The Hot Seat
Rating: T
Summary: Liberal left? Meet conservative right. Wearing tight pants and a shit-eating grin.
Acknowledgement: HollettLA! There is nothing she cannot do, including coining phrases like, "It's like a Twirony!" in my margin notes, and teaching me that "smugger" is, in fact, a word. (Though I still think it sounds like a smirking pickpocket.)
A/N: This is a politically-themed story. The opinions contained herein belong to DemBella and the "conservative boy-wonder," not to me. Please take the story in the fun spirit in which it is intended.
As the sound tech adjusts the tiny microphone pinned to my lapel, I gaze unseeingly at the rear projection screen showing a rendering of the Capitol building against a blue background and pretend to listen to Gail Weatherby's last-minute instructions. She points a manicured finger toward the cameras positioned at the corners of the set, reminding us that while we are welcome to make eye contact with the hot camera when we are speaking, her preference is to make the "ambience" more like that of a friendly round-table, with guests speaking to each other rather than to the viewers. I nod, and in my peripheral vision I see Edward Masen do the same.
Taking a moment to study him while his own mic is adjusted, I have to admit that he's even better looking in person. The eyes that are so evidently green on camera positively sparkle beneath the studio lights, and his face is a perfect blend of sharp angles. Honestly, if everything that came out of his mouth didn't make me want to smack him, I'd think he was insanely attractive. Thank God he's such an asshole.
Those green eyes find mine and he smirks, clearly pleased at having caught me looking.
"Camera's over there, hon," he says, and I make a face.
"You would know," I reply. "God knows you're hyperaware of every single lens in a fifty-mile radius. Cullen teach you that?"
He beams, and I realize instantly that across the gleaming table is a man who enjoys a fight. And I've just taken his bait. I roll my eyes and return my focus to Gail, who is watching our exchange with barely-disguised delight, no doubt envisioning the forthcoming sound bites. Someone touches my hair and I fight the urge not to flinch away. Being styled is another thing with which, despite three years of on-camera experience behind what is arguably the most famous podium in the world, I have yet to get completely comfortable.
"We'll be starting with the jobs bill," Gail continues slowly, apparently disappointed that we've released each other's figurative throats for the time being. "Then we'll move on to some other talking points, though I'm always open to letting the discussion take its own path."
Translation: she won't lift a finger to stop us if we start swiping at each other over the polished surface of her news desk. She might even pass one of us a weapon, and if the way she's not-so-subtly glancing at Edward is any indication, I'd be on the losing side of that contest.
"Thirty seconds," comes a voice from the darkness beyond the spotlights, and Gail presses her lips together as she shuffles the small stack of cards in front of her and touches her earpiece.
"I hear your son's headed for Yale," Edward says quickly, leaning toward her. "Tell him to avoid too many classes with Armstrong if he goes pre-law. Guy's a dictator." Gail beams at him and I set my jaw. Edward tosses me a self-satisfied smile before refocusing his attention on the camera; I take a moment to glare at his profile before doing the same.
"And we're live in 3… 2… 1…"
The studio darkens as the VTR rolls and the show's signature theme music filters through. On the monitors to the sides of the stage, I can see the show's title cards and Gail's face before the voiceover begins.
"Capital Heat, with Gail Weatherby," the canned voice intones as a few bars of theme music play beneath it. "Tackling the day's hot political issues and the latest news from the Hill. With Claudia Swenson at the White House and Joe Matthews in New York." There are a few more bars of the song before the lights come up again, and the red light on camera one is glowing.
"Good morning," Gail greets the camera with a wide smile, polished teeth positively gleaming. "We are joined on Capital Heat today by White House Press Secretary Isabella Swan and Edward Masen, campaign manager for the Republican nominee for president, Carlisle Cullen. Welcome, both of you."
"Thank you, Gail," I say, shifting in my seat slightly. While the podium in the White House pressroom has become like my second home, I have yet to get used to sitting beneath baking studio lights; doing so without fidgeting is an exercise in extreme willpower.
"Thank you," Edward repeats with his trademark smile. "It's a pleasure to be here."
And the role of suck-up in this performance will be played by Edward Masen. I fight the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes again, conscious as ever of the cameras trained on my face.
