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“What?” I stammer, barely able to get the single word out.
Because president? That’s next-level invasive. Even if I could erase the last year of my life, I’d have people digging into my third-grade spelling tests and finding pictures of me in high school with a beer in my hand.
And every ex-boyfriend in my history.
I am not political girlfriend material.
My skin feels clammy.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Artie kids. “Don’t panic, that’s six to ten years off.”
“Artie, don’t scare her off,” Warren says, clapping his hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we eat?”
Yes. We should eat. If we’re eating, we won’t be talking. Because talking, apparently, is full of landmines threatening to detonate everything. We sit down and I keep myself busy eating bread until the entrées arrives and before we know it, it’s time for Warren’s speech. He presses a kiss to my cheek that makes Mrs Bianchi aww, and I try not to make eye contact with her. Or James. Or Artie. Or anyone else.
I just focus intently on my nondescript chicken, the entrée of choice at any large event, and then on Warren when he starts speaking.
It’s a speech about public education reform. Which I’d probably have known beforehand if I’d been paying just a wee bit more attention. He talks passionately about how this is an issue close to his heart, and how he’ll fight for this state to be a leader in education. And even though I know he’s not intending to go viral, I already know that there’ll be some soundbites circulating tomorrow. He’s just that charming, that eloquent. And he’s real. That’s what people love about him. They know he’s not pretending to give a shit about them because he doesn’t pretend. I’m smiling just thinking about it when his eyes land on me in the crowd.
“It’s important that we remember why we do the work we do,” he says. “For me, that’s for my family. My daughter. Even my brother.”
Laughter goes up, and James holds up his whiskey in a faux salute.
“But I also have to thank my girlfriend, Audrey Gibson,” Warren says. “She’s teaching me to lighten up. I promise.”
More laughter, but all of it feels very far away. Like maybe someone just chucked me into a dunk tank and I’m underwater.
Because did I just hear that right?
Did he just call me his girlfriend? By name?
Because that’s… that’s…
It should be wonderful. And the blush I’m rocking is definitely setting a new record for heat intensity.
But in the back of my mind, I know that the fantasy only works if there’re only a few people who know. If the world knows that we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, how the hell do I come back from that?
How does he?
“I’ll be back,” I tell the table. “Need to get some air. Or a drink. Yeah, I need to get a drink.”
I stumble away from the table before they can say anything and before Warren can return. Hopefully, he’s held up for a bit by well-wishers while I get my thoughts together.
I’m making a beeline for the bathroom for a moment of privacy when suddenly a voice cuts through the noise and pins me in place.
“Well, look who it is. How’s my little jailbird?”
I turn and see him standing there, a horrible blast from the past worse than Carrie. Worse than anyone. He’s loosened his cheap chartreuse tie and draped his jacket over his arm, looking like the New York art trash that he is. His hair’s loaded with so much gel he should qualify as a fire hazard, and if I’d been drinking more, I’d probably throw up on the spot.
“What are you doing here?” I snap at him, wishing my voice wasn’t shaking.
“Aww, Au-bear. Don’t you want to introduce me to your new boyfriend?”
He smirks at me. God, why do I have the worst taste in ex-boyfriends? If there’s a douchebag in New York, chances are he’s my ex.
“Leave me alone,” I mutter, trying not to sound like it matters.
“I only came to this tonight hoping to pick up a few potential clients, but now I get to reconnect with an old friend and get an introduction to the governor. What a lucky break. So tell me, Aud, does he know you like I do?”
Behind him, another familiar person appears because my fantasy bubble has officially popped. Tiny pieces of fantasy confetti are raining down on my head, burning my new life to the ground. It’s my old lawyer, because of course he’s here, too. I met him through Thomas, after all. Thomas, my worst ex. Thomas, the one who knows the worst about me and is just enough of an asshole to blab to the entire room.
But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s Thomas, or it’s my lawyer, or it’s someone else. This is a house of cards, and no matter how it comes down, it’ll hurt Warren.
