Page 70 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
now
Tomorrow finds me alone.
Tomorrow finds me defeated.
I’m not surprised when I wake up alone, although that doesn’t make it sting any less. But I am surprised when Ash not only wins the debate, he trounces me. He destroys me.
Guts me and hangs up my head and my heart for the world to see.
He is the king, after all, and I have no one to blame but myself for forgetting.
I ONLY REMEMBER flashes from the debate itself. The backstage at Hofstra University, crowded and jostling with people re-taping audio cords and adjusting camera settings and arguing about wi-fi. Searching for Ash as someone touched up my camera makeup. Searching for Greer. Seeing only strangers and lights. Going over my notes on my phone as Vivienne Moore texted me an unending stream of advice.
Look into the camera. Speak clearly. Don’t let him anger you.
Don’t fuck it up.
I remember stepping onto the stage first, waving and smiling at the intimate crowd. And then turning. And seeing him.
In person.
Up close.
Green eyes. Full, sharply peaked lips. Black hair shot through with strands of silver—so far apart that you think you’ve imagined them in the light. A suit cut so perfectly to his tall and masculine proportions that the tailor probably wept and came at the same time he cut it. A presence like a saint or a conqueror or a demigod, a presence that expands like heat from the wide shoulders and narrow hips and ruthlessly handsome face.
I remember shaking hands, his hand huge in mine, and rough and strong, and how are we shaking hands like strangers? We didn’t even shake hands when we first met, unless you’d call a forearm in your throat a handshake. And our eyes meeting, and I always forget I’m just that little bit taller, but somehow it doesn’t matter with Ash, I feel like I’m standing at the feet of Zeus and peering up in supplication. It’s that presence, and I’m helpless in the face of it, or I always have been, and then Ash cups my elbow and leans into my ear.
“I love you, little prince,” is all he says.
No insults.
No threats.
After I’ve spent the last year doing everything I can to undermine his power, to woo politicians and donors to my side, relentlessly stating and restating every single way I think he’s a bad leader, publicly forswearing our every bond and oath, trumpeting about his weaknesses, after all of that—all he wants to say to me is I love you?
Oh my God. I’m fucked. I’m done. I had prepared to debate in the face of his hatred, but I am nothing in the face of his love.
Nothing.
I pull back and look into those bottle-green eyes. “Achilles,” I manage in a whisper before the audience erupts in polite applause and the moderator exhorts us to take our podiums. His heart cracks open in his eyes when I say it.
I crack open too. Open and apart. Into nothing.
I remember taking notes as he and Harrison Fasse talked. I remember scribbling down points, and errors, and also just drawing nonsense lines because I needed someplace to look that wasn’t my king’s face, something to concentrate on that wasn’t his charred, melodic voice. It didn’t work though, because how could I not hear him? How could I not see him?
I remember making most of my points fairly well. I’m good at talking, I’m good at smiling. I’m persuasive. I’m from a liberal state with a Democrat for a mother and I’m also a decorated military vet, the perfect swirl of blue and red—not to mention young and handsome and smart. I’m an ideal candidate, as moderate and inoffensive as you can get. If I were running against any other person than Ash, this wouldn’t be a contest.
But it is Ash.
And he is the king.
To every question, he has a better answer. To every point, he has a better counterpoint. And it’s not only his eloquence, although that’s part of it, but it’s that clarity and honesty that spills through him like light, that radiates from him in a shine of equanimity and strength. It’s irresistible even to me, and I know the audience feels it, basks in it, takes it and holds it close because it’s the feeling of knowing someone good is in charge. Someone good is here and trying to make things better and they will do all the hard work and fighting for you, and all you have to do is believe them and trust them.
The terrible thing is that I know he doesn’t mean to do this, but without trying to, he paints a picture of me as overeager and inexperienced, unseasoned in a way that makes me feel clumsy, like a boy trying on his father’s suit.
And finally I remember Ash delivering the killing blow.
“Mr. Moore was my brother in arms, my running mate, and my dear friend. I still have nothing but respect and affection for him. But I will tell you that he swore to stay by my side through my first term, and he left to follow his ambition. Can you trust that he won’t do the same to you? That he won’t swear to serve you and then follow his ambition elsewhere?”