"Well, let's get right to it," Gail says, all false friendliness. "Before we jump into the post-debate analysis, I'd like to briefly discuss the president's job creation bill, on which Congress is expected to vote next week. Isabella, why is this bill better than the similar one the president tried to push through last year?"
My spine straightens slightly, and I note that Gail will clearly not be in my corner during this "friendly chat." I should have expected as much; her monthly paycheck is probably close to double my yearly salary.
"Well, Gail," I say, injecting as much saccharine sweetness as I can into my voice. "First of all I think it's important to resist the temptation to imply that the president attempted to 'push' anything anywhere. He advocated for a piece of legislation he felt strongly about and which he believed could have a positive impact on this economy and in the lives of many unemployed Americans. The fact that the Republican majority in Congress disagreed was disheartening, given the great lengths to which the president has gone to reach across the aisle over the course of his first term."
"Edward?"
"That bill would not have created jobs," Edward says with a dismissive hitch of his shoulder. "As much as the president is propagating otherwise, that bill would have done little to create jobs, just like the one he's trying to push through now. Earlier in his term, the president promised that by this point in time, unemployment in this country would be down to six percent. He has not delivered on that promise. Carlisle Cullen has made job creation a priority in his campaign, and it will be a priority in his presidency." I do my utmost to tamp down on the shudder that comes with Edward's subtle implication that Cullen's election to office is a foregone conclusion as he continues to speak. "Senator Cullen has an extensive business background, and he treats jobs as a business issue, not as a governmental issue, like Billy Black is wont to do." He smoothes his tie down and he shifts his focus from Gail's face to mine. "I think it's also interesting that the president claims to be so focused on women's rights when the number of women standing in unemployment lines on his watch has nearly doubled."
This time, I am powerless to rein in my eye-roll. "I'm fairly certain Carlisle Cullen would tell you that Lilly Ledbetter is a character from a Harry Potter book."
Edward's eyes flash. "Ask your Democratic president what the pay scale is for his own female staff," he spits back. "Women working in the White House are earning fifteen percent less than their male counterparts. Billy Black may talk the talk, but he isn't exactly walking the walk."
"I am a woman working in the White House, thank you very much, as I plan to be for the next four years, and I'm just fine with my salary, which is in no way less fair than the salaries of my male coworkers."
Edward presses his lips together, and already I can read his tell: he wants to say something that he knows wouldn't play well. It's my turn to smirk, though I have no idea what the words are that he's biting back. "I hope you've updated your resume," he settles on finally. "We've got a pretty good press secretary on staff already."
"Okay," Gail interjects, shuffling her cards. "Let's get to last night's debate, which analysts are calling a near-draw. Isabella, how does the president's campaign feel about his performance?"
"The president and his staff are very pleased with last night's debate," I reply, smiling confidently at Gail though the smile itself is for the benefit of the cameras. "We feel that the president was clear in his plans for the next four years, and that the country was given a glimpse of what they can expect in President Black's second term: consistent policy, coherent agenda-setting, and competent leadership."
"Edward?"
Edward folds his hands leisurely in front of him and he straightens slightly in his chair. "The campaign feels that, despite the media's implications to the contrary, Senator Cullen wiped the floor with Billy Black last night." Gail's mouth pops open and I'm sure mine does the same as I stare at Edward Masen, who smirks knowingly at me. He has just stepped outside the parameters of what passes for civility in American politics, and I wonder if his campaign knows he's going rogue or if this is another cog in their strategy. I'm floundering to reply when he continues. "And we expect that the results of next month's election will show that the American public agrees with us."
As the White House press secretary, I am expected to be civil. I am expected to be eloquent, even as I'm verbally kicking someone's ass. I'm expected to downplay my frustration and refrain from rolling my eyes or otherwise indicating that I think someone is a complete and utter moron. I'm expected to remember that I am always under a microscope, and that every word out of my mouth reflects on the president and the White House.
All of that flies out the window when Edward shakes the gloves off.
"I wouldn't hold your breath," I snap, and Edward's eyes positively glow with provocation. "And Gail, I'd like to return for a moment to Mr. Masen's implication that President Black is somehow insensitive to the women in this country. Under Carlisle Cullen's watch, the Illinois state legislature recently passed a bill that would require women to undergo invasive ultrasound procedures prior to terminating pregnancies. This is not only insidious and arrogant, but it sets women's reproductive rights back about thirty years."
