Page 7 of Notorious

“Thanks, isn’t it fab? And it’s nice to meet you.” He tells me his name, the names of his companions, and that they’re all techies from the Bay Area. Despite my best efforts, I immediately forget every one of their names. I have to work on that, or I’ll never be a good politician. “The Senate’s ambitious.”

I nod. “Yes, but I’m from an ambitious family. My momth—er—mother is Melissa Delmont.”

They all say, “Ahh,” in recognition, since she’s got her sights on the White House. That election is still a couple of years away, but the various potential nominees are jockeying for position. Meanwhile, I’ve got a primary in March.

“And how is Melissa?” asks a man in a burgundy paisley tux jacket. I bristle, because using her first name makes it seem like he knows her, but I’m sure he doesn’t.

“She’s good. Sixteen points ahead, last I heard.”

“Great. She’ll be a breath of fresh air if she can make it to DC,” another one says. He’s wearing a gold vest under a black tux. “She’ll be supportive of gay rights, I presume.”

“Yep,” I say. “Fighting for the cause is one of the main points in her platform. All those PSAs from a few years ago were her idea. I went along with it, though it’s a bit embarrassing now.”

“Oh yeah, I remember seeing those posters on BART,” green plaid tuxedo says. “You and your boyfriend. Or … ex?”

“Ex.” I hide my wince, because the story’s complicated. Sam Stone, the other guy in the photos, and I were never actually going out. As far as the public’s concerned, though, Sam dumped me for Julian Hill, one of the biggest pop stars on the planet.

“So sorry Sam broke up with you,” burgundy paisley says, again as if he knows Sam. I need to get used to this familiarity people assume with us. Sometimes I forget that I’m already something of a public figure—and many of the people I spend time with definitely are.

I chuckle, but it likely sounds strained, since this is the fourth time I’ve had to explain the circumstances tonight alone. Although, to be fair, this time I brought it up. “Well, if I’m gonna be dumped, at least it was for someone like Jules.”

I wasn’t dumped. We weren’t together. I am datable. Dammit.

Not everyone kills himself after being with me. Sometimes they just find the love of their life.

I can’t say any of that, though, so I shrug as gold vest says, “I’d do anything just to be in the same room as Julian Hill.”

“He’s pretty hot,” I agree. While it’s true, my nose wrinkles as I say it, because this conversation feels so superficial. I’m much more interested in talking about the real issues: fighting to take back rights that are being eroded and ensuring they won’t be jeopardized again. Entertainment gossip isn’t interesting. “He’s been instrumental in some important charitable work,” I say, attempting to bring the discussion around to the things I care about, and for a moment they play along.

“I’d heard about that. All the more reason to love him. So, why are you running?” asks green plaid.

“I thought we’d made strides, but every time we accomplish something, some hate group comes out of the woodwork to tear it down. I’m sick of it. So I’m going to do something about it.”

They nod. We talk for a bit longer, but they’re clearly bored with me, so I excuse myself and move on.

This event is like speed dating, without the goal of taking someone home. I do my best to stay focused, but with all the people I’ve met and hands I’ve shaken, I’m exhausted. My brain’s overfull of things to do.

Worse, at the end of the night, I’m not announced as one of those who’ve secured major funding grants.

My brain says, “You’re a failure. You’re an impostor.”

I tell my brain to fuck off and decide I need a drink, and fast.

As I’m leaving the ballroom (more slowly than I’d like, thanks to the crowd), my phone buzzes with a text from my momther asking how things are going, but I’m not interested in licking my wounds with her right now. I text back that I’m going to call it quits for the night and regroup when I get home tomorrow.

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I make my way to the only empty seat I spot at the nearest bar. It’s right between the wall and a big, muscled cowboy in a dusky blue tuxedo. He’s staring into his glass, so I don’t really look at him. Even though I want to, because he’s hot. But someone wearing a Stetson at a bar is likely straight. No?

I take the stool next to him and order a martini.

That’s my first mistake … er, choice. Whatever. I don’t usually drink martinis, and I’m really not cool enough for hard liquor. I can handle beer and wine, but the bitter taste of some of those harsher drinks just isn’t for me.

But the past few hours have sucked, and I want to forget the super PAC representative announcing all the names of the people who did get their backing. Sulking because I’m not as popular as the other kids is pointless and foolish, but it feels horrible to be told that you’re not good enough in someone else’s eyes, no matter the context.

My drink comes: cold, clear, slightly oily, and with two fat green olives on a stick. I sip the martini, pretending I’m James Bond but trying not to grimace. I end up downing it, then chasing it with a few nuts from a dish the bartender sets before me.

The bartender asks me if I want another, and I say yes, and after that, everything becomes looser. That’s better.

The cowboy up-nods the bartender, who brings another whiskey—a big one—without him saying anything. She places it in front of him, and he puts his hand over the glass, half covering the top, but doesn’t pick it up.

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