By the time I go home I’m beyond embarrassed. Go ahead and look like a crushing fool, Charlotte, I chide as I head to my apartment.
When I get home, I’m thinking of the most somber outfit I have. No matter if I’m petite and have a childlike face, I want to be taken seriously here. My feet are killing me, my neck is killing me, but I don’t slip into my pajamas until I pull out a soot-black power suit, slacks and a short black well-cut little jacket for tomorrow. I spread it out on the chair that sits by my window and eye it judiciously. It’s smart and crisp, exactly how I want to look tomorrow.
Matt Hamilton is going to take me seriously if it kills me.
My parents are proud.
Kayla has been texting nonstop, and she wants the details.
I spend a while texting her back, alone in my apartment.
I hadn’t realized how lonely it would be to sleep in my apartment on my own. You wanted to be independent, Charlotte. This is it.
The light of my answering machine is blinking, and I play back the messages.
“Charlotte, I’m really not happy about you being there in that little apartment, especially now that you’re doing this. Your father and I would like you to come back home if you’re serious about embarking on a year of campaigning. Call me.”
I groan. Oh no, Mother, you won’t.
We had discussed that I’d be able to move from home and carve my own path at twenty. Mother, not happy when the date approached and I was still in college tempted to be foolish, pushed it to twenty-two. Now, a month after my twenty-second birthday, I’ve paid my dues, stood my ground, and refused for her to push the date farther.
She insisted the building was relatively unsafe—with only one man at the door. If any of the inhabitants summoned him upstairs, the door and lobby would be unmanned. It was small and uncomfortable and not safe.
I thought it was perfect. Well situated, the right size to keep clean and tidy. Although I haven’t met anyone except two of my neighbors, one a young family, the other an army veteran. And I do feel, at night, that things creak and croak and keep me awake. This was the first step of me carving my path on my own.
So I lie in bed and set my alarm for tomorrow. I’m physically exhausted, but my mind keeps replaying the day.
I think of the campaign and of Matt and of President Hamilton’s assassination. I think of our current president and my personal hopes for our future president.
Every person that I know, every person conscious of themselves and their potentials … we all want to make an impact, a contribution, to work on something that matters to us. I’m on a new path that I’m carving on my own. I’m young and a little insecure, but I’m making a difference, even if small.
8
THE TEAM
Matt
The thing about presidential campaigns is that you don’t just need the right candidate. You need the right team. I eye the dozens of folders strewn across my desk. I’m on my sixth cup of coffee, and I take the last sip as I consider the latest addition to my team.
“Women of the World, Charlotte Wells. She’s almost an intern—no experience. You certain about this?” Carlisle asked.
I decided all this over a box of donuts, veggie wraps, soda cans, and bottles of Voss water.
You can’t say Charlotte is beautiful, she’s too stunning for that. You just don’t forget a face like hers.
Red hair like a flame falling down her shoulders. And that spark in her eyes. She’s energetic, unapologetic, exquisite. Despite being raised as a senator’s daughter, she’s so far been untouched by political scandal—untouched by the sometimes seedy dealings politics are paired with.
She’s more right for the job than Carlisle believes. I’m aware of his reluctance, but more than certain Charlotte will prove herself in spades.
Rather than bring in the experienced political allies from my father’s era, all too willing to back me up, I’m bringing in people who want to make a difference. Who’ve made it a habit of thinking of others before themselves and their pockets.
I’m determined to have her on my team.
Even before setting eyes on her at the kickoff party, I’d planned to have Carlisle pay a call to that girl I’d met, the one who cried an ocean and a half at my father’s funeral. The one whose letter I skimmed, for some reason, the day my father died.
After the kick-off party … let’s just say, she’s been on my mind, and not only because she’s gorgeous and in another life, I’d have liked to slip my hands under her dress and feel her skin, lean my head and kiss her mouth for a hell of a long time. No, not because of that, but because she loves the presidency—and she always has.
And now she’s been confirmed on my team, thanks to Carlisle. Carlisle is my campaign chairman and manager. We’ve already recruited our media advisors, chief strategist and pollster, communications director, CFO, media consultant, press secretary, spokeswoman, digital director, and official photographer.
Having them all together under the roof of the campaign bunker gives me a sense of satisfaction. We’ve assembled a team that will take us smoothly toward this year’s election.
I’m ready to call it a day, so I pat Carlisle on the back of the head, saying, “Trust me,” grab my car keys, and head out.
Home is a two-bedroom bachelor pad near the Hill. A far cry from the 132 rooms and endless acreage of the White House, it’s modern and the perfect size for me to own it—not for the thing to own me. I’m also three blocks from my mother. Though she has a busy social schedule and a new boyfriend that has for five years tried to get her to marry him without success, I like to keep my eye on her.
My German Shepherd Lab mix is barking when I insert the key into the lock. He’s sleek black, and the media calls him Black Jack. He’s more famous than the Taco Bell dog. He’s got eyes nearly as black as his fur and is thankfully past the phase where he would gnaw all my shoes to dust. He is at the door, barking three times. I open and he leaps.
I catch him in one arm, shut the door with the other, and set him down. He pads next to me to the kitchen. I adopted him once I did a showing to raise awareness of adopting. Jack was a puppy then, the mother found on the streets, curled up on him and his two dead sisters.
The White House is going to be a far cry from where he started.
I press the play button on the answering machine.
“Matthew, Congressman Mitchell. Congrats—you can count on me.”