"Carlisle Cullen values life," Edward says with a purposely casual shrug, and I want to claw his eyes out. "All life. And he believes that life begins at conception. The State of Illinois protects the lives of all of its citizens, regardless of how small."
"Even if doing so means infringing on the personal freedoms of fifty-one percent of its beloved citizens?"
"By all means, Miss Swan, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't remember reading where the United States Constitution guarantees women the right to abortions."
"Freedom. It's implied in every word of the U.S. Constitution, and that freedom should absolutely extend to what any United States citizen chooses to do with his or her own body."
"Senator Cullen knows—" He begins, but I cut him off.
"Oh, please. What does Senator Cullen know about transvaginal ultrasounds? He probably wouldn't know a fallopian tube if one leapt onto that soapbox he's so fond of and strangled him."
He smiles despite the irritation clouding his face. "Are they generally in the habit of doing that?"
"Excuse me?"
"Those tubes. Do they generally attack innocent bystanders?" I'm trying to find my footing when he continues. "Carlisle Cullen holds an M.D. from Johns Hopkins in addition to his J.D. from Georgetown. I'm relatively certain he could identify a fallopian tube and any other part of the female anatomy he might need to in the unlikely event that it might wrap itself around his windpipe."
I can't stand this smug, pretentious, conservative boy wonder, and the words "female anatomy" falling from his smirking lips make me want to strangle him with whatever part of my anatomy will do the most damage. "Well," I say, fighting against the angry flush that is threatening to make its way into my cheeks. "Be that as it may, unless he's hiding a pretty big skeleton in his closet, he'd have no idea what it's like to be probed by an inanimate object, as he isn't in possession of a vagina."
Edward's eyes widen slightly, and I can see the wheels in his mind turning. I've just very subtly implied that Carlisle Cullen might have a closeted skeleton in more ways than one, and a beat later, his eyes narrow as he picks up the gauntlet.
"He has no skeletons," he assures me. "What he does have is a large number of resources at his extensive disposal that confirm that life begins at conception."
"And one of these resources you're referring to is the Bible, is it not?" I press. "The very Christian bible, which is not the governing document on which this country was founded, as much as your candidate would like to pretend otherwise."
He rolls his eyes and huffs, and I smile inwardly. That won't play well. "Actually I was referring to a number of scientific texts and medical journals, but if you would like to explore the religious implications of abortion, I'd be more than happy to do so."
"The religious implications of abortion aren't the point," I tell him haughtily, ignoring Gail's attempts to interject. "The religious implications of our country, however, are very much the point. This country was founded on a tenet of religious freedom, and the implication of governing based on a Christian text is in direct opposition to that principle."
"Fascinating," Gail finally intercedes. "Just fascinating. Unfortunately, we have to break for a commercial; stay tuned, we'll have more with Isabella Swan and Edward Masen in just a moment."
"And we're out," comes a voice from the dark beyond the glaring studio lights, and there's a flurry of activity around us as makeup and hair people buzz between the three of us; one is re-coiffing Gail's hair while another blots my forehead and applies more powder. Infuriatingly, the makeup professional assigned to Edward evidently thinks he still looks perfect and settles for adjusting the knot of his tie and smoothing her hands over his lapels, straightening the small American flag pin affixed to the left one. Irritated by his lack of sheen, I shrug out from beneath the sponge still being applied rather liberally to my forehead and offer the woman wielding it a small smile to counteract the impatience of the gesture.
"Thanks," I say, and she gives me a critical once-over followed by a curt nod as she retreats to the wings.
"Forks, Washington, huh?" My eyes snap to Edward, who is smirking at me as he readjusts the knot of his tie.
"Pardon me?"
"You're from Forks. Which, if my geography serves me, is adjacent to the La Push reservation."
"Tell him what he's won, Bob," I mutter, shifting slightly on the hard stool. I can feel my skirt sticking to the backs of my thighs and silently thank Alice for advising me against wearing my wool suit.
