Twenty-Four

An hour later, just as I’ve managed to slightly calm my nerves, I see the glittering lights of Washington appear below us. As we fly over the Mall, which is still crowded with people from the day’s events, my anxiety returns in full force, but with it comes a burst of excitement. I tap my foot nervously as the plane takes what seems like an excruciatingly long time to land.

There’s a black towncar waiting for me on the runway. As I race toward it, I barely recognize the fact that Ilse’s shoes are starting to leave blisters on the blocks of ice that are my feet. The driver ushers me into the back, then walks around to the front and climbs in.

As we’re pulling away from the airport, he turns to me and says conversationally, “So, you’re going to the White House, huh?”

I nod, an excited grin spreading across my face.

“You going to that inaugural ball?”

“Yup,” I reply happily.

He turns around again and smiles at me, then studies my face carefully.

“Say, aren’t you—” he begins.

“Yes,” I sigh, anticipating the remainder of his sentence.

“Then why are you—”

I cut him off again. “It’s a long story,” I assure him.

“Hey, we’ve got time,” he replies.

Normally, I wouldn’t dare share the most personal details of my life with a complete stranger, but he’s got a point. Plus, telling him the story sure beats staring nervously out the window for the next half hour or so. So, with a shrug, I launch into a dramatic re-telling of the entire saga.

“And so, as it turns out, Jake had nothing to do with what Chris did to me,” I finish up just as we’re pulling through the White House gates. “Now I’ve just got to find him and hope that it’s not too late to make things right.”

The driver nods as he pulls the car to a stop. He turns around and gives me a wink. “Go get ‘em!” he says.

“I will!” I reply, beaming. “Thank you!” I call back as I jump out of the car.

I race to the entrance of the East Ballroom. When I’m a few feet from the door, I stop and take a deep breath. Slowly, I walk toward the entrance, which is being guarded by two stoic-looking Secret Service agents, both of whom are wearing sunglasses even though it’s pitch black outside.

I smile nervously at one of them and hand him my invitation. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and motions to his counterpart with a tiny flick of the wrist. The other agent pulls open the door, and I venture through.

The hallway I walk into is dimly lit, but I can hear the sounds of music and laughter echoing down the corridor. As I gaze at the ominous portraits around me, I’m momentarily stunned by the realization that I’m actually walking through the White House. I shake off my amazement, quickening my steps as I make my way to the end of the hall, where light is spilling out of the ballroom.

When I arrive at the entrance to the ball, I’m once again taken aback, this time by the elegance of it all. Ladies in jewel-toned satin gowns and diamonds the size of large pebbles mill around, laughing gaily, while men in tuxedos shake hands and slap each other on the back. I scan the periphery of the crowd for Jake, but I don’t see him anywhere.

Smiling gracefully, I push my way into the mass of people, darting my head left and right. Finally, when I reach the edge of the dance floor, I spot him. He’s in the middle of the floor, spinning around with…Skylar Williams. My face falls as I watch the two of them laugh and joke, their faces so close they’re almost touching. Everything seems to move in slow motion as I watch Jake lean down and whisper something in her ear and see her respond with a tinkling laugh, gazing at him adoringly. I feel tears welling up behind my eyes.

Suddenly, I become aware of the murmurs that are rising around me. I hear my name called once, then twice, then by several different people all at the same time. I turn around to find at least a dozen cameras trained on me, and several reporters waiting with notepads poised and microphones outstretched. My acknowledgement of them unleashes a barrage of questions, but I manage to push through them and, tripping my way through the rest of the crowd, run out of the ballroom.

Afraid I might be followed, I slip into the first door I see. The room seems to be filled with historical artifacts from various presidents, all backlit in glass cases. I stand in the center of the room, my back to the door, wiping the tears that have started to dribble down my cheeks.

A few moments later, I hear the door open. I stand perfectly still, afraid to turn around and see who’s standing in the room with me.

“You came,” a voice says. Jake.

I turn around slowly and see him walking toward me, the hint of a delighted smile creeping onto his face.

