier,” he explains slowly.

Of course he is. Because, why would a good-looking, smart, funny guy want to help me out? Or ask me out for that matter?

I take a deep breath and regroup. This is not the time for self-pity. Anger. That’s what this situation calls for. Good, old-fashioned rage.

“What did you do to my car?”

Seeing that his cover is totally blown, Kevin tosses charming out the window, replacing it with smugness.

“Not that I’m admitting to anything,” he begins coyly, “but you might want to have your battery cables tightened. And, just out of curiosity, why is the daughter of a senator—and a presidential hopeful at that—driving around in that piece of shit?”

“You son of a bitch!” I hiss, unable to restrain myself any longer.

“Oh, come on, Katie,” he says, turning to me with a conspiratorial grin. My fingers twitch with the temptation to slap it right off his face. “Your father’s the most detested politician on the Eastern Seaboard! And, I’m guessing, he’s not exactly ‘Father of the Year’ material. I mean, aside from the clunker you’re driving, you’re working a crap job. I know you don’t have any health insurance. I mean, Christ, Katie! You don’t even have a winter coat! Does your father know you live like this?”

“What? A winter coat? What the hell are you talking about?”

I can’t follow his line of thinking, so he fills me in.

“Yeah, well, look at you. It’s thirty degrees out and you’re wearing a hoodie. And, before you feed me some bullshit about leaving your coat at home, I haven’t seen one on you in the last six months.”

Wait, wait, wait…

“Y-you’ve been watching me for six months?” I ask, sounding a bit shakier now because I am a bit shakier now. I see, with growing dismay, that this guy isn’t your garden-variety journalist out for a quick pic and a sound bite. He’s one of a very specific, very tenacious breed known as a stalkerazzi. And that makes him more than a nuisance. It makes him dangerous.

He shrugs, as if reading my thoughts. “It hasn’t been that hard, you know. I mean, all you do is go to class and work. No dates. No friends. Why is that, Katie? I’d have thought a pretty girl like you would have some hot trumpet player in your bed by now. And judging by the way you’ve been drooling over me for the last twenty minutes, I’m guessing it’s been awhile since you’ve had anyone in your bed.”

That’s it. I reach for the handle of the door so I can get as far away from this guy and this car as fast as I can. But the handle doesn’t budge. I poke at the button, but he must have some child safety feature so it can’t be unlocked from this side.

“Open the door,” I say flatly.

“Oh, now, Katie, don’t be like that. You know your dad’s bill is gaining momentum, right? He’s in the spotlight now, and all signs point to a presidential run. I’m just wondering why you aren’t a part of his campaign? Come to think of it, why aren’t you a part of his life? I mean, his only daughter, and him being a widower and all. You’re his only family. And yet, you’re never anywhere to be seen. You refuse to give interviews. You’re never quoted in the press. He doesn’t mention you. Ever. Why is that, Katie?”

If he calls me Katie one more time, I’m going to wrap my hands around his neck until his eyes pop out onto the dashboard.

“Open. The. Door,” I say in the most menacing tone I can muster. But he just prattles on, hoping, I’m sure, that I’ll give him something that he can use against my father. Against me.

“Near as I can tell, you haven’t been home to Virginia in years. You spend the holidays by yourself up in that dumpy little apartment of yours. I mean, I don’t know how you do it. What is it, like two hundred square feet? You’ve got a nice view of the mountains, but still. Put a little color on the walls or something, it’s depressing as hell in there.”

I can only stare at him, my mouth hanging open. Oh. My. God. He’s been inside my apartment!

“What are you going to do when he comes here in a few weeks?” he’s asking even as I’m trying to sort through this mess in my head.