The smirk widens. "I just think it's cute: Billy Black's son is his body-man, his best friend's daughter is his press secretary…every staff meeting must just feel like a Podunk reunion picnic, huh?"
"Says Cullen's nephew," I spit back. "I'd say nepotism is alive and well on the right wing as well."
"Touché," he replies.
"Thirty seconds," comes the voice from the great beyond, and Gail taps her stack of index cards on the glossy tabletop. The three of us stare in different directions as various assistants bustle around outside the camera line. I glance toward the wings to see my assistant, Lexie, giving me a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile.
"Perhaps I spoke too soon," Edward says as the cameraman bellows, "Live in ten!" Both serve to reset my focus.
"Or too much," I mutter, straightening my spine and trying to ascertain which camera will be hot first.
"The guy we have tapped for press secretary," Edward continues, lowering his voice and ignoring the countdown. "He doesn't have nearly the legs you do. Perhaps you'll still have a job come November, after all."
I barely notice the red light on camera one illuminating as my head snaps sharply to glare at his profile, and I force my mouth closed as he smiles serenely at the camera while Gail welcomes the viewers back. I can feel the fury climbing my neck, and I will my skin not to flush; the corner of Edward's mouth that I can see is twitching, and I deduce that he's trying, for once, to combat that smirk of which he's so fond.
"So, Edward, there's been a lot of rhetoric in recent months about campaign platforms, a lot of promises made to voters, a lot of…well, for want of a better word, 'noise.' If you were to summarize Carlisle – excuse me, Senator – Cullen's agenda in a nutshell, what would it be?" Gail gives him a lazy smile, and I want to kick her beneath the table. Talk about teeing it up for him. I fold my hands together on the glossy desk surface and nod as I pretend to listen to him nail all of the typical Republican G-spots: homeland security, taxes, family values.
In reality, I'm calculating how expensive his tie is, and whether or not it would be strong enough to double as a noose from which I could hang him from the studio rafters. It's a deep red the color of blood, and as his velvet-smooth voice tickles the edges of my awareness, I reconsider: perhaps it would make a better gag than a lariat.
"In short, Senator Cullen is committed to returning this country to the glory it has known in the past," Edward finishes, and I'm glad I've been doing this long enough to know that Gail's next question won't be asking me to refute Edward's comments, but to summarize the president's own agenda: something I could do in my sleep. I'm more surprised than I probably should be when I reach the line item about immigration and Edward interrupts me. I shoot a pointed look at Gail, our supposed moderator who should, for all purposes, remind Edward that the soapbox is mine for the next minute or so, but her eyes are trained on the man in question and she looks less like she wants to silence him and more like she wants to mount him.
"Excuse me?" I say to Edward, who is now leaning forward slightly, the elbows of his expensive-looking suit resting on the table.
"One of Billy Black's many, many promises during the first campaign was that he would reform the immigration system in this country, and not a single change has been made at the federal level since he was elected," he says. "States have started making their own laws. Did he just forget?"
"No, he did not forget," I snap, then will myself to shore up the wall of impenetrability I've been steadily building since I jumped into the circus that is the political arena. I will not allow Edward Masen, who has been in the ring for a whopping thirteen months, to crack the façade of professionalism and unflappability I've spent years cultivating. "President Black has spent his first term cleaning up the considerable mess in which his predecessor left this country. Part of governing is prioritizing, Mr. Masen. I understand that Carlisle Cullen doesn't have any experience governing at quite this level, but believe me when I tell you that President Black hasn't forgotten any of the promises he made to the American public, and that he intends to keep every single one of them." I resist the urge to add If only the Republican members of Congress would let him, because if there's one thing I've learned in this job, it's that snide never plays well, particularly in a sound bite.
Edward leans back in his chair once again with a purposely-casual shrug. "Just seems to me that border security would be one of those 'priorities.'" He doesn't actually put air-quotes around "priorities," but the implication is clear.
I grit my teeth for the span of a breath before replying. "You don't have the coloring of a Native American, Mr. Masen. Can I assume that, somewhere along the line, your ancestors were immigrants to this country?"
He squints slightly as he appraises me, evidently weighing how his potential response could bite him – and Cullen – in the ass. "My ancestors were British," he says finally and I nod.