“Yeah, well, that was a mistake,” I reply. “I never should have come here.”

“Oh,” he says, his face falling.

“I hope you two will be very happy together,” I continue haughtily.

“Who?” he asks, confused.

“You and Skylar,” I respond derisively. When Jake says nothing, I add, “I saw the two of you dancing. It’s obvious you’re in love with her.”

“I’m not in love with her,” he insists. “God, Julia, you’re as bad as a tabloid reporter,” he says as I walk past him to leave the room.

My hand is turning the doorknob when he blurts out, “I’m in love with you.”

I freeze. With my back still to him, I ask carefully, “What did you just say?”

He waits until I turn around, then repeats quietly, “I said I’m in love with you.”

I can only stare at him.

“I have been since the first time I saw you, at the Vogue photo shoot,” he continues. “You put me in my place, wouldn’t let me get away with anything. I loved that. Other girls don’t act that way around me. They fawn all over me, thinking they have to stroke my ego to make me like them. But not you. You challenged me, and you inspired me, more than you’ll ever know.”

Jake looks at me expectantly, apparently finished with his declaration, but I’m still at a loss for words. Actually, that’s not true. I know the words I want to say, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to say them.

“Well…” he prompts.

“All right, fine!” I exclaim at last. “I’m in love with you, too. It just took me a lot longer to realize it.” I give him a defiant look. “There. Are you happy?”

He strides across the room and folds me up into his arms. “Very.”

This time, his kiss is expected, but it still somehow catches me off guard, sweeping the breath from my lungs and the blood from my head. As his lips play against mine, I feel my knees start to buckle, and he tightens his grip around my waist to steady me.

When we finally pull back, we look at each other in amazed silence for a moment.

“Wow,” I breathe at last.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Wow.”

We grin happily at each other, and he asks, “Julia, will you dance with me?”

“It would be my honor,” I reply, and, hand-in-hand, we walk back to the ballroom and push through the crowd to the dance floor.

Jake leads me to the middle of the floor, then whispers, “Stay right here,” and darts off. I feel my cheeks flush as I stand alone among the whirling dancers, most of whom have now started to stare at me while whispering to one another.

As Jake returns and sweeps me into his arms, I hear the band begin to play a familiar tune.

“‘Hallelujah’?” I ask knowingly, a smile dancing across my face.

Jake nods.

“What?” I ask with a gleam in my eye, cocking my head to one side. “Did they not know any Britney Spears?”

“Shut up,” Jake tells me, shaking his head and gazing at me adoringly before bending down to kiss me again.

And though I can feel the eyes staring and the flashbulbs flashing and the mouths whispering, for the first time in a very, very long time, I don’t care at all.

Twenty-Three

The invitation is the last I hear from Jake. The days pass, slowly at first, as I fall back into the habit of racing home to check for any word from him. After a couple of weeks of silence, I try to distract myself again with classes. But all the distractions in the world can’t divert my attention from the fact that General Bennett’s inaguration is quickly approaching. It seems like everywhere I go, I hear reports of the exorbitant parades and lavish balls to come. I wonder if I’ve done the right thing by refusing to acknowledge Jake’s invitation. I’m plagued by the sinking feeling that I’ve just thrown away my last chance to make things right between us. But I have to accept the fact that there’s nothing I can do about it now.

On the day of the inauguration, I’m attempting to shelter myself from the media onslaught by spending a few hours reading at my favorite coffee shop. I’m curled up in a comfy easy chair, just getting to the exciting part of my novel, so I don’t notice for a while that the girl behind the counter is shouting my name.

“Julia Rowan?” she shouts. “Is Julia Rowan here?”

Shoving my bookmark back into my book, I jump up to see that, predictably, the entire coffee shop is staring at me, and their stares aren’t just of the “why is that girl shouting her name in a quiet coffee house” variety. Great. I guess anonymity is still a little much to hope for this early in the semester.

As I race toward the counter, I notice several people whisper to each other as I pass, not taking their eyes off me. I greet the barista with a slight scowl.

