Eyes Wide Open
by Sandrine Shaw

"You don't have to be my campaign manager if you don't want to," his mother says. She puts her hand on top of his and leans closer. "But I would like you to be."

And because, even after everything, Douglas still hasn't learned how to say no to her, because it's expected of him, because he figures he owes her, because he loves her and wants her to succeed, he says yes.

It's that easy (except not easy at all) that they're back where they started.

His marriage lasts a grand total of fifty-one days.

If Douglas had time to sit down, take a breath and think about it, he would have noticed it sooner. Then again, if he'd taken the time to sit down and think about it, he probably wouldn't even be married in the first place because eloping was an idea born from guilt and defiance, and he would have realized that neither of those are a good basis for a marriage to stand on. But he loves Annie, he genuinely does, and for a while he thinks that's going to be enough. But campaigning is starting to eat more and more of his life, and one night he comes home at quarter to midnight to find Anne sitting in the living room without any lights on.

He's startled when he flips the switch and sees her on the couch, just sitting there rigidly like a doll. The expression on her face is neutral. He thinks she should be upset because he's been working late, again, and he looks for the tell-tale signs of red-rimmed eyes or hard lines of anger around her mouth, but there's nothing.

And still, even as he asks her, "Why are you sitting in the dark?" he knows that it's over.

"I can't do this anymore, Doug," she says, voice clear and steady like it's a decision she made a long time ago, the weight of certainty behind it. "I thought it would be different. When you asked me to elope, I thought we could have a life. But... look at us. I'm making myself sick, and you're barely ever there."

"I could-" he starts, because he has to say something. I could try to change. Work less. Spend more time with you. Pay attention to you. Put you before my job, before my mother. His protest is half-hearted at best, because he knows that however he'll finish the sentence, it'll be a lie.

Anne knows it too. "No," she says firmly, interrupting him. "It's okay. I don't want you to. This is who you are. This is your life. I'm just done trying to fit myself into it."

She looks sad and defeated and pale, and he wants nothing more than to take her into his arms and tell her that he loves her. He wants to fight for her. But he can't fix this. Anne used to be radiant and full of smiles and fun, and the months and years at his side turned her into a bare shadow of herself. He remembers how Susan Berg told him, three months ago, that he was a good guy. It was comforting to hear then but now, when being a good guy means having to let a woman he loves walk out of his life because he knows he's making her unhappy, it doesn't feel so good.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Annie takes his hand and smiles sadly. "I know."

Even with his family crashing the elopement, Douglas' and Anne's marriage was a quiet, private affair.

The annulment they get is equally quiet. A few strings Bud pulled, a couple of signatures on a sheet of paper, and it's like they were never married at all. If anyone notices the missing marriage band on his finger, they don't comment.

In his darkest moments, Douglas wonders if the reason they never talked about the marriage to the press is because they knew it wouldn't last. If, deep in his heart, he had always known. If eloping had been nothing but a futile act of rebellion against his mother, doomed to failure from the start.

Just because their marriage crashed and burned doesn't mean that Douglas doesn't miss Annie. The flat is empty without her presence, and now that she's gone, he starts to remember the good times they had. The laughter they shared; how she used to giggle at the anecdotes he told her. The way she curled up against him on the couch. Her kisses. The smell of her shampoo. Memories assault him in all the corners of the flat, until he barely spends any time there at all.

He works even more than he used to, staying in the office late or spending the night at his mother's house, watching his parents argue in a bizarre sort of mating ritual and listening to T.J. play the piano and sharing a drink with Margaret and falling asleep on the couch when everyone has gone to bed.

It's one of those nights when he's alone in the living room at 11pm, not quite drunk but feeling a pleasant buzz from the scotch Margaret poured him, and he thinks, 'Fuck it.'

Susan's sister, a petite short-haired brunette a few years older than Susan, opens the door, the annoyance in her expression quickly becoming astonishment when she sees him, and at once Douglas remembers how Susan once told him that her sister used to have a crush on him. It's probably the only reason she doesn't slam the door in his face.

"I'm terribly sorry, I know it's late, but I wanted... Can I... Is Susan home?"

He feels like a teenage boy coming to his girlfriend's house and asking her parents if she can come out to play, and it's ridiculous. It's stupid, and he shouldn't even be here. He feels himself blushing, hoping that the night will hide his embarrassment.

"Susan isn't staying with me anymore. She has her own place. I can give you the address if you want?" It's a question, but it feels like a statement. Her eyes are sharp and inquisitive, and Douglas wonders how much Susan told her. It's the sort of thing a woman would tell her sister, he assumes: 'I slept with the son of the former President.' If it were him and T.J., they'd gossip about it. Then again, he didn't tell T.J. about joining the mile high club with Susan, so maybe not. He didn't tell anyone, though sometimes when his mother mentions Susan she looks at him in a way that makes the hair at the back of his neck rise and he thinks she knows.

He realizes that Susan's sister is still waiting for an answer and he puts a fake smile on his face and shrugs and says, "Don't bother, I'll just give her a call tomorrow."

Maybe Susan moved back in with her boyfriend. Maybe she's seeing someone. Maybe - no, not maybe - this definitely was a bad idea.

But Susan's sister already has a pen and a piece of paper in her hands and is scribbling on it. "Well, you came all the way out here to see her in the middle of the night, so it must be urgent. She's probably still awake writing something or the other that'll win her a Pulitzer. You might as well go see her."

She hands him the paper, an address in clear, bold letters.

