A/N: Happy birthday, my dear Jodie! I know, it was on Monday, but my muse showed up only after last Sunday's episode and I wrote as fast as I could. You are fab and I hope you will enjoy it!

Thanks to the two wonderful ladies who made sure I didn't screw this! (Thank you, really LOL)

I spent more than one hour thinking about everything that I screwed over during that damn interview. It's not the first time I gave one and it definitely won't be the last. But for some indistinct reason, I let my nerves get the best of me and ended up babbling incoherent and totally irrational nonsense. And the best part of it is that I was totally aware of my fiasco. In my head, I could fancy Eli and Mr. Elfman behind the camera, shaking their heads, goggling their frustration and waving their hands in a fit of despair. No, actually, on second thought, only Eli. Elfman was probably staring at the screen in religious silence, arms folded hermetically on his chest, or shielding his eyes from my rout while wondering why he accepted to be my campaign manager in the first place. I disagree with your characterization of me as someone who spent the majority of her life raising kids. What on earth was I thinking? That's indeed what I've been doing for the majority of my life.

Hours later, once the stress was gone and I had a clear mind, I took the time to try and understand what went wrong. I was supposed to be prepared, supposed to be ready to cunningly dodge every tricky question, especially the most painful ones. Yet, I failed. But in my defense, the nature of his questions somehow disoriented me, making me lose focus. All the catechizing about my family involvement, about discussing my campaign over a chicken, was not what I got prepared for, and my utter inability at lying came off unfiltered. However, in all of this, I had to admit that Prady definitely hit some critical marks. My decision to run came unexpected; to me, to Peter, to the kids. Sometimes I wonder if I rushed things, that I didn't entirely consider the impact on my private life becoming public. Public. Once again. I didn't ask for permission or advice. I simply decided it was the right thing to do.

But his words, although devious and destabilizing in every possible mean way, have not left me since that day. And I guess that's why I'm now setting the table for four with Grace and Zach's help.

When the doorbell rings, telling me that our guest has arrived, I drop the cutlery in Grace's hands and rush to open my home to Peter and to his security detail standing —indiscreetly— outside my door. I'll never get used to the awkwardness of these strangers waiting on my landing whenever he comes around; it happens so seldom to have him here lately. I know that we haven't been on the best terms in private for the past few months and for once, I'm ready to take the blame, well, the good part of it at least. The amount of time and herculean effort we put into faking being warm and fuzzy is disturbing. Whether it's for the kids, for the press, or anyone around us, people seem to believe our act, so we must be damn good at it. There are days, like today, in which I'm not completely sure about how many parts authentic and parts fiction we are made of. When I asked him to join us for a Saturday night dinner, I didn't do it because I needed something, or because I had to. There's no peremptory task, no family crisis to discuss. Well, technically, there would be one. Zach's issue has been adjourned to a date that has yet to be set, but I don't think we should poison the infamous chicken with that. It's been way too long since we all had dinner together, where it was just the four of us, except for the few special occasions which required our unity. And I realized it's something I missed.

I nod approvingly at the ochre label on a bottle of Chianti, which makes good show of itself in his left hand and I smile, or maybe I think I do? My gaze moves up to meet the satisfaction, and a pinch of awkwardness in Peter's dark eyes. "Hi." My quick greeting comes along with a mental rub up of all the dangerous topics to avoid that could ruin the night and those which should be boosted instead, knowing it's pointless anyway when it's always the kids who set this kind of agenda.

"Hi," he greets me back, his stare falling to his feet for an infinitesimal fraction of second, enough for me to catch the hesitation. And as he walks past me, the cheerful welcoming of the kids cloaks my deep exhale. I guide the door closed, locking out the uninvited escorts, then turn to witness the three of them joined in a toasty, tight hug. Standing by with folded arms, for a moment I don't move from my position, utterly captured by the charming scene. Only when Peter looks in my direction, and our gazes meet, do my lips sketch a more distinct smile and I make up my mind to join my family.

"Mom and I cooked," Grace spills with excitement as she pushes her father further into the living room, barely giving him time to remove his coat before they both sink into the couch. She definitely enjoyed the preparation, as did I. We don't share moments like this regularly, certainly not as much as I wish. In spite of it being just she and I most of the time, life and work have too often had the tendency of getting in our way. So when the occasion of this dinner presented itself, I surely didn't have to ask her twice.

