Page 2 of The Art of Scandal

When Rachel and Matt were dating, it didn’t matter that she was always broke. Their differences seemed small and romantic. Like how he would order too much food at restaurants because he knew that outside of their shared dinners, Rachel existed on ramen noodles and cheap gas station hot dogs.

“I’m grateful for this community,” Rachel continued. “How Oasis Springs has embraced me.” Fifteen years ago, she didn’t know the place existed. Their suburb was so exclusive that most Fairfax County realtors didn’t bother to include it in their guides. As an outsider, being accepted meant being useful in some way. Rachel was their First Lady. Aside from the chicken incident, a symbol of elegance. Basically, a mascot.

“Jesus, Rache. You’re starting to sound like me.” Matt exchanged another look with Shania. “I’m grateful for my wife,” he said, unprompted, because he was a lawyer and a politician and always said the right thing. “She keeps me solid. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

But they both knew exactly what he’d do. He’d hire someone to cook his meals and keep his social calendar. If his office needed an update, a dozen interior designers were a Google search away. Need a pretty girl on his arm? Toss a rock and he’d hit one of the blue-blooded socialites eager to be photographed with the next Pete Buttigieg. Everything he was grateful for could be purchased for the right price.

But she didn’t say any of that. She didn’t admit how lonely it was to be appreciated for what you did for someone rather than who you were.Remember when you thought I was funny? Remember when I took a pen from your father’s desk and you told me it cost more than a thousand dollars? And I panicked while you laughed and drew crooked hearts along my shin?

Shania gave her an expectant look. Matt pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger and gazed back at her with soft, encouraging eyes.

“I’m grateful for you too,” Rachel said, and repeated how sorry she was for the chicken thing. She mentioned his birthday and suggested a nice dinner, but Matt wanted a party. “Something with shitty food and loud music.” She’d agreed and promised to make the cake herself. “It’s your fortieth, which is a big deal. I want everything to be perfect.”

His eyes had clouded over, and he’d asked if she was happy. “Really happy. Not just… you know.”

She’d laughed and said, “Of course!” as if there were no other way to feel.

Now, Matt refused to leave the kitchen. His rambling turned him further into a cheater cliché while Rachel seriously considered picking up the knife again. Someone walked into the room and they both froze. It was Kenneth, a new associate and Matt’s mentee. His cherubic face took in the messy pile of cake on the floor, his boss’s fight-or-flight posture, and what was probably a maniacal gleam in Rachel’s eyes. “Cheryl and I were just leaving,” he said with a thumb jab over his shoulder. “But we had a great time. I wanted—”

Rachel left the kitchen before he could finish. Matt hissed her name, following close behind. She needed to get to the stairs. Her heels made clacking sounds against the tile as she moved past the foyer. Matt struggled to keep up without running. She glanced over her shoulder, and he said her name again, this time sharp and determined. Rachel shucked off her shoes and sprinted.

A few party guests watched them, wide eyed. What would people say tomorrow? That Matt Abbott chased his hysterical wife up the stairs at their over-the-hill birthday kegger? Rachel slowed at the landing and Matt gained ground. He darted ahead, blocking her path. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with excuses. She made a fist, and he stepped back like she’d put her finger on a trigger. “Rachel, talk to me.Please.”

Once inside their bedroom, she started pacing, her bare feet sinking silently into the carpet. Maybe it was a mistake. Or an accident. Or some onetime thing he would confess during their next session. Shania would look at Rachel instead of Matt and sigh at his pathetic lapse in judgment.

Matt told her that the affair had started during a monthlong swing of small towns last August. The trip was supposed to make him more appealing to blue-collar workers, and Rachel had been ordered to stay home because she was “too elegant” to fit the narrative.

“You’ve been fucking this woman since last year?”

Matt lifted his hand to touch her. She probably looked like a wounded animal. Rachel flinched and scooted away. Roadkill didn’t look to the driver for sympathy.

“Seeing. It’s not just…” His voice lowered to a squeamish hiss. “Sex. I didn’t plan this. It just happened.”

Rachel yanked her dress down over her knees as his affair shifted in her mind from a selfish mistake to a deliberate betrayal. “Is she white?”

Matt blinked, and she could almost see his brain fumbling for the right response. “Yes. Why would you ask that?”

“Because I’m not.”

“Are you implying—”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying it.” That was better. Her anger had wrapped her voice in steel. Instead of being shattered, she’d become a blade. “If you think a congressional campaign would be easier with—”

“Would you stop?” Matt reached for her hands. “It’s not an election strategy, Rachel. This is about me falling in love with someone else.”

Falling in love? That couldn’t be right. Their life was a blur of photo ops and campaign fundraising events. Their nights were surfing cable news shows or mining social media mentions for useful sound bites. Matt’s political career had the velocity of a comet that incinerated every free minute in its path—including her minutes, her life, and all that time she spent flourishing cakes with royal icing. When did he find time to fall in love?

Rachel let her eyes roam around the bedroom she had designed—the fluffy white down comforter, the espresso-colored furniture, the bright turquoise accents—everything was coordinated, down to the small fringe hanging from the curtains in the master bathroom. That’s what she did in her spare time. Generate new palettes on her color wheel app while Matt kept secrets and nodded absently at variations of ecru.

“Why are you telling me this?” Her voice trembled, close to cracking. “You were obviously fucking her behind my back for months. Suddenly you can’t think of a decent lie?”

Matt flinched. He wasn’t used to being called a liar to his face. That’s what happened when you were the firstborn Abbott golden boy—no one bothered to hold you accountable. He released her hands and put more distance between them. “I was going to tell you once the election was over. I didn’t want you to find out like this. It’s embarrassing.”

He really meant inconvenient. Matt’s mayoral reelection was a formality—a small step in his ascension to an empty US congressional seat. The position had been vacated by a ten-term octogenarian who’d been accused of quid pro quo sexual harassment. Matt was being vetted as his replacement because, besides his progressive agenda, he was bankably bland. A young blue blood with a picture-perfect marriage to a Black woman he’d lifted from poverty like some liberal fairy-tale prince. Dumping Rachel for his white mistress would ruin the narrative.

Matt looked down at his hands. They were thinner than when she met him, which didn’t seem fair. Her old rings didn’t fit anymore.

“You’reembarrassed?” She waited until he made eye contact again. “I just threw you a frat boy Pinterest party. How do you think I feel?”

---