Page 6 of The Love You Fight For
I cock my head to the side and wait. When the faux kindness in his smile vanishes, I almost sigh in relief.
“My dry cleaning needs to be dropped off at seven a.m. on Thursdays and picked up at seven a.m. on Mondays, and I have a very specific coffee order that you’ll probably want to memorize.”
He’s so damn smug. It’s the same expression he gave me when I caught him banging the housekeeper. I don’t let my mask falter. My smile never fades. My tone is all business, respectful and to the point, but with a hint of feigned sweetness.
“Do share the plans with me, Ashton. I’ll review your strategy and get back to you on Monday with suggestions for improvement.”
I reach out and smooth the lapels of Ashton’s expensive suit jacket as I speak, fussing a little over a nonexistent stain.
“I’ll also provide you with a comprehensive list of everything we’ve done in the past that’s worked so you know exactly what the community is expecting from us. After all, Senator Harper’s track record is strong, and we will want to use it to our advantage. If you’ve checked the files from the previous campaign manager, I’m sure you’ve found them lacking. Martha was always too busy being bent over office surfaces and trying to hide her affair with my father from her husband to worry about thorough records. Luckily, you have me, and I keep meticulous records.”
I move my fingers to Ashton’s crimson-red tie. He probably thinks it looks like a symbol of his patriotism. I think it looks like blood. I run my fingers over the smooth material, then take hold of the perfect double Windsor.
“If you think for one second that my position on this campaign team means I will be picking up your dry cleaning or going on latte runs, you should think again. I am committed to my role here, and I will do what is required of me, but I am not your errand girl.”
I grab the Windsor knot and slide it higher, tightening his tie until he has to swallow back a cough and grit his teeth.
“I am not at your beck and call. I am not your personal assistant. I will play nice until it no longer suits my needs. Remember that.”
I take a step back and remove my hands from his torso, then drag my eyes over his polished, flawless appearance before meeting his gaze once more. I smile bigger. I laugh lightly.
And then I let it all drop.
“And lose the South Carolina old money accent, Cartwright. You’re from fucking Richmond. You’re not fooling anyone.”
I leave before he has a chance to say anything else, laughing a little on my way out the door. Ashton Cartwright is such an idiot.
I find a nameless volunteer and tell them I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day, then I leave without bothering to find my father. He’ll be angry, but I don’t care. Working on this campaign might kill the last shreds of dignity I have left. Kissing his ass. Pretending I care, all while being an accomplice in deceiving the public. If I could, I’d tell him to fuck off. Hightail it out of town and never look back.
God, how I wish I could.
When I get to my car, I double-check our shared “family calendar” to make sure no one is planning to be at the house in Franklin. When I see that it’s free, I put my name in red for the weekend. Then I send our housekeeper a text to tell her that though I’m on the calendar, I’ll be “staying at a friend’s,” so she doesn’t have to prepare the house for me.
I never stay at the house anymore, but I doubt anyone outside of the staff has noticed. My mom only returns to Virginia when summoned, my father will occasionally stay for a week or two to keep up appearances around election times, and Chase is...well, it’s better for everyone if he just stays wherever my father has sent him to dry out. The story this time is South Africa, but I never can be sure. All I care is that none of them are actually in Franklin when I’m there.
I close the text with the housekeeper and open my thread with Lennon.
Me
On the road to you. What are we doing this weekend?
TWO
I takeOld Courthouse Highway out of town toward the county fairgrounds.
We used to hang out there back in high school—trespass to get drunk and high—but I haven’t set foot on the fairgrounds in years. Not even when the fair is actually in town. I might feel a bit more nostalgic if it weren’t for my shitty mood, but looking back now, nothing good ever happened at the fairgrounds. It’s probably why Macon wanted to do it here.
When I turn down a familiar gravel road, I notice a white 4Runner parked about half a mile down, right next to a section of fence that I know has been cut and bent just enough that an average-sized high school kid could crawl through. I know because I was with Macon when he cut it our junior year.
I pull my truck to a stop on the other side of the road and watch as Macon hops out of his driver side door and rounds to the back before opening the trunk and pulling out a bright red gas can. Despite my mood, I grin.
I climb out of my truck, then grab the big cardboard box from the back seat before turning to face Macon. A stick of red licorice hangs from his mouth, a habit he’s picked up since quitting smoking, and a USMC baseball cap sits backward on his head. The smudgesof dried clay on his jeans and forearms tell me he was probably hard at work in his studio when I called.
He still came, though.
Dropped everything without question.
“You don’t think we could just drive through the front entrance now?” I ask, flicking my eyes to the hole in the fence. I don’t know if I’ll fit through it. I’m a few inches taller and about twenty pounds heavier than I was in high school. “It’s not like we’re carrying illegal substances or drunk off our asses.”