"President Black is a Native American," I remind him, and the viewing public. "If there is anyone in this country who has more grounds to be wary of immigration, it is President Black and his ancestors and the countless other Native American people whose ancestors suffered or died as a result of the mass immigration of foreigners into this country. And yet, he is in favor of opening the proverbial doors and offering a better life to those fleeing atrocities and hardships in their homelands. That is the spirit in which this country was founded, and that is the spirit in which it should be governed."
Despite the fact that I believe I've just made a pretty sound argument and rebuffed Edward's rather rude interruption, he's still smiling. If I thought I wanted to strangle him before, it has nothing on my desire now. If I hadn't read his bio myself and wasn't entirely aware of his academic success and political savvy, I'd think Cullen's campaign had hired him merely to piss off the opposition. Perhaps that's the off-the-record reason, because he's damn good at it. Edward Masen, Republican whiz-kid and possessor of the smirk that launched a thousand bitch-slaps. I'd be happy to contribute nine hundred ninety-nine of them.
Over the remainder of the half-hour segment – during which Gail very nearly breaks a sweat serving up issues for Edward to knock out of the park – I'm confident that I hold my own despite the red-blue-red sandwich of which I am the meat. I can only imagine the steam that's coming out of the ears of my boss, Martin Grimes, White House Communications Director, who is undoubtedly wearing a track in his carpet as he watches this stump-speech-disguised-as-policy-debate from his office in the West Wing. No doubt this is the last time that he'll allow anyone to accept an invitation from one Gail Weatherby.
As the segment winds down, I accept Gail's prompt to summarize the president's upcoming campaign appearance schedule, and as soon as the cameraman announces that we're clear, I rise from my chair and depart the stage without so much as a backward glance at Gail or Edward. Lexie has already vanished, presumably to call for the car, and I make my way to my changing room to shuck my TV-appearance suit in favor of my usual workday attire.
I barge inside the guest dressing room and throw the door behind me, immediately spinning when it doesn't slam closed. Edward is standing in the doorway, long fingers curled around the edge of the still-open door.
"Excuse me," I spit. "This is my changing room."
"Aw, don't change," he smirks. "You're lovely just the way you are. If a little testy."
"Screw you," I spit, and his face stretches into a grin.
"Not going to say no to that." So this is what lurks beneath the carefully cultivated façade of restraint: innuendo. Figures.
"You're a pig," I snap, folding my arms over my chest. "What the hell do you want?"
"Handshake," he replies, stepping into the small room, entirely unfazed by my lack of invitation. Or, for that matter, civility.
"Excuse me?"
"It's common practice for opponents in major sporting events to shake hands after the match. A sort of no-hard-feelings thing." He takes another step closer, and I fight the urge to retreat. No fucking way. He holds out a hand.
"I'm a press secretary, not a football player," I say, eyeing his hand with what I hope is an expression of utter distaste. He is again unfazed, and it's no wonder Carlisle brought him on staff.
"Shame," he replies, eyes dropping from my face to my skirt. "Like I said, you've got nice legs; I bet they'd look phenomenal in a pair of football pants."
"Get the hell out."
"I'm kidding," he says, but if those were apologetic words, his face is anything but. His eyes are still sparkling, and his mouth curls upward at the corners.
"From what I understand, the post-game handshake is an indication of mutual respect," I say. "I wouldn't want to engage in behavior that would be disingenuous."
He frowns momentarily as he deciphers my words; after a beat, his eyebrows hitch in amusement. "You don't respect me?" The utter gall of this man to act surprised by this revelation only increases my continued barely-contained desire to strangle him.
I roll my eyes. "I think you're smug, pretentious, condescending, and I fundamentally disagree with essentially everything you stand for," I reply. "Hard to respect someone like that."
"For example?" he presses, finally dropping his hand and lowering himself to sit on the arm of the overstuffed chair crammed into the corner of the tiny dressing room.
"Excuse me?"
"A specific example of something on which we fundamentally disagree," he clarifies. "Go."
"Transvaginal ultrasounds," I reply; it's the first thing that comes to mind, but it's the first on a long, long list.
He sighs and shakes his head sadly. "The little ladies always get so worked up over their biology. It's really the reason why none of you have ever made it past the primaries. Too emotional."
