Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(10)

I’ve got linen ones that go with my short-sleeved button-ups when I’m hanging out with the boys during the summer. I’ve got black silk ones I really only put on for weddings or funerals. I start to wonder if there will be black-tie functions this summer, but I doubt it.

And then I have these semiformal patterned ones that my hands always automatically drift toward. Except, my mom really doesn’t like them. “We don’t own a boat,” she always says with a scoff. Which, yeah, it’s a preppy, boaty look. But to me, it’s also fashionable and unexpected. Who knows, maybe one day I will own a boat—I mean, Lake Erie isn’t that far. I would look good on that boat. I’m attracted to the greens and blues, but I’ve also gotten away with a more muted gray one. I’m trying to figure out which one would get my point of view across while not starting a fight with Mom. Ultimately, I pluck the gray linen bow tie, because the thought of wearing a loud patterned shirt under my coat jacket feels right.

I feel so ready for DC. Capitol Hill could use some younger blood, someone with a vision, with all the political turmoil that’s been wrecking those halls over the past decade. I imagine it’s not too different from how Gabriel feels when he’s joining environmental rallies—I know I can make a change for the better.

This summer isn’t just a fun opportunity; it’s a necessary one. The start of a career path.

“Are you sure you want to wear the gray one?” Mom asks, peeking in the doorway.

I sigh. It’s one of those suggestions that isn’t really a suggestion, but I pretend it is anyway.

“I think I’m going to wear that one paisley button-up, so something muted makes more sense with that.”

“Ah.” A pause. “That’s a little loud, don’t you think?”

Loud. Any guesses to what that word really means?

“Please, Mom?” I hate how whiny my voice sounds, but I’m desperate. “I leave so soon. I don’t want to fight. This will look really nice under the jacket. Just … please?”

I turn and see her grip the doorknob a bit tighter. She’s torn, and I can hear her inner monologue from here—the paisley shirt is too flamboyant, can’t go wrong with something simple, don’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons.

She’s not outwardly homophobic or anything, but she has this rigid idea of who I am in her mind, and she always wants me to fit that picture perfectly. To fit in a box she’s designed and that she’s comfortable with.

But haven’t I already? I’m about to start working with a senator. I wear ties for fun. I don’t really curse. I’ve had my list of dream colleges set for years. I’ve fit into that box so long that I don’t even know where her ideas stop and mine begin.

“I’m going to wear this,” I say. The words are resolute, but my tone is not. I don’t like to challenge her, but I won’t give this one up. It’s just a freaking shirt for a three-person dinner party.

She releases the doorknob, and a click echoes through the room. I see her give up, and I hope it’s a sign of growth. A sign of something.

“Fine, you’re right. Betty will like the shirt, I’m sure.”

“She will,” I say.

I begin the process of undressing, and dressing, and think again about how this opportunity, and living in DC, it’s where I need to be. Forget seeking Mom’s approval—there are times I can barely look at her after last month, and I know she knows it.

I apply a light layer of foundation and thicken my brows with an eyebrow pencil. As I cover up a small pimple with concealer and blend it in with the rest of the foundation, I consider doing a quick coat of paint on my nails, but decide I’ve pushed it enough with Mom today. Plus, I don’t have enough time to dry it anyway.

Before I go downstairs, I check myself in the mirror one last time. The suit jacket fits snugly over my dress shirt, which is speckled with a small paisley print—all greens and blues with a touch of bright pink. My gray bow tie brings the look together just as expected. I sweep my hair back one last time, and the blond strands fall nicely in place.

Polished, thoughtful, with a touch of flair.

? ? ?

Congresswoman Betty Caudill must be under five feet tall, but she commands a room like she’s the world’s tallest woman. She’s in her second year, and she made quite a name for herself by standing up for a number of issues in her first few months. Conservative media labeled her a nuisance, but that soon faded when everyone realized she was actually getting stuff done.

Her start was mainly grassroots. Our district had been red for years—gerrymandered to death—but she brought a fresh voice, and she went county to county to convince the people that she had the right vision for Ohio. Mom helped with her campaign, becoming a press secretary of sorts. People needed someone to look to as COVID-19 tore through the district, so while the incumbent shared Instagram photos of him eating at restaurants near his vacation home in Florida, she went to work.

“Sal, my boy!” As I come down the stairs, she wraps me in a tight hug. She’s basically family at this point, so it feels natural to be squished within her grip. She turns to my mother. “Rachel, so good to see you. I brought some wine—it’s local, and it’s not great, but I have to support these Ohio vineyards. Here in a few years the wine won’t be as sweet, that’s what I’m told, and our district will be the new Napa Valley.”