“You have a phone call,” she tells me, handing me the receiver.

“Julia!” Ilse exclaims as soon as I put the phone to my ear, before I even have a chance to say hello. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“What’s up?” I ask curiously. It must be important for Ilse to have had to track me down like this.

“Have you seen the new issue of Politico?” she asks breathlessly.

“No,” I respond hotly, “and I doubt I will. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not on the best of terms with the editorial staff of that magazine.”

“I think you’ll change your mind once you see the issue,” she tells me.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“That’s all I’m saying,” she says mysteriously. “You’ve got to read it for yourself.”

I roll my eyes, feigning nonchalance, as I hand the phone back across the counter. But inside, my heart is racing. The new issue of Politico. This can’t be good. Can it? Ilse did say it would change my feelings toward the editorial staff, though. One thing’s for sure: I’ve got to see a copy of that magazine. Now.

Scanning the coffee shop, I spot someone in the far corner of the room reading what I assume to be the most recent issue, an assumption based both on the fact that I don’t remember seeing it on newsstands as well as the fact that the person reading it is whispering to his companion and pointing toward me.

Boldly, I stalk across the coffee shop and approach their table. But before I can even ask to borrow the magazine, he hands it over to me, folded open to a specific page.

“This is what you want to read,” he says.

I give him a smile of gratitude. As much as I want to sit down right there and read whatever this mysterious mind-changing story is, I make the long trek back to my chair, not wanting to endure the inevitable penetrating stares I would receive if I were to read it in front of these random strangers.

When I sit down, I see that the magazine has been flipped open to the editor’s letter. Next to the column of text is a picture of Jake, sporting his devilish grin. Just seeing his picture causes my heart to skip a beat. I’m finding it increasingly hard to breathe, but I force myself to read the letter.

“Dear readers,” it begins. “As many of you know, since my father announced his bid for the White House, my role as editorial director at Politico has been largely ceremonial. In the interest of providing fair and balanced coverage of the campaign, I have precluded myself from taking part in the day-to-day editorial duties of the magazine. Now, as my father prepares to assume the presidency, I must announce my complete resignation from the staff. I leave the magazine in the very capable hands of my good friend, editor in chief Sasha Smith.

“However, before I bid you a final farewell, I feel there is a very important issue that I feel needs to be addressed. Shortly before the November election, several credible news sources ran a story claiming that this magazine intended to publish a story about Charlie Rowan’s daughter, Julia, that would further expose her alleged ‘wild child’ tendencies. I would like to state for the record that it was never our intention to publish such an aritcle.

“Furthermore, I have since learned that the reporter quoted in this story, Chris Abbott, was engaged in a romantic relationship with Miss Rowan, the purpose of which seems to have been to trap her in a compromising situation. The picture that accompanied this story, of Miss Rowan dancing in a bar, was taken by Mr. Abbott only after he had supplied her with many alcoholic beverages. Needless to say, Mr. Abbott was summarily dismissed from the staff of this magazine as soon as this information came to light.

“And so I want to use these words, the final ones I will ever write on these pages, to extend a sincere apology to Julia Rowan, who was merely a victim of the actions of one callous individual who unfortunately saw it fit to act under the name of our magazine. There have been many who have blamed Charlie Rowan’s loss in the election on his daughter, but I can only think that they are seriously misguided. During the campaign, it was my distinct pleasure to get to know Julia, and I can honestly say that I have never met a more caring, more intelligent or more spirited woman. If anything, Julia Rowan is part of the reason her father was so admired by so many people…including me.”

Slowly, I walk back across the coffee shop, barely cognizant of my surroundings, and hand the magazine back to the couple I borrowed it from, murmuring a dazed, “Thank you.” I can feel them staring at me curiously, but thankfully, they don’t ask any questions. Still stunned, I walk out of the shop and onto the street, moving with the flow of pedestrian traffic but without a clue as to where I’m going.

