A thought occurs to me as I lay staring at the ceiling. My last conversation with Fitz has just done another lap through my mind.
"I mean, you believe my presidency is more important than anything, right? You worked so hard to get me here."
The words turn over and over; they tumble backwards and forwards, upside down and around. He said I worked hard to get him there. So hard to get him there. There's a strange emphasis on the words "so hard" that I didn't notice before. In that hazy moment when he cut my heart out, I thought he was talking about all the days with little food and all the nights with little sleep I went through during the campaign; the countless phone calls, the endless strategy sessions, the perpetual preparation. I thought he was talking about the blood, sweat and tears I poured into getting him elected.
Maybe he was talking about something else.
Maybe his about face has nothing to do with fear of losing the presidency. Maybe it has nothing to do with some re-kindled love for Mellie.
Maybe he knows.
I bolt up from the bed, the pieces snapping into place.
"I mean, you believe my presidency is more important than anything, right? You worked so hard to get me here."
I wanted Fitz to be president.
I wanted him to be happy.
I helped make sure he would be.
What if what I wanted most has ultimately cost me the most?