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As the caterers disappear from view, Ruby folds her arms across her chest and leans against the frame of the open door. Seadog Lane is paved and lined on both sides by sidewalks. Along the edge of the sidewalks nearest the street, weathered wooden posts with rusted iron rings affixed to them sit at regular intervals, and long lengths of heavy rope run from post to post. Above each business on Seadog Lane hangs a wooden anchor with the building’s street number burned onto the thick stock with a branding iron, and spaced out at twenty foot intervals are heavy black lanterns on light posts that look like they’ve been salvaged from a sunken pirate ship.
An image of women of all ages and walks of life sitting inside her cozy bookstore on a warm night pops into Ruby’s head and she rubs her hands up and down her bare arms. They could meet there once a month—maybe twice? Weekly?—for a book club. For a chance to talk, to laugh, to connect. Ruby pushes away from the doorframe and turns back to look into her well-lit bookstore. It could use a good vacuuming after the foot traffic of the evening, and she wants to dust all the surfaces and reorganize the books and displays, but overall, the shabby chic decor and the neutral paint on the walls are inviting. The throw rugs and the mismatched prints of the comfy chairs and lampshades throughout the store give it a soft, whimsical feel, and the items she’s chosen to display from her time as First Lady are positioned around the shop, housed in the nooks and crannies that she had carved out just for that purpose. She’d seen people stopping to look at them all evening, and it pleases her to know that she’s salvaged these gifts from languishing in storage somewhere.
As Ruby turns off lamps, closes the white wood shutter blinds throughout the shop, sets the alarm, and locks the front door behind her, she gives a satisfied look up at the wooden sign that hangs over her store.
Marooned With a Book, she thinks, putting her keys into her purse and stepping around the rope that divides the sidewalk from the street.
She climbs onto the front seat of the golf cart that Banks is driving, and thinks about her theoretical book club all the way home.
Harlow
Of course Harlow hadn’t enjoyed making her dad angry with her—not really. Admittedly, there wassomelevel of amusement to getting under his skin, but don’t most daughters feel that way? At least a tiny bit?
Some of the things that Harlow had done as a child and as a teenager had truly just been because she wanted to do them. She’dwantedto shave her head that time in middle school, and she’dwantedto eat all the cotton candy at Coney Island before going on the Tilt-a-Whirl the summer before her sophomore year. Now, had she wanted to throw up all over a very sweet grandmother the minute she stepped off the ride? No. And was it part of the plan for a photographer to be there, following her and her best friend Maya? Definitely not. That same photographer had gotten photos of Harlow washing the cotton candy down with vodka, and naturally the whole thing had enraged her father and gotten her grounded for the rest of the summer.
At heart, Harlow truly believed that no woman wanted to be as good as she was expected to be (okay, maybe her mom and her sister really enjoyed it on some level, but most normal women wouldn’t), and she’d spent the majority of her life on a mission to wreak havoc—but just enough that she was still considered lovable. Just enough that she could have fun and not forgo the freedoms that every other kid in the universe seemed to have.
When she was sixteen, Harlow’s dad arranged a formal sit-down dinner for his daughters to hostess, and much to their surprise, the guests of honor were Chelsea Clinton, Jenna and Barbara Bush, and Sasha and Malia Obama. They’d tried hard not to be wide-eyed as the other First Daughters strolled into what had once been their home, greeting Ruby and Jack politely, handing their coats to the butler, and sitting down at the dining room table for what turned out to be a pre-arranged program of events.
Harlow had gritted her teeth once she realized that her dad had arranged the entire dinner so that these women who’d gone before her could share their words of wisdom. They shared funny stories about growing up in the White House, but also advice about how to behave in a way that wouldn’t cost their fathers any votes or give them any gray hairs. At the end of the night Harlow had admitted to herself that it had been fun and interesting, but to her parents she said nothing, just rolled her eyes and retreated to her own bedroom with a huff.
Still, the advice had stuck in her brain, worming its way into her cranium and setting up camp there. After that dinner, every time she considered going home with some guy she met in a nightclub, or anytime she unhooked her bikini top on Miami Beach, secretly hoping there might be some paparazzi there to capture it, she paused. She remembered how proper Chelsea Clinton was as a First Daughter, or how sweet and well-mannered the Obama girls were.
She’s back home in New York now after her trip to Shipwreck Key to attend the opening of her mother’s bookstore, and Harlow is thrilled to be back in the city. Her job is easy enough, and she gets to be creative and social, which she loves. The marketing firm she works for is filled with young people who come and go as they please, getting their work done with no regards to “working hours,” and the owner is totally comfortable with people making their own schedules, coming to work wearing tie-dyed pastel sweatsuits, fanny packs, and ironic eyeglasses that look like something a wood shop teacher might have worn in the 80s.
Harlow prefers a more upscale look for herself: tight black pants (denim, heavy cotton, or sometimes strategically ripped at the knee or thigh for a tougher look), a cropped black leather jacket, and expensive t-shirts that hug her toned upper body. She gets her dark hair blown out every week, and she keeps her gel manicure fresh, choosing bright colors or a classic nude nail. Her shoe collection largely revolves around black motorcycle boots, black Doc Martens, or shiny black Manolos with dangerously spiky heels. She knows as well as anyone that her name is what got her in the door at the firm and not just her marketing degree from NYU, but now that she’s here, she wants to enjoy it. Harlow takes her work seriously, and frankly, she thinks she’s damn good at it.