All I can think is how foolish I’ve been once again. Why didn’t I listen to Jake when I saw him in Seattle? Or when he called me on election night? Why didn’t I pick up the phone any of those times he called, and why did I throw his invitation away so hastily? I think of the Leonard Cohen lyrics he included with it. “I told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you.” Of course that meant something! I am such an idiot. And I’m completely powerless to reverse the damage I’ve done to him.

I walk around aimlessly in the cold for what must be hours, tears welling up in my eyes. Finally, when I become tired of the curious glances I’m garnering, I head back to my dorm room. As soon as I start to turn the knob, the door flies open, yanked from the other side.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ilse cries as I walk forlornly into the room.

“Out walking,” I mumble, pulling off my mittens.

“Did you read the magazine?” she asks impatiently. She’s incredibly jittery, bouncing up and down like one of those dime-store rubber balls.

“Yes, I read it,” I snap, whipping around. She immediately stops bouncing and gets a somewhat frightened look on her face. I soften my tone. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You were right, okay? You were right, for the hundredth time. But it doesn’t much matter, because there’s nothing I can do about it now.” With this pronouncement, I flop back onto my bed dejectedly.

Ilse races across the room, grabs my hand and pulls me off of the bed. “What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?” she exclaims.

I give her a pointed look. “Just that. There’s nothing. I. Can do.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course there is!” she responds. “For starters, you can go to that ball!”

“The inaugural ball?” I reply. “No, I can’t. I threw that invitation away weeks ago. They’d never let me in the door.”

Ilse walks over to her desk and, opening the top drawer, produces a cream-colored envelope. “You mean this invitation?” she asks with a gleam in her eye.

“Where did you get this?” I cry, grabbing the envelope out of her hand. I open it just to make sure and find that it is indeed my invitation to General Bennett’s inaugural ball that evening in Washington.

“I rescued it from the trash can,” she admits. “I had a feeling you might change your mind.”

A smile spreads across my face as I squeal and hug her. But mid-embrace, I’m struck with several troubling thoughts all at once.

“Wait,” I tell her, breaking away. “What about my dad? I mean, he was the reason I decided not to go in the first place. And I have nothing to wear. And I’ll never—”

My frantic ranting is interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Ilse smiles at me, and I respond with a questioning look.

“I think that might just be the answer,” she says knowingly, striding across the room to open the door.

Of all the people I expected to see on the other side, Suzette had to be one of the last ones. And yet there she is, grinning and holding a big white box. She and Ilse exchange hellos and smile at each other conspiratorially. I glance warily from one to the other, not sure what’s about to happen.

“Now, let’s see, what were you saying?” Ilse asks me nonchalantly, but I cut her off before she can delve any further into her little act.

“Suzette, what are you doing here?” I ask her disbelievingly.

“Your roommate called me,” she replies. “Told me you were in a bit of a jam and could use my help.”

I briefly shoot Ilse a scornful glance (to which she responds with another beatific smile) before turning my attention back to Suzette.

“So you came here…to help me?” I ask, baffled. “But…I thought you weren’t speaking to me. I thought you hated me.”

“Oh, please, Julia,” Suzette replies, instantaneously resuming the all-business personality I’d grown accustomed to. “We don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. We’ve got to get you to that ball!”

“But, but…” I sputter, unsure of where to begin. Suzette and Ilse both regard me impatiently. “What about my dad?” I exclaim, suddenly remembering my reservations. “Won’t he be upset by me attending the inaugural ball of his opponent?”

“I’ve already talked with him,” Suzette informs me briskly, setting the box in her arms down on my bed. “He gives you his blessing.”

“Really?” I ask in amazement.

“Of course,” Suzette scoffs. “Who wouldn’t? It’s obvious how much you and Jake care about each other.”

I’m stunned, unable to speak. Apparently I’m the last person on earth to find out about my feelings for Jake, which seems to me to be awfully unfair.

As I ponder this thought, Suzette has already moved on to the next dilemma. “Now, for the dress,” she says.

“Yes!” I exclaim, cutting her off. “A dress! I need a dress! I don’t have a dress!”

