Page 39 of Queen of Ruin

It’s arresting how much his attention affects me, like I’m starved for it.

“What is it about Emerson that you find so appealing?” the man asks.

Before I can answer, a woman interrupts. “Sir, we need to leave in order to make our reservation,” she explains.

Kerry nods, and I try hard to school my expression. I’ll never get the chance to tell him how much his speech moved me, fueled something in me on a day that seemed impossible, a day I thought would be the pebble that would cause everything to topple over.

I watch as Kerry shakes a few hands, gives them an effortless politician's smile before he turns back to me.

“I’d love it if you would indulge us in a conversation about Emerson,” he pauses, looking at his friend, “and insights into today's youth,” he adds. “I’d like to prove to my friend here that your generation is not only interested in celebrity,” he teases.

“Always the politician,” his friend says, a ruddy smile on his face. He then turns to me. “Yes, please,” he grins. “I’d love to hear what you’d have to say about what issues your demographic faces,” he explains.

Demographic? I’m twenty, and I didn’t even register until this past year, not even in time to vote in this year's primaries. I mean to say no, I should say no, but then Kerry smiles, showing his bright white teeth and it travels into his eyes, glinting off the harsh fluorescent lights of the lecture hall.

“I think we’d all be interested in what you have to say,” Kerry encourages.

I nod, flushing slightly and then realize I’m wearing tight faded jeans and a light pink shirt that I picked up a long time ago at a thrift shop near school.

Kerry smiles, noticing that I’m looking down at my clothes. “Your attire is fine for the restaurant we’re eating at,” he reassures me.

As if he’s already anticipating the thoughts running through my head about not having enough money in my bank account to even buy a value meal at a fast-food restaurant, he adds, “Dinner is on me.” He gives me that imperceptible wink again that floods my cheeks with heat.

“Thanks,” I beam and then he turns his attention back to the woman, has a conversation I can’t hear, but she leaves, walking ahead of us.

“So, Miss…?” His friend smiles at me, urging me forward.

“Bowen,” I say.

“Miss Bowen,” he says and holds out his hand.

“Jonathan Langley,” he introduces himself. “Senator Jonathan Langley,” he clarifies.

* * *

I find myself in a very low-key pizza joint near campus that I had passed by many times. It’s not a place I ever thought a congressman would eat, but Kerry looks right at home except for his expensive looking suit looking out of place at the worn wooden bench table covered by a plastic plaid tablecloth. At the center are two large pizzas, still steaming from the brick oven.

Kerry sits on the opposite side of the table from me, and I laugh when he tucks a napkin into the collar of his dress shirt before taking a bite of pizza. Mary, his aide, as I learned on the way over, stands and directs a gentleman with a camera to take pictures. Kerry smiles, and the minute the flashes stop, I notice the look he gives Mary, his brows furrowed, and shakes his head.

She seems to understand his meaning and stops the pictures, taking the man out of the restaurant, only to return alone a few minutes later.

The conversation is light, not at all what I expected, and I’m put at ease, giving practiced answers about my major and background.

“I bet your parents are proud,” Mary exclaims next to me after I had explained that I got into college on partial scholarships.

I don’t have many people asking about my background or my family, but I’ve already developed canned answers; little white lies that don’t hurt anyone but me. I certainly don’t want to explain to anyone that my father died before I even knew who he was. I wouldn’t tell them how the man my mother married looked at me with something in his eyes that made my stomach turn.

“Yes, they are,” I agree, giving my own politician’s smile as I take a bite of pizza.

“And a literature major too. Are you as big a fan of Emerson as Senator Walker?” she asks.

“I’d like to say that my professors share the same enthusiasm as Senator Walker, but they make reading him and other nineteenth century poetry feel like a chore,” I admit.

“What a shame,” Kerry exhales. “Do the other students share your same sentiment?” he asks, taking a sip of his dark ale.

I think about that for a moment, remembering the sounds of pages turning, fingers tapping against keyboards, Professor Abbot’s monotone voice, and how there never seems to be lively debates. “I think they just want to make it to the end of the semester with a passing grade,” I answer honestly.

“And you?” he inquires, and the question is so wide and vast it threatens to fill my lungs with so much potential that they will burst.

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