“Drinks at Hive tonight,” Dart says, poking her head into the office and winking at Harlow. Dart is a gorgeous lesbian with a short, black haircut that reminds Harlow of James Dean. She wears cuffed jeans with highly polished black penny loafers everyday, but she turns the menswear look on its head by going with tight bodysuits over push-up bras on top. The combination of masculine and feminine looks is alluring, and every time their little gang of coworkers hits a bar or goes out for dinner, Dart sees more action—from both genders—than the rest of them combined.
“I’m in,” Harlow says, sucking on a lollipop that she removes from her mouth so that she can talk. “I just have to finish what I’m working on here and then I’ll be ready.”
“No rush, sugar tits,” Dart says, blowing Harlow a kiss. “I’ll text you when we’re heading out.”
She vanishes again, leaving Harlow to keep working on the images she’s going to present to a client the next day.
That right there is another thing that Harlow loves about living away from D.C., and away from her old life as a resident of the White House: she’s made friends who seem to not care at all that she’s the daughter of a former president. She can’t imagine anyone in Washington ever feeling comfortable enough around her to call her “sugar tits,” and if she worked some boring job like her sister, Harlow would be stuck in a stuffy building all day with other snoozy, sedate people who just like to talk about books.
At six o’clock, Harlow heads to Hive with Dart and the others: Julia, a marketing intern with her septum pierced; Mika, an extremely good-looking guy in his thirties who has loudly declared himself asexual, which meant that almost immediately, every woman wanted to be the one to conquer him; and Ulysses, a former gymnast for the US Olympic team who is so short, stout, and muscular that he’s almost wider than he is tall. Ulysses has skin that is so black and shiny that he looks burnished, and someone recognizes him every single time they go out, buying him a drink and wanting to take photos with him. To be fair, they do it to Harlow as well, but the level of excitement that Ulysses generates is on a whole other level.
The evening is fun—it always is—but there’s a low-energy vibe coursing just beneath the surface. Dart flirts half-heartedly with a young couple who both seem interested in her, but her eyes keep flickering toward the door; Mika dances unselfconsciously to 90s music even when no one joins him; Julia keeps excusing herself to use the bathroom, which Harlow figures could either be a UTI or a coke habit, and Ulysses looks just a little tired and detached every time someone comes up to talk to him, high-five him, or ask for a photo.
As for Harlow, she sits at the bar with her Lemon Drop martini, trying to meditate with her eyes open as the vodka works its magic.
Nobody would say that they’re having themostfun they’ve ever had, but it beats a jab with a dull stick, and the music is decent. Harlow is actually contemplating knocking back her drink and joining Mika on the dance floor when a feeling of unease sweeps over her. She glances at the door of the club and sees Eldrick, her Secret Service agent, rushing at someone.
Harlow sets her drink down and the alcohol splashes over the sugared rim of the martini glass and onto her wrist. Later, this will feel sticky and she will scrub it with soap and a washcloth in a daze, feeling like a different person than the one she is at this exact moment.
But Eldrick is moving like he’s on a mission. Harlow watches, mouth open, as someone barrels through the door and dodges Eldrick. Before the two connect, the interloper brandishes a gun and starts firing. Harlow is only aware of what’s happening because of the way each shot creates a blinding flash of yellow in the dimness of the bar and fills the air with a temporarily deafening explosion. Harlow’s first instinct is to cover her ears and slide off the stool, pressing her body against the wooden bar, though this isn’t exactly a hiding spot.
Several more shots ring out as people scatter, screaming. The feeling of unease in the bar has morphed into one of panic and terror, and Harlow fights the urge to squeeze her eyes shut. She has to know where this guy is so that she can move if she needs to, but getting up and bolting right now will do nothing but draw attention to her.
Everything is happening at warp speed, but to Harlow, it all feels endless. Could this guy moveanyslower? She keeps her ears covered against the blast, tracking the number of gunshots (eight, nine, ten), as she thinks of her father. If someone had asked her beforehand what she might be thinking about during a random act of violence, her father wouldn’t have necessarily made the list. Her mother, definitely. The way her potential future is vanishing before her eyes like Michael J. Fox’s arm in the photograph inBack to the Future, yes. But her father and the way he must have worried about getting trapped in a situation just like this one, with a crazed gunman on the loose, no. To Harlow, her dad’s job was just that: a job like any other dad might have had, only one that came with a house and some staff. She didn’t ask questions about what he did all day, and she never wondered about his safety, but here in this bar, she’s thinking about the risk he took as president just waking up every single day and going to work.
Someone ducks under the lip of the bar next to Harlow and she glances over to see that it’s Ulysses. He’s saying something to her, but she can’t hear him. His lips are moving, but all she can hear is the ringing in her ears from the gunshots and the music that’s still playing loudly throughout the bar.
Without waiting for her to understand, Ulysses grabs Harlow by the wrist and drags her up, pushing her ahead of him so that he’s essentially covering her from behind. He guides her with a firm push to her lower back, and somehow Harlow understands that he wants her to get behind the bar, so she does. She ducks and curls herself into the smallest ball that she possibly can, covering her ears again and this time closing her eyes. Everything suddenly feels smoky and she’s frightened. Harlow is positive that she actually stepped over a blood-covered person on her way from the front of the bar to her new spot behind it, and she pushes the image from her head as she hides, inexplicably whispering the Pledge of Allegiance to herself over and over as she waits for it all to end.
Ruby