"You did? Hmm, I'm sure it's tasty," Peter indulges in the ceremonies as he stretches an arm to encircle a crouched Grace in an affectionate hug. He knows how much she cares for these little things, for these family moments spent with all of us together.

"I wouldn't be so rash with the praises," Zach warns his father with a playful tone as he slips his hands in his pockets and idly moves to join Peter and Grace. "They've been experimenting," he teases, plopping down on the sofa.

"Experimenting, hm? Maybe I should have brought pizza," Peter jokes, his grin encountering Grace's entertained protests. It wouldn't be the first time we fall back on a plan B pizza after burning the dinner, either literally or metaphorically.

My brows rose in triumph as I reminisce, "You two are such a killjoy, and by the way, we had a lot of fun experimenting."

"I can definitely see you both have fun cooking together," he offers with a soft smile. When his gaze moves from our daughter to me, my pensiveness swallows me up in the old days where this was the rule, rather than the exception. I realize my smile is gone only when Peter raises an inquisitive brow at me.

"And I can definitely see our dinner going to waste if we don't eat it," I joke, urging them to sit down at the table.

Once Grace helped me serve the dishes and the dinner is ready to be consumed, I force myself to breathe and chill out. Peter must sense the still lingering veil of tension for he points temptingly at the wine adjacent to my plate. It's far from me the idea to decline. The ruby liquid glimmering in my glass is an instant soother, and its harmonious, dry taste is the ultimate diversion from the off topics list still rolling in my head.

"So, what did I miss in my kids life that's worth sharing?" he tosses off with pretended nonchalance when it's perfectly clear he's eager to know every small detail out of his knowledge. His question unchains our children's enthusiasm, bringing this dinner to life.

While listening to Zach's college adventures, I quietly savor our experiment – the chicken didn't turn out so terrible after all. As I slowly chew the ginger-spiced meat, somehow, his account, his youngish fervency, takes me back to younger days.

It's stunning how politics has never been, even remotely, among my career ambitions. Yet here I am. Then, there was Peter. There was his career, there was me supporting his own desires while doing what Prady classified as, what I'm sure was meant as offensive, staying home to raise my kids. Now that the tables have turned, that Peter's the one meant to support me in this unexpected journey, it feels weird but natural at the same time. It feels like what, in spite of everything, was the missing step we needed to close some imaginary circle. A light touch on my hand makes me look up from my plate to see his hand brushing mine. It's unexpected, and was probably meant to just catch my attention, but I still can't say it's unwelcome. The way his fingers stumble on my ring reminds me of a promise we never fulfilled. My inner infant politician makes me wonder if this is something I'll end up being questioned about. Maybe people forgot. No, people never forget. I should know by now that they store every petty slip to conveniently use when it suits them.

When the school tales start to taper off, I can see the next topic coming from miles away. My candidacy. The interview I gave. The interviews I still have to give. It's written all over Zach's face that he has a quintal of questions bouncing back and forth in his brain. Maybe it's to avoid us discussing his issue? Or maybe it's a genuine interest because more than once he showed a lively appeal towards politics? I can't say for sure, but I know it's coming. And I know it's definitely easier for Grace, who's here every day, supporting me, even advising me at times. She sees, lives, and breathes with me the ups and downs of my choice, though she might not fully understand it yet. How could she? I still didn't fully understand it either.

"So, what's this joint interview thing you have to do?" Zach asks us with the security of someone who's been prepared for questioning.

I instinctively turn towards Peter and catch in his eyes the silent confirmation that yes, we are getting there.

"Jonathan says it's good for the campaign," I say, not really answering his question. In the end, that's all the interview is meant to be. A political move. A card to get played in the wisest possible way.

"Who's Jonathan?" Grace asks me, completely oblivious, and it strikes me that she's probably not as involved as I thought.

"Mr. Elfman, my campaign manager."

Campaign manager. When said aloud, the syllables never fail to ring odd in my ears. I'm definitely still not used to the idea of having one. Or rather two, since he and Eli always seem to go around in couple. They form such a mismatched pair, but I can't imagine running without the certainty of having them both to support me.

"And what are you supposed to do during the interview?" she wonders.

