Page 85 of The Americana Playbook

Releasing a deep breath, I turn toward my bedroom, but stop, realizing I forgot about the reason I came out here in the first place. I’m not sure that’s ever happened.

Slowly, I turn back around, playing with the hem of my tank top. “Is that a puzzle?”

Fitz’s head remains slanted down, but he raises his eyes to mine, tapping the small piece against the table. “I’m hoping to do the border before I go to bed.”

I look at the door one more time and decide there are better things to think about, like our earlier kiss—or the safer option—a puzzle. “Do you need help?”

Fitz’s eyes abandon the coffee table and fly to mine. “Only an idiot would ever say no to a little help.”

I pad across the living room and sit across from Fitz on the floor, folding my legs and looking at the pieces he grouped together. I can feel his energy and attention focused on the puzzle, but the quiet in the room bothers me. I place the Starburst on the table, smiling when Fitz grimaces.

“Pink or nothing,” he tells me, going quiet again.

“Did you call Mr. Foller back?”

Fitz shakes his head.

“Why?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“He doesn’t matter as much as you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he tells me.

I pick up a pale orange piece that belongs on the border, looking for its place. “Are things okay with you two?”

Fitz laughs. “Is this a game of twenty-one questions?”

“It can be,” I think for a minute. “Are you going to tell me why you kissed me?”

“Are you going to tell me what made you so upset this afternoon?”

My shoulders drop, and I sift through more pieces. I don’t even know what the final product will reveal. A sunset maybe.

Fitz sighs. “There’s no expiration date on my question. You can talk to me anytime.”

But if we proceed as we initially agreed, there technically is an expiration date for us, sometime early next year after the Super Bowl. I have to wonder if we’d make it that far—if Fitz would if he knew everything.

“I just want to be a safe space for you,” he continues, “I have a feeling you haven’t had one for a long time.”

He’s right and his words? They slice me open. It’s his honest reassurance that lets me talk.

“They call it a therapeutic boarding school,” I say after taking several deep breaths. My eyes remain focused on the table and I watch the puzzle piece Fitz holds still between his fingertips. “They sent me there when my dad was first running for president. Because of how I was acting. Because of my behavior.”

The puzzle piece Fitz holds between his fingertips stills.

“It’s nothing like school,” I whisper.

Fitz folds the piece into his palm, bringing his hand down to rest on the table.

I take a deep breath. I wish I could spill everything that eats away at me—everything that happened to me, but I only manage one thing. “I hate them,” I whisper, reaching out for another puzzle piece. “And I want the country to know that the man they elected to take care of them couldn’t take care of his daughter. I was thinking I’d do that the night of the convention in August. They’re planning for me to give the introductory speech.”

Drumming my fingers, I lean back from the table, bringing my gaze to Fitz. “I don’t want you to hate me. I didn’t think about how that might impact you until now. I don’t know if I’ll fit the mold for a football wife after I see this through.”

Closer to Fitz lies a sharp corner. I go to grab it, but Fitz intercepts my hand.

---