"You supercilious son of a bitch."
"See?" He seems delighted by my reaction, and I will myself to see him as a particularly troublesome journalist in my pressroom instead of my mortal enemy.
"Actually, that's an interesting point," I say, forcing my voice to relax, and he seems momentarily thrown by my rather sudden change in tone. The minor victory gives me a small thrill of power. "You guys are all for small government. Minimal oversight. Am I correct in that?"
"I suppose," he says warily, knowing this is going somewhere he won't like but unable to see quite where.
"Shouldn't you be more up-front about it?"
His eyes narrow; Edward Masen is not a man who likes to be confused, and the longer I drag this out, the more irritated he grows. "Meaning?"
"Meaning, I think you should clarify that you want it small enough to fit in my bedroom and my gynecologist's office."
For a split second, his face is more expressive than it has any business being if he wants to spend his life in politics, but before I can decipher its expression, he schools his features back to their default: smug self-satisfaction. "Well, I don't know about the gynecologist's office, but I wouldn't say no to a peek inside your bedroom."
"Get out."
"Oh, come on now, Isabella, things were just getting interesting."
"Carlisle Cullen is a politician," I sneer, determined to bring this little after-hours debate back to the matter at hand, and to end it. "Billy Black is a legislator. I know which one I'd rather have running my country. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a job to get back to – you'll remember, that White House gig I currently hold – and I need to get changed. So if you'd please take your little Republican boy-wonder self and get the hell—"
He snags my arm as I make a move to step past him and open the dressing room door. "I'm not a Republican."
When I spin to face him, he grins, and I feel as though I've just been told that down is up. I shrug his hand off. "What?"
"I'm technically an independent voter." His grin morphs back into a smirk. "Who actually leans to the left." He waggles his eyebrows, as if to point to the potential double-entendre.
I shake my head. "Then why…" I trail off.
"He's my uncle," Edward says. "He hired me to help him prep for what to expect in the debates from the liberal left."
"I don't believe you."
"Check my financials for the past ten years, and you'll see donations to every Democratic candidate for major office." He pauses, and shrugs. "Well, except this year. You understand." Then, his smirk grows even smugger. "Come to think of it, your opposition research team must not be doing a very good job if you're under the impression that I'm a registered Republican."
I prickle at the implication that anyone on our staff is less than competent, particularly considering the portfolio of information I studied immediately after the Cullen campaign brought Edward Masen on board. A thoroughly comprehensive portfolio, for that matter, which was compiled by our entirely competent opposition research team.
Edward Masen. Thirty-seven. Fulbright scholar, pre-law at Yale, J.D. from Harvard. Editor of the Law Review. Clerked for a Supreme Court justice. Brief stint in environmental law before joining the firm of Fletcher & Bourke in Chicago. Nephew of the candidate. "We prefer to focus our opposition research on the actual opposition," I retort. "Not the hangers-on."
He visibly bristles at being referred to as such. "Campaign manager is hardly a hanger-on," he sniffs, and I'm pleased that I've apparently hit a nerve, however benign.
"So…what, you're implying that you agree with things I said and were playing devil's advocate?"
He shrugs. "To a point. On the whole, I certainly agree with far more Democratic policies than Republican ones."
I shake my head again; my righteous indignation still lurks on the sideline, desperate to be put back in the game, but I've momentarily ceded control to confusion and a desire for clarification. "I don't understand how you can endorse – let alone work for – a candidate who opposes what you believe."
"I'm helping my uncle – whom I care about a great deal, even if we fundamentally disagree on some things – run for president." He slides his hands into his pockets and rolls his shoulders. "Carlisle is a good man. He'd be a good leader for this country, even if I don't agree with him on certain issues. I know the liberal left likes to paint all conservatives with the same brush, but Carlisle isn't a chest-beating, misogynistic Neanderthal. He's a good man who values women and minorities and homosexuals the same as he values straight white men. He may not be championing them quite as verbally as Billy Black, but I can tell you that where those issues are concerned, they agree far more than they disagree."
"So why hasn't he said anything of the sort?"