I shrug. Her innocent question makes me consider that she might find odd the necessity for us to give interviews together. Joint interviews are definitely not routine. They are usually the journalists' card to rip candidates apart, possibly doubling the damage in our case. I'm expected to do what I'm clearly incapable of: lie, hide any uncertainty, bury my feelings deep down where the camera can't see them and have full control of my body's language. The prospect of failing again is not one bit attractive.

"Answer questions?" I suggest, for that's what we are supposed to do; answer point-blank questions.

"Personal questions?" she persists, her gaze shifts inquisitively between Peter and I in search of an answer that struggles to come.

"Probably yes," Peter yields, confirming with a nod that the chances I'll be asked to discuss my agenda are very slim.

When his words are followed by a moment of brooding silence, it's a moment we give the kids to take in the idea that we are back to the days when everything we say or do becomes food for the press. I look up at Zach. His eyes are down, lost in the plate, as his fork plays franticly with the entree. When he looks up at Peter first, then at me, the question is already there, splashed across his face.

"Will they ask you about me, too?"

I gape, but can't find the energy to answer straightaway. My eyes search for Peter's, and are met with the same hesitation. This is not the most appropriate moment to tackle the issue but his question deserves an answer anyway.

"They might, yes." Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Grace opening her mouth to speak. But before she can ask anything, ask for any kind of clarification to her brother's question, I shake my head with discretion. "That's why I have a campaign manager," I say, making sure to add a positive nuance to my words with a soft smile, even if I'm not entirely sure whether my comfort is aimed at them or at me. But when Peter changes the subject, playing some of his best Governor's vignettes, my smirk thanks him.

/

It's late when the kids retire to their bedrooms, leaving me and Peter alone. The kitchen is neat and spotless, yet my restless hands strive to find something to do just to unload the sudden feeling of discomfort.

"I thought it would be worse." I attempt small talk to kill this unsettling silence while my gaze and hands yearn to scrub a nonexistent stain on the counter.

"I thought Grace would never stop asking questions," Peter returns with an eloquent smirk.

His comment makes me chuckle, although during dinner, I didn't find all those questions funny at all.

"I know," I agree, heaving a deep, thoughtful sigh, then turn around to see him walk past the kitchen island. "We should tell her about Zach and Nisa before she hears from the press," I suggest, careful to keep my voice low just in case the kids are overhearing.

"I know," he nods.

My attentive eyes don't miss any of his gestures. He looks down at his feet, tucks his hands in his pants' pockets, then slowly walks up to me and leans against the counter, overlapping his feet. His breathing is deep, but not perfectly even, a sign that he's pondering my words and probably searching for the best thing to say.

"Do you really think I'm doing the right thing?" I preempt him.

It's been in the back of my mind for a while, that maybe I'm acting on some disguised egotism, on some irrational impulse. For once, I don't take his silence as temporizing over a negative response and I give him the time he might need to put together an honest answer.

"I think you're doing something that makes you feel better," he finally says.

That is not what I was waiting to hear. A yes or no would have been much easier to interpret. You're doing something that makes you feel better, I repeat to myself.

"Does it?"

Peter stares blankly at me, clearly confused by my question. "What?"

"Make me feel better. Does it?" I repeat.

Even though, on better insight, it's a question that no one but me could respond to. Somehow, I end up searching for the answer in his eyes. His lips are shaped in that invisible smile I know all too well, the smile that usually preludes something pleasantly surprising.

"If you looked at yourself the way I see you, you'd see someone who's very resolute about making this world a better place," he suggests.

Well that was more than a pleasant surprise. My reaction is one of amused disbelief. I raise my brows, and then look away, quick to hide my tentative smile before it turns into a beam. "Let's not exaggerate things now," I reproach him, a bit shyly.

My demure reaction must come out as funny, for he fails to contain a chuckle. "Well, Chicago will make do for now." He brings things back into the right perspective. And when our laughter starts to wane, the apartment is filled again with that disquieting silence. Inches away, I can feel his breathing, warm and rough against my cheek.

"When I said I'm proud of you, I really meant it," he finally speaks again.

"I know." I thank him, in my own underlying way. And it brings me back to what's ahead of us. "And about that joint interview…"

He nods, but stops me before I can add anything. "We can make it."

We can make it. Minutes later, his words still ring in my head after he is gone, after we said goodnight. The comforting, familiar warmth of his lips before he walked away is still palpable on my forehead, instilling a blanket of reassurance my conscience needed.

I trust him. I trust us.

The End