“Calm down,” she tells me derisively. “You do have a dress.” She gestures to the white box on the bed. “It’s a little something I picked up when we were at the Vogue photo shoot. I thought it might come in handy one day.”

At the mention of Vogue, I start to back away slowly from the box, as if it contains a rabid beast. In fact, it might as well, as far as I’m concerned. “Oh, no,” I say. “I would rather go to the ball naked than have to shove myself into that dress again.”

“Would you relax?” Suzette says. “Just open the box.”

I approach it tentatively and lift off the lid. Inside, I find the gorgeous beaded white cocktail dress I had been eyeing at the shoot.

I turn to Suzette. “How did you—”

“I saw you drooling over it at the photo shoot,” she replies with a smile.

“Go on!” urges Ilse, who has been silent in Suzette’s wake for several minutes. “Let’s see if it fits!”

Obligingly, I peel off my jeans and sweater and slip on the dress. As Ilse zips it up, I look at myself in the full-length mirror. It fits perfectly, as if it were cut specifically for my body. I gaze at my reflection happily…until my eyes trail down and catch a glimpse of the sweat socks on my feet.

“What about—” I begin, but Ilse holds up a finger to silence me, running over to her closet and rummaging through it until she finally emerges, triumphant, holding a pair of silver strappy sandals.

“You can borrow my Jimmy Choos,” she tells me, and for what might be the first time ever, I find myself rejoicing that I have a roommate with such extravagant taste in footwear.

Before I can even thank her, Ilse announces, “Hair and makeup!” and drags me over to her desk chair where, after pulling out her gigantic makeup box, she begins plying me with every cosmetic product known to man. From her perch on my bed, Suzette merely looks on in amusement.

As Ilse is dabbing at my eyes with a pointy brush, I’m struck by another dismaying thought. “I’ll never make it to Washington in time!” I cry. “The train there will take like eight hours, and that’s assuming there’s even one leaving anytime soon!”

Ilse steps back and gives me a scornful look. “What’s all this nonsense about trains?” she asks.

Before I can respond, Suzette jumps in. “There’s a charter flight waiting at the airport to take you to Washington,” she tells me. “A driver will meet your plane at Dulles and take you to the White House. You should arrive just in time.”

I stare at them both, my face a mixture of amazement and gratitude. They beam back at me. Then suddenly, the moment is broken as Ilse returns to frantically applying my makeup and Suzette begins pacing around the room.

Twenty minutes later, we’re all bundled up and crowding into Ilse’s miniscule Saab, heading for the airport. Just the short walk to the dorm parking lot has already succeeded in turning my scantily clad feet into ice cubes, but I’m so nervous that I barely notice. Ilse and Suzette, apparently fast friends, chatter all the way to the airport, but I can’t bring myself to concentrate on what they’re saying. My mind is somewhere else entirely.

At the airport, they smile and wave excitedly, like two parents sending their only daughter off to her senior prom, as a freezing wind sweeps down the runway. As I bid them good-bye I take one last exhilarating gulp of the frigid air before boarding the tiny plane that will carry me to my fate.

Twenty-Two

However, because such are the rules in these kind of circumstances, once I decide that perhaps I should grant Jake the opportunity to say whatever it is he’s been trying to tell me, I don’t hear from him again. Every time I go out, I race back home, hoping to find the answering machine light blinking or Ilse waiting with a message. But day after day, I find nothing. I guess all of my pleas for him to leave me alone have finally taken effect.

After about a week of desperately hoping for another call, I finally start to resign myself to the fact that I’ll probably never hear from Jake again. I try to tell myself that this is what I wanted, but the truth is, I’d become kind of accustomed to his groveling and find myself missing it now that it’s not there anymore. Eventually, however, I manage to push him out of my mind, filling it with other concerns, like surviving the first week of classes.

One day, I return home from my feminist literature class to find Ilse waiting for me eagerly, practically bouncing up and down with excitement. I notice that she’s holding a large, cream-colored envelope in her hand.

“What is with you?” I ask, tossing my backpack on my bed.