There's something about her that reminds Douglas of his mother. Perhaps it's the way she looks at him like she can read his mind, or the way she makes a friendly suggestion hold the weight of an order. And even though, a minute ago, he had no intention of seeking Susan out, he finds himself nodding.

"I will. Thanks. For this." He gestures with the note. "And sorry again."

By the time he arrives at Susan's new place, he's almost completely sober. If he wasn't sure that her sister had announced his visit, he'd have told the driver to take him home instead, but running away would be even more telling than turning up at her doorstep at midnight.

As predicted, Susan is waiting for him. She's wearing track pants and a tank top, and her hair is pulled up, making her look five years younger. He wonders if she's trying to make a statement, if she's trying to tell him, look, I knew you were coming and I didn't dress up for you, and - if that's what she's doing - what that means.

"Carol told me you were looking for me," she says, stepping aside to let him in. He notices that all the shoes and jackets in the hallway seem to be hers, no sign of someone else living there, and he tries to ignore the feeling of relief at the discovery.

He turns towards her. She looks at him like she's waiting for him to say something, give some sort of explanation for his late-night visit and he realizes that he has no idea what to tell her.

"I just-" He takes a deep breath. "I messed up."

Before she can ask what he means, he closes the distance between them, cups her head in his hands and kisses her. Kisses her like he means it, like he did that evening on the plane when they shared drunk secrets and she told him she was lonely. Her lips are dry and soft and open easily under his, and he lets his fingers tangle in her hair as he pulls her towards him. For a moment, she returns the kiss, but then her hands are at his chest, gently pushing him away.

"Douglas, no. We can't do this." He tries to pay attention to the words, but gets distracted when her tongue darts out to wet her lips, his eyes glued to the movement. "This is a bad idea. You said it yourself - San Francisco was a mistake. And now you're drunk and-"

"I'm not drunk. On the plane... maybe it was a mistake. And I tried to fix it by marrying Anne, which turned out to be an even bigger mistake, because even though I did love her it could never have worked."

Susan is watching him with a frown that increases with every word that he says. "You're not making a very convincing case."

"Look, what I'm trying to say is... I've thought about this - you, me, us - for weeks. Actually, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since San Francisco. Perhaps it started out as a mistake, but it's done now and we can't undo it, and I think we should give it a shot."

He stops abruptly and looks at her, waiting for a reaction. She runs a nervous hand over her face and releases a shaky little laugh. "Wow. If this is how you word your arguments, perhaps your mother needs to hire someone else to do her campaign."

Her tone is amused, though, an undercurrent of I don't know why I put up with you somewhere in it, and Douglas finds himself smiling. "Cut me some slack, I totally winged this. And I think I did get my point across."

Susan's lips twitch at the corners. "Well, maybe it wasn't totally unconvincing."

For a moment they just stand there, in the small, dim hallway of her flat, smiling at each other. Then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they both take a step towards each other at the same moment, and his lips are back on hers, his hands pulling at tank top as her fingers go to work on his belt.

"Douglas, wait. Hold on a moment," she says, stopping him as he pulls her onto the bed. "There's something I have to tell you first."

He waits, trying not to imagine what revelation she's going to spring on him, and what the repercussions will be. Hoping it won't be bad enough to end this before it even started. Not just the sex, but everything that could be, tomorrow and the day after.

"Your mother," she begins, and he flops backwards onto the bed, already frustrated because he's fairly sure nothing good has ever come from a conversation that starts with those two words. "Are you listening to me?"

He raises his head a little. "Yeah, sure. What about my mother?"

"She asked me to come work for her as her press secretary." A moment passes when Douglas waits for the other shoe to drop, but Susan doesn't continue.

"Okay," he says, tentatively. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No. I don't think so. I just thought you should know. Before we..." Her voice trails off and she shrugs. "I don't know yet if I'll accept, but I figured that if you and me are going to do this, you should be aware that it's on the table."

"Okay," he says again, more firmly. "Can we stop please talking about my mother now?" He's smiling, though, and Susan chuckles when he pulls her down towards him.

"You left last night," his mother says, apropos of nothing, somewhere between going over the latest figures and discussing which talk show to appear on next.

Douglas can feel her eyes on him but doesn't look up from where he's bowed over a print-out. "I had somewhere to be. I can't sleep on your couch forever."

He sounds more defensive than he would have liked.

"I know, it's just..."

When she doesn't continue, he does at last raise his head to look at her, wondering instantly if getting him to do this was the point of the aborted statement. If it was a set-up, it doesn't stop him from falling for it. "Just what?"

"I worry about you. I know things have been tough, and campaigning is not going to make it easier any time soon. Are you okay?"

Instead of giving a knee-jerk response, he considers the question. His mother's concern is genuine. Even though he accused her of putting her careers before her family, he knows that she cares deeply about him and T.J. and even their father. If Susan was right and he's a good man, it is because rather than in spite of his mother, and he owes her this much honesty.

He thinks about this morning, drinking coffee in Susan's kitchen, her walking in wearing nothing but his shirt and a wry smile, the two of them making plans for later tonight or tomorrow or whenever the craziness of their jobs would let them. This as-of-yet-undefined thing between them feels new and tentative, but not fragile, and perhaps it's going to fall apart under the pressure when things get rough but perhaps it won't. Either way, this time, he's walking into it with his eyes open. He's getting too old and too jaded for drunk hook-ups and drugged proposals and life-changing decisions born out of anger.

Offering his mother a smile, he says, "I think I will be."

End.