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It takes a dozen tries,but I finally get the angle right. I’ve got my phone on its side, raised on a stack of books and tilted against my water bottle, recording as I clench my abs, inhale, and roll my hips upward. My knees are bent, my forearms flat on the ground. I hold the tuck position through a long exhale before I extend my legs, slowly, into the pincha mayurasana.
If I got the shot right, I’ve just recorded myself extending into a forearm stand in front of the Washington Monument, silhouetted against the setting sun and a clementine sky. Ideally, I look strong, and fit, and maybe even a little breathtaking. If my legs are straight and I didn’t shiver on the rise, I might even look impressive.
Or maybe I look ridiculous.
Normally, I hold this asana for at least two minutes, focusing on my breath work and grounding myself. My abs are firing by the end, little quivers and clenches popping off as I hold my body and my mind in line. Discipline. Control. Breathe in, and out.
Twenty-three seconds after I lift my legs, I fall out, dropping with a heavy thud to my bare feet. This isn’t the end of my routine, but my concentration is shot, and all I’m thinking about is whether the angle for the video worked and, if so, should I send it to Reese?
It worked. The light is perfect, all fiery orange with the marble of the Washington Monument as bright as the full moon. I’m a shadow, so silhouetted you can’t make out my face. Vanity had me pulling on my favorite running leggings for this, which I chided myself for, but now? Every line of my quads and hamstrings and calves look carved from stone.
The whole video is too much to send, but I clip out three seconds of my lift and then a screenshot of the final asana. And hesitate.
Why am I doing this? It’s wrong, all wrong. Delete the picture, Brennan. Don’t send it.
I send it.
And then I silence my phone and go back to my yoga mat, and I spend the next hour wrenching Reese Theriot from my thoughts.
Two hours pass before I’m brave enough to check my phone.
I’ve read the nightly intelligence assessment from the national security watch, read the daily status updates from the Joint Chiefs, and traded emails with Matt about moving around a meeting with a congressional caucus that I don’t want to spend time with. I’ve asked Matt to pass the ball to the vice president for now. Their request for a meeting falls more into the portfolio of policies that I’ve asked Patrick to take the lead on anyway.
I’m still feeling my way around Patrick Marshall. When I threw my hat into the presidential ring, I hadn’t thought seriously about vice presidential candidates. I didn’t expect to have much of a chance—mostly, I hoped my policy proposals and views could make an impact on the other candidates. Maybe I could begin something.
But then I won Iowa, and New Hampshire, and Nevada, and the rest of Super Tuesday went my way. Suddenly I was the front-runner, and everything was becoming real. My ideals, my dreams, my policies.
And I needed a vice president.
Patrick manifested in one of those backroom deals political parties are fond of. He was not a presidential candidate, but he had been a two-term governor of a midwestern state with stable growth, a happy populace, and a steadily growing economy. He was the safe option, the moderate, the balance to my West Coast ways. If half of America looked at me and thought, “Too much, too soon,” they could shift their gaze to Patrick.
We don’t clash, but we haven’t found our footing yet. He’s respectful, deferential to the office, but he’s also fifteen years older than I am, and there are moments when it seems like he comes at me paternalistically instead of as my vice president and my supposed right hand.
As Reese said, the presidency is an adjustment. The truth of those words sinks in deeper every day.
Finally, while I’m finishing dinner, I check my phone. There are three texts from Reese.
My stomach flutters. I’m my own worst enemy.
Reese: Wow
Reese: Really, wow.
I’m back to grinning and staring at the screen. All he said was “Wow,” but it’s exactly what I was hoping for. I wanted to impress him, somehow, someway.
Reese: I’m a fit guy but I can’t do that at all.
There’s a ten-minute gap, and then another text.
Reese: I just tried a regular handstand and, well, I’m glad I wasn’t being recorded. I don’t think my body has moved like that since I was four years old.
Me: I’m pleased you approve.
He may not even be near his phone anymore. There’s no reason for me to hang around mine, refreshing the screen every time it dims. It’s late enough that he might have gone out for a beer, with his colleagues or with someone else, and I’m being ridiculous hoping for those three little dots to appear.
But they do, and my heart leaps as I wait for his text.
Reese: I’m going to have to update your file. And I’m going to have to amend that report of mine to the Director. Unknown yoga activity must be investigated.