“This just came for you!” she exclaims, holding out the envelope. I see that my name is printed on the front in calligraphy, but there’s no address or stamp or postmark. “By messenger,” she adds with a raised eyebrow.

I exchange a curious glance with her. Who could have possibly sent something to me by messenger?

I rip open the envelope and pull out a stiff, cream-colored invitation with tiny print.

“The honor of your presence is requested at the Inaugural Ball of President-Elect William Jacob Bennett. Nine o’clock in the evening. East Ballroom, The White House.”

I look up at Ilse. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“What?” she asks, confused. “What is it?”

“It’s an invitation to General Bennett’s inaugural ball in Washington,” I tell her. “Why would this have been sent to me?”

“Let me see that,” she says, grabbing both the invitation and the envelope out of my hands.

“Hmm,” she says as she studies the invitation, turning it over. Peering inside the envelope, she exclaims, “Hey, there’s something else in here!”

She pulls out a smaller piece of stiff paper and scrutinizes it. At first I think it’s probably just standard directions or further details, but the way she’s screwing up her face while reading it makes me think otherwise.

“Do you know what this means?” she asks, handing the paper to me.

There, scrawled in what I can only assume is Jake’s handwriting, I find the last verse to “Hallelujah.”

“I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong,
I’ll stand before the lord of song
With nothing on my tongue but hallelujah.”

I read the words in a whisper, flashing back to the day Jake and I spent in San Francisco. And yet, I can’t help but feel that his sending me this verse of the song is meant to convey something deeper than just a reminder of that day. “I told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you.” That line in particular reverberates through my mind as I sink onto my bed, staring at Ilse with my mouth open.

“What?” she asks impatiently. “What does it mean?”

“I think it means that you were right about Jake,” I tell her slowly.

“I told you!” she cries triumphantly. “Now you can go to the ball and apologize to him yourself!”

Immediately, I snap out of the daze that Jake’s note had put me in. “What?” I exclaim. “No I can’t!”

“Why not?” Ilse demands.

“Why not?” I repeat incredulously. “I cannot go to the inaugural ball of the man to whom my father lost the presidency. And especially not as his son’s date.”

“Oh, please,” Ilse scoffs. “I’m sure your father will understand. Especially in light of the fact that you’re obviously completely in love with him.”

“In love with whom?” I cry, my voice reaching new levels of shrillness.

“With Jake,” she responds, as if the answer should have been apparent.

I reel back at this pronouncement. “I don’t think so.”

“Really,” Ilse says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “Then why have you been racing back to this room to check for messages from him every day for the past week?”

“You put it into my head that I should give him a chance to explain,” I reply defensively.

“Whatever,” she responds disbelievingly. “Answer me this, then. If Chris is the one who hurt you, who betrayed you, why are you mad at Jake instead of him?” I try to answer, but she cuts me off. “Could it be that maybe, just maybe, he’s the one you really care about?”

I can’t think of anything to say to that. Ilse gives me a pointed look and leaves the room. I sit down on my bed, turning Jake’s note over in my hand. Is she right? Am I in love with him? No, that’s impossible, I think. I’m mad at him because he was the one behind my sabotage, that’s all. But was he really the responsible party? I study the note again, trying to draw some meaning about my own life out of Leonard Cohen’s lyrics.

This is ridiculous, I think, tossing the note and the invitation in the trash can. Those words were written by someone else, about someone else. They have nothing to do with Jake or me. I can’t really know what his reasons were for including that note, but regardless, there’s absolutely no way I can attend the inaugural ball. It would hurt my father too much, and I’ve already caused him more than enough grief as it is.

Twenty-One

Christmas, normally my favorite time of year, is miserable at my house. My parents seem to have returned to their normal lives, my mother bustling around with all her charity work, my father anxious to get back to the Senate (where, fortunately, he still has his seat) and trying to work out a book deal about his experiences during the campaign. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to get past what happened during the election, and spend most of my time either moping in my room or taking long walks around our neighborhood in the cold, where I’m lucky not to run into too many people.

