Page 101 of The Americana Playbook

I don’t like it one bit.

I step to the side, but his hand still lingers a little too long.

“The men’s room is that way if you’re looking for it.” I motion in the opposite direction of the corridor.

“Actually,” Mr. Foller begins. “I was looking for you.”

Tension invades my body immediately.

He brushes his hand along his sports jacket before stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I was hoping you and I could have a talk. It’s about Fitz.”

I move to go around him. “I’ll find him for you.”

Foller sidesteps with me. “I think this is a conversation better left between the two of us. I’m not sure he’d be all that happy to hear what I have to say.”

“Usually that’s a pretty good sign it’s best if you say nothing at all,” I snap. “Your relationship with Fitz doesn’t have anything to do with me. I support him with his career, but I’m not involved in football. I never have and never will be.”

Foller’s eyes widen. “You can’t possibly believe that you don’t have any influence on him. Not now, Parker. But I suppose”—he pauses—“your issue was always your skewed perception of reality.”

Suddenly, I’m a teenager again, sitting on the couch in Mr. Foller’s office. I’m being told there the same thing I am at home.

Get in line.

Behave.

But here’s the thing. I’mnota kid anymore. And if Foller thinks he has a big set of balls on him, he’s about to find out I have bigger ones.

“We want to keep the momentum from the Super Bowl up,” he goes on. “I’m finding, these days, he’s a bit distracted by the campaign, by the wedding, byyou. I’m not sure a wedding right now is best for him. It might be best to push it slightly, until right after next season ends. I want to make sure whatever years Fitz has left on the field are his best yet and that he goes down in history as a top quarterback and not, well, the president’s son-in-law.”

I smile politely, taking a step forward. “I’m sure he’d be absolutely furious to know you’re trying to intimidate the woman he’s about to marry outside the room where our engagement is being celebrated. Something like that might cost you more than just an invitation to our wedding. Now, if you don’t want me to tell him that you have the audacity to corner me, you’re going to step aside and let me pass, and the only thing you’ll ever say to me again isHello, Mrs. Rhodes. It’s nice to see you.”

I know I have options. I could push past him. I could scream. But I want Foller to know he’s not the one running the game here. I am.

So I wait, and I don’t dare break eye contact. And even though I know the only reason Foller does step aside is because noise echoes along the wood-paneled walls of the hallway, I take pride in the fact I don’t look back as I walk away even though I’m desperate to. I want to see the look on his face, catch how he reacts when I, once again, don’t do as I’m told. But this time is different.

Fitz’s eyes find mine as I walk back into the hall, and I can tell by the way they settle and relax that he was looking for me, but that only lasts for a second before his eyebrows crinkle closer together when Foller walks past.

There’s a ding. And another ding. And because my mother loves to put people in their place and remind everyone they’re inherhome, four more dings even after the room has quieted down.

Fitz tips his head toward the front of the room, and I take my place at his side while everyone clears the center for the real star of the show.

Fitz leans closer. “Did Foller say something to you?”

I turn, silencing Fitz with a soft kiss. “Smile and look like you love me, even though we’re friends,” I whisper. “America’s watching.”

Defeat is written all over Fitz’s face. “I apologize in advance,” I tell him, but for what I’m not sure. Kissing him. Not talking about Foller. My mother, who is smiling like she’s god damn Miss America herself. The room has quieted, yet she still doesn’t speak, keeping her lips pressed together as her mouth stretches wide, like her smile is battling to keep the trembles at bay. At her side, my dad raises a hand, banishing a tear from his eye with the back of his knuckle.

Softohs echo around the room, but for my mother, they might as well be applause.

Now it’s me who grows tense. I only know that because Fitz gently rubs his hand up and down my side. But it’s not enough to loosen my muscles and unlock my jaw as I realize, in my efforts to get what I want, I’ve given my parents everything they need—a different platform. The doting mom and dad. This is supposed to be an intimate gathering, but the White House photographer is in the corner with a huge lens. This will be posted, shared, used for fodder that helps betterthemand doesn’t helpme.

I suddenly feel sick even though I did this to myself.

“I’m with you,” Fitz whispers.

I tilt my head up. He doesn’t say anything else, but I can see it in his eyes—rebels only. And in this moment, Ifeelit. It’s him and me, just like it’s always been, just like it would’ve continued to be if we hadn’t been forced apart.

Mom clears her throat. “First, I’d like to thankeveryonefor taking the time to come tonight to celebrate the engagement of our loveliest pair—Parker and Fitz. I always joke to Walt that even though there are hundreds of people in the White House on any given day, it can feel quite cold and lonely. You being here, it makes this house feel much more like a home.”

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