Mr. President (White House #1)(11)

“Benton Carlisle …” He extends his hand, which I promptly shake. “Unfortunately we didn’t get the chance to be introduced last night. I’m Matt Hamilton’s campaign manager.”

My heart skips, regardless of me wanting it to or not. “Oh, of course—Mr. Carlisle, I’m sorry. I haven’t had coffee yet. Please, sit down.”

“I won’t be staying long. I’m simply here on behalf of Matt.”

“Matt?” I question.

“Yes. He wants to formally extend you an invitation to join his campaign.”

If seeing Matt’s campaign manager in my office wasn’t shock enough, this certainly is.

“I …”

“He told me you were the first in line to help and he’d hate to refuse his first offer.”

My eyes widen. “Mr. Carlisle—”

He laughs. “I admit I was taken aback. Most of our recruits have experience, something which you have nothing of. And yet here I am, first thing in the morning.” He looks at me as if wondering what I did to deserve this and I don’t like his possible assumptions.

“I agree that I have no experience. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to decline.”

“Fair enough.”

“But please send my best wishes to Mr. Hamilton.”

“I will.” He leaves his card. “In case there’s anything we can do for you.”

We shake hands, and I watch the man depart as elegantly and soundlessly as he came in. When he is out of view, I sag in my seat, stunned.

The rest of the day I focus on busywork, but when I head home to my apartment, I sit on the couch, my precious cat Doodles perched on my lap, and I wonder why I declined the offer. I’ve been wanting to do something important on my own, out of my parents’ shadows. Working on a campaign, wouldn’t that be thrilling? Exciting? Why didn’t I leap? I wonder if my fear has to do with the same reason it would be thrilling and exciting. Because it would involve Matthew Hamilton, and he is both what inspires me to agree and makes me crave to keep a safe distance.



That evening, I watch a TV show where one of the candidates is discussing purely incendiary things about poor immigrants, poor refugees, and how he’ll raise taxes so that we can become the world’s greatest army again.

He makes it sound as if refusing to help those who are suffering is the only way we could ever return to our golden days.

I press my lips together and turn off the television.

Maybe I can help. I believe in him. I believe he’s better than any of the options they’ve been tossing around on TV.

I grab Carlisle’s card and call him. “Mr. Carlisle, this is Charlotte Wells. I’ve been thinking about the offer … and yes. I want to help. I’m ready to be used in any capacity and I’m ready to start Monday.”

There’s a stunned silence, then, “Matt will be pleased.”

He sends me the address where I should present myself on Monday, then I hang up and stare, wide-eyed, at my phone. Holy shit! I just signed up to work on Matthew Hamilton’s campaign.





7





FIRST DAY





Charlotte



My eyes are fixed out the window of the back of the cab as I ride to the seat of the Matt Hamilton Presidential Campaign.

It’s a clear February day.

D.C.’s quiet strength seems a permanent reminder of this being the home of the country’s powerful executive seat. Sweeping monuments, carpets of green, politicians swarming its cafés and streets, Washington sits proudly and strongly as the most elegant city in the nation.

There’s nowhere I’d rather live. If there is something beyond here … it’s just a temporary fling.

My pulse is in D.C.

The pulse of the nation is in D.C.

If New York is the brain, Los Angeles is the beauty, D.C. is the heart, the very soul vibrating in our monuments, each one of them a testament to the strength and beauty of the American experience.

So the cab takes me through the heart of it all, past the labyrinth of the Pentagon, along the Potomac, and by the Lincoln Memorial, the pristine white walls of the White House, and the dome of the Capitol.

I don’t know why I’m here.

What possessed me to want to leave my job at Women of the World?

The TV has replayed his announcement endlessly, and I’ve replayed the inaugural party in my head just as endlessly.

No, I do know why I’m here. Because he asked me, maybe. And because I want to take a little part in history.



I get out of the cab and rummage through my purse as the two-story building, seat of the Matt Hamilton campaign, looms before us.

I pay the driver, and the moment my strides start eating up sidewalk, I feel recharged with hope and anticipation.

I’m led inside by a middle-aged woman with a crisp voice and an even crisper walk. “He’s ready to see you.” She signals to the main area of the second floor, where a group of people hover anxiously around Matt—six feet plus of natural athleticism, brains, and hotness to the extreme clad in gray slacks and a black shirt—all of them staring down at a long table.

Matt’s arms are crossed, he’s frowning at some of the slogans he’s being shown.