The fact that my parents have been able to get past the loss so easily should be heartening, but instead I find that their chipper attitudes only make me more sullen. Their repeated attempts to cheer me up not only fail miserably, but also only serve to augment my never-ending bad mood. And so I head back to Brown on the day the dorms open, a full week before classes start (and several days before Ilse is supposed to arrive) just so I can have a chance to sulk in private.

Of course, as soon as I arrive back in Providence, I immediately begin to regret this decision. The campus is practically deserted, but I still am unable to walk across it without garnering some sort of comment from a passing student, be it a sympathetic, “Sorry about the election,” or a lewd, “I want to see your bra, too, Julia.” The worst part is, most of the people who stop me are ones I’ve never met before in my life, although some of them look vaguely familiar from class. Desperate for anonymity, I’ve had to revert to wearing my disguise again when I want to go out. This seems to keep most people at bay, although I still do get the odd remark here and there. I’m hoping it will die down completely before too long, because I certainly don’t want to have to wear sunglasses and a bandana everywhere I go for the rest of the semester.

One afternoon my second day back on campus, I arrive home from a coffee run just in time to hear the phone ringing in my room. I fumble with my keys, but by the time I get the door open, it’s too late and the machine has already kicked on.

“Julia?” comes a familiar male voice. “It’s Jake…Bennett.” I freeze in the middle of the room. “Are you there? If you are, pick up. I really need to talk to you. Julia? Okay, I guess you’re out. I’ll try you back later.”

The machine clicks off, and I sink onto the bed, staring at the phone. How did Jake Bennett get my number? And why does he keep trying to get in touch with me when I’ve made it perfectly clear that I don’t want to talk to him?

Over the next three days, I receive a grand total of five messages from Jake, each one sounding more desperate than the last. My resolve is starting to weaken with each plea, but I’m able to stay strong when I remember everything I’ve been through over the past couple of months. A quick reminder of the way in which I was betrayed is enough to keep my anger fresh.

One day, I arrive home from a walk to find the door already unlocked. When I walk in the room, it’s a maze of bags and boxes. Ilse is sitting at her desk, chatting loudly with someone on the phone. I smile and give her an exuberant wave.

As she waves back, I hear her tell the person on the other end of the phone, “Oh, hold on, she just walked in. Here she is.”

She stretches to hand the phone to me, and I give her a questioning look.

“Jake Bennett,” she mouths.

“No!” I mouth back, waving my arms and stepping away from the phone. Crap! I knew Ilse was coming back today, and I should have known Jake would call when she was here by herself. I’d erased all of his messages from the machine, and I didn’t think to leave her a note telling her about my new habit of phone-call screening.

She gives me a pointed look and shakes the phone at me impatiently. I continue to shake my head back at her. I can only imagine what Jake must be thinking on the other end of the phone as our silent argument drags out.

Finally, I see that Ilse isn’t going to back down, so I snatch the phone from her.

“Hello?” I say coldly into the receiver.

“Julia!” Jake exclaims with relief. “Finally, I managed to catch you!”

I say nothing.

“Your roommate’s really nice,” he continues conversationally.

“I know she’s really nice,” I snap back. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t continue to bother her. Or me, for that matter.”

“There’s something I need to say to you,” he insists.

“No, there isn’t,” I reply firmly. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want to talk to you before you’ll get the hint? Please don’t call me again.”

I hang up the phone before he can get another word in and turn to Ilse proudly.

“What was that all about?” she asks as I hand her the receiver.

“Oh, like you don’t know,” I respond, rolling my eyes.

“Actually, I don’t,” she says, bewildered. “I mean, I’m guessing you’re upset about the election, but I don’t see any reason why you should be so mad at Jake. He seemed like a nice enough guy.”

“Oh, Ilse,” I sigh. I sense that this might be a good time to unburden myself and confess to her everything that’s happened on the campaign trail. I tell her to sit down on her bed, then I pull up a chair and fill her in on the whole sordid story, from the details of my illicit affair to my awkward moment with Jake in San Francisco to my last night with Chris in Oregon and his ultimate betrayal. When I finally finish, Ilse can only let out a shocked, “Wow.”