He shrugs. "It wouldn't play well with the conservative right, and unfortunately he needs their endorsement, not to mention their votes. If you read back over his sound bites and look at his voting record, I think you'll find he's a lot more liberal than the vast majority of the GOP base. Not to mention more liberal than a lot of the Republican members of Congress."
"Know who else is more liberal? President Black."
He chuffs. "Has it ever occurred to you that a moderate Republican who's not geriatric or dim-witted or a glorified LensCrafters model might be able to be more productive than a Democrat against whom every Senate Republican is going to battle just on principle?"
"No," I say immediately, then add, "Primarily because I don't know any Republicans who fit that description."
"I'd be happy to introduce you to my uncle."
"Oh, we've met." I'm clinging to my sarcasm like a familiar security blanket, or a life preserver, but I'm slightly adrift in a sea of new information, and I'm trying desperately not to let Edward see my distress. I dislike being blindsided, perhaps especially when I don't have the shield of the White House pressroom podium between me and my attacker. Still, his hypothetical has hit a nerve: too often, the president finds himself facing opposition due more to his blue tie than to what he's championing. Such is life in American politics. "I can appreciate that idea, in theory," I say finally. "But unfortunately, countries aren't governed in theory, they're governed in practice, and in practice, I can tell you that a liberal Republican president will likely receive as much push-back from conservative members of Congress as a moderate Democrat. That's what nobody talks about during campaign season and why so many people are disappointed when the candidate they elect doesn't immediately right all of the wrongs in this country: because, at the end of the day, no matter who the guy in the Oval is, he's a politician working with a bunch of other politicians. Backs get scratched, deals get made, sometimes you come out on top and sometimes you don't. Unfortunately, the one thing that doesn't happen all that much is people listening to each other."
His face is suddenly serious, and he seems to be turning my words over in his mind before his eyes narrow slightly. "Have dinner with me."
I think the studio lights must have fried my brain, because evidently the synapses between my ears and my cerebrum are faulty. "What?"
"Have dinner with me," he repeats, and those green eyes are shockingly earnest.
I snort. "Get serious."
"I am serious."
I'm sure incredulity is thick in my features, but in case it's not, I opt for words. "I can't be seen having dinner with you," I hiss, and he has the gall to look surprised.
"Whyever not?"
"There's no way you're that obtuse."
"I'm single. You're single. What's wrong with two single people sharing a meal?"
"I'm the press secretary for the President of the United States. You're the campaign manager for the guy who's trying to kick MY guy out of a job."
He shrugs. "You want to reach across the aisle? Have people from opposite sides talk to each other? Set the ball rolling. Talk to me over dinner."
I shake my head. "Cute. Very cute."
He smiles, but it's not quite as smug as before, and the brief possibility that this man is being sincere is enough to set me loose at sea again. "Thank you," he says. "How about Friday night?"
"Not in a million," I reply, deciding that I'm never going to be permitted to change in peace and grabbing my coat and my bag from the small vanity table behind me.
Realizing my intention, he stands and bodily blocks my path to the door. I glare up into his face, but he's not taunting or teasing as he looks down at me. "You get it," he says softly. "What you just said about people not talking. You get it."
I shrug. "It's my life. I have a front-row seat."
"I like President Black," he says, and it's the first time all day that he's referred to him correctly. "I think he's a good guy, and he's doing a decent job in a really shitty situation."
"He'll be thrilled for your endorsement," I say, but the boiling venom that might have laced my words a few minutes ago has been downgraded to a simmer.
He smirks. "That was off the record."
"Too bad for you I'm not a journalist," I reply, and the smirk widens.
"J-School at Berkeley, master's in public policy from GW. I do my opposition research, too."
I'm staring shrewdly up at him, wondering where he's going with this, clutching my coat and bag by my sides, steadfastly refusing to hug them to my chest as if I need a shield. I push my shoulders back ever so slightly, and his lips twitch. "Have dinner with me," he says again, and his earnestness undercuts what little righteousness I had left.
I huff and roll my eyes as I loop the strap of my bag over my shoulder and move to side-step him. "If we win, call me on November 8th," I tell him.
That trademark smirk. "And if we win?"
I shrug. "I'll be living in Canada, so I'll be unavailable." As I step past him and through the door, the sound of his laugh follows me up the hallway.