Page 43 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Andi,” she repeats with emphasis on both syllables. “Interesting. Short for Andrea?”
I have no idea, but I assume so. So I just nod.
“Classic and timeless,” she says in a singsong voice. “Sounds like a girl with a good head on her shoulders.” And it occurs to me now that when I was a kid, she used to comment on names, give her honest first impression. That’s where I must have picked up the habit.
The next few minutes are filled mostly with her firing off questions.Where is she from? What’s she like?Pretty mucheverything short ofWhat’s her blood type and medical history?, though I wouldn’t put it past her if I sat here long enough.
“You know, my birthday is next week. January twentieth,” she says.
“Uh—” I’m about to remind her that her birthday is in August, not January, but then I remember what all the Alzheimer’s experts say. When someone mistakes facts, it’s best not to confuse them more, especially if it’s inconsequential. “I’ll have to see. She’s really busy with work and—”
“I want this birthday to be special. You’ll bring Andi,” she insists, standing to take my plate.
My first instinct is to be annoyed by it all, but I also see how giddy and energetic she is over the prospect. Despite myself, it feels good to see her in good spirits, even if it’ll be short-lived. And even better that I’ve had a part in it.
Chapter 19
Andi
The Prime Minister & Meis now in the top 10 in the “Contemporary Romance” category, where it’s hovered for two days. Sales for my other books have followed suit. My author DMs and social media following have exploded.
Before now, I always assumed highly successful writers unlike myself lived glamorous lives, typing away at their computers oceanside, watching the waves crash against the rocky shore while cradling a hot beverage, getting inspiration from the call of the gulls over the coastal breeze.
Despite the new zeros in my bank account, here’s the cold, hard reality. I’m braless, slumped over in my chair in dim lighting, ruining both my posture and eyesight in one fell swoop; double-fisting a Diet Coke and a tea that’s long gone cold to jump-start the creative juices; eating Ritz Bits with reckless abandon; typing furiously. I’m working on a new, half-bakedromance idea involving a reclusive former musician, a beach, and mysterious messages in the sand.
It’s my first proper stretch of time to write in ages. I have two full days off, a rare luxury. I haven’t had this much time to myself since…two Christmases ago. And even then, Gretchen texted me at 11:30 p.m. Christmas Day to confirm that everything was set for her charity Santa event at the children’s hospital.
In just a day, I manage to write the entire first act of the book. Each word typed melts away the anxiety that’s accumulated from years of staring into the void, waiting to be struck by inspiration.
It also proves an excellent mental break from the fear of being doxed, fired, and blacklisted from politics forever. When I’m writing, I also can’t hyper-fixate on that hotel room in Squamish. I don’t have to suffer, replaying our conversation in my mind, or angst about how good it felt to talk to someone freely. Or lament over not having someone to laugh and make jokes with. I haven’t had that in a long time, not since Laine and Hunter, really. And then there was that moment in the hotel room when we were on the floor. And the kiss, which was for show but certainly didn’t feel like it.
I don’t let myself think about it too hard, because he’s leaving in a couple months. What’s even the point?
Once I’m satisfied with my word count, I make the mistake of texting Gretchen, asking if she needs anything. She wastes no time replying that the kids’ closets are a “straight-up mess.”
Only, when I arrive at the house, the closets are still immaculately organized from when I did them a couple months ago. I refold some things anyway to keep Gretchen content while Jason runs rabid in circles around me, undoing all my progress.
Gretchen comes in and sits cross-legged on the floor as soon as she finds out I’m here.
“Everything okay?” I ask over the shouting. Jason is belting the lyrics to a Miley Cyrus song, which seems a little inappropriate for his age.
She shakes her head, but not before asking Jason five times to go play with the Legos in the corner. Thankfully, he obeys. “No. This whole rumor situation is out of control.”
Since Squamish, the media hasn’t let up on the affair rumors. Even a popular gossip blog published NSFW excerpts of the book, which were dissected and mocked all over the internet (hence my spike in sales). Apparently healthy depictions of consensual sex focusing on a woman’s pleasure are gross, especially if written by a woman. If it’s sad, tragic, and written by a white man, it’s high literature.
“I’m really sorry, Gretchen,” I say, grateful for the laundry folding so I can avoid her eyes. I feel beyond guilty.
She stretches her legs out and exhales a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not just these ridiculous affair rumors. It’s tiring in general, constantly living in this push and pull of scandals and strategizing. Imagine every day, someone is questioning, hey, did you see she wore that purple coat? Clearly that means she’s getting divorced. The symbolism of purple.” She’s never admitted that before.
“I bet. It’s not exactly something the average person has to deal with,” I point out.
She lifts a shoulder. “People on the internet say I deserve it. That we signed up for this the moment Eric ran for office.”
“First, the internet was a mistake. Who cares what those keyboard warriors think? They don’t even know you. Besides,youdidn’t sign up for it, Eric did.”
Looking at her right now, with her head slumped down, she’s a shell of who she was when Eric was first elected. She was so vivacious, with a personality that could only be described as sparkly enough to match Eric’s charm. They were a force. They couldn’t even enter a room together without winking at each other and smiling with their own little jokes. You wouldn’t know it now.
“But I supported him. I pushed him to go into politics. It wasn’t even on his radar, you know. He would have been perfectly happy as a public defender his entire life. But I thought…a man like him needs something more. And, well, we got more. I never thought he’d actually win, you know? That sounds awful, because of course I believed in him. Still do. I know he’s the best thing for our country; I believe that with my whole heart. But Eric was so young and a man of color. All the odds were against us. So when he actually won, I thought, okay, I can give up four years of my career for the greater good. But now…with the reelection coming up…” She bites her lip. “That’s four more years, after I already took so much time off work having the kids.”