“I know,” I reply ruefully.

Grinning, she grabs a pillow from behind her and lobs it at me. “How come you didn’t tell me about Chris?” she cries. “I thought I was supposed to be your best friend!”

“Ow!” I exclaim, tossing the pillow back at her. “You are my best friend! I didn’t tell anyone about my relationship with him.”

“Not even after what happened in Oregon?” she asks. “It seems to me like it would have relieved some of the blame on you if people had known what was really going on.”

“Actually, I think that would have just made things worse,” I reply. “And anyway, what does it matter now?”

“Well, whatever,” she says. “I still don’t understand why you’re mad at Jake, though.”

“Don’t you see?” I say impatiently. “It’s obvious he was behind the whole thing. I mean, Chris is just a writer. It’s Jake’s magazine. He’s the one calling the shots, so it had to have been his idea all along.”

“I don’t know, Julia,” Ilse hedges. “Isn’t it possible that Chris was just acting on his own? How do you know for sure that Jake was involved?”

I ponder this for a minute. “I guess I don't,” I venture, “but it just seems like the kind of slimy, underhanded thing he would do. You don’t know him like I do, Ilse.”

“That’s true,” she says slowly, “but what about that day you guys spent together in San Francisco? I mean, you said yourself that it was one of the best days you had during the campaign.That’s got to mean something, right?”

“Not necessarily,” I sigh. “For all I know, Jake was stringing me along, too, just like Chris was. It was probably just another instance of me being way too naïve and trusting.”

Ilse looks at me sadly for a moment, then shakes her head as if to jolt herself out of a reverie. “Well, you’re here now, far away from both of them!” she says brightly. “What do you say we go out tonight and toast the beginning of a fabulous new semester?”

“I don’t think so,” I reply, and her face falls. After everything that's happened the last place I need to be is in another bar. “I don’t really feel up to it,” I add, by way of explanation. “But you go and have fun. We’ll go out together some other time.”

She looks at me warily, but all she says is, “Promise?”

“Promise,” I respond, leaving her alone to unpack and organize her things.

As I mope down the hall toward the student lounge, I think about what she said. I really don’t have any proof that Jake was involved in sabotaging me. I mean, he certainly had a lot to gain from my downfall, and he was definitely in a position to orchestrate it, but does the addition of those two facts equal his guilt? I sink down into a chair and gaze out at the window at a group of students congregated outside the dorm, hugging each other and exchanging ebullient back-to-school greetings, and I wonder if perhaps I should have given him a chance to explain himself. If nothing else, I think, maybe he at least deserves that.

Twenty

The next morning, my mom and I fly back to Vermont. My dad is headed for New York, where he’ll do some last-minute interviews on morning talk shows and the evening news before joining us back at home. I’ve never been so ready for a trip to be over in my entire life. When I wasn’t facing the interminable boredom of being locked in my hotel room, I was subjected to the furtive glances of campaign staffers, whose preferred method of communicating with me seemed to be whispering to each other about me as I walked past them. Suzette still won’t speak to me, either, and though I would have once desired that above anything, I’ve since found that her icy silent treatment is far worse than her anger-fueled tantrums. My parents are trying their best to pretend like nothing happened, but it’s in vain. Every time I’m with them, I can still see the disappointment in their eyes.

I spend my time at home locked up in my room, playing sad music on my CD player and gazing forlornly out the window. I’m dreading Tuesday night, when I’ll have to end my self-imposed seclusion and once again face my parents, the campaign staff and the press corps to watch the election returns come in. My father has regained some ground, but he’s still trailing General Bennett by a few points, and the pundits are all predicting Bennett as the winner. All I can do now is pray for a miracle.

When Tuesday finally arrives, I find that I’m actually relieved to be able to leave my room. Maybe this won’t be so bad, I think as I walk down the stairs to the living room, where everyone is gathered to watch the returns. