Page 103 of The Americana Playbook

“No, I lied. I just don’t want to go.” I flip through the glossy paper before I turn my head up to her so there isn’t any confusion. “We don’t want to go.”

The air thickens and I feel Fitz’s eyes calling mine.

“You don’twantto?”

I shut the magazine. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“Could you give us a second?” Fitz asks, but apparently, my mother can’t afford to because she carries on.

“We had an arrangement, Parker.”

I fling my head back to her. “Yes, and would you like to tell the twenty campaign staff members here about it?” I challenge. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you go ahead and tell them why I won’t go to Brookdale? Or maybe I should, you know, just to clear the air.”

I stand and move around Mom to go to the bathroom, but she reaches out, grabbing my arm, taking two strong steps in the opposite direction, toward the presidential quarters of the plane. The few aides around us turn and lift their heads as I dig my heels into the carpeted floor while my mother hisses under her breath, “Parker, stop making a scene.”

I try swinging my body for leverage, but I come into contact with Fitz’s back as he’s now stepped between us.

“I think it would be best if you get your hands off my wife.”

He makes no move to put his own hands on my mother, not even when, from over his shoulder, I see the challenging tilt of her head. But when an agent I don’t recognize rises from his seat toward the front of the plane, I place my hand on his back, where I feel his tense muscles. His presence is sobering, and I realize I don’t want him in the middle of my battles.

He takes a step closer to my mother. “Madam First Lady, with all due respect, you shouldn’t be worried about Parker making a scene. You should worry aboutme. Now Let go of her.”

Mom drops her hand, the tendons in my arm rebounding now that it’s free. “God help you, Fitz. If she ever gets the chance to be your wife, you’re going to need it.”

I stare her down as she walks toward the back of the plane, disappearing into a side door that leads to the presidential quarters.

“You alright?”

I didn’t even realize Fitz had turned around. He’s boiling, I can feel it.

I try to nod, but I can’t.

Fitz grabs my hand, and even though his hold issodifferent from my mother’s, I twist out of it and sink back into my seat, slipping off my heels and pulling my knees up to my chest.

“Parker,” Fitz whispers. “What was that about?”

I bring my head toward the window. “Nothing. We can’t go anyway. We haveplans. Or at least, I think we do.”

At this point, given how cold he’s been, I wonder if Fitz is about to break the news that he’s backed out of this altogether.

But his iciness is cut by his frustration. “What’s the problem with Brookdale?”

My eyes squeeze shut. For a minute, I think I’m shaking from the vibrations of the plane’s engines, but then I realize I’m the one shaking.

“There’s nothing in Brookdale,” I say, rotating my head toward him. “Nothing except hell.”

An explosion erupts in Fitz’s eyes, a tornado of anger from what my mother just did, frustration with me, and confusion. It would be beautiful—the way the colors swirl together as he tries to piece everything together—if it wasn’t so tragic.

“Sorry for the interruption, but I’m afraid we can’t arrange transport back to Boston tonight.”

I look up at one of my mother’s aides. “You can’t?” I snap. “Or you won’t?”

“Inclement weather. It’s been storming all day in New England,” the aide offers.

I point at Fitz. “My fiancé has a meeting he needs to get to first thing in the morning.”

That was the plan—Fitz would attend his last offensive meeting before the holiday, and then we’d head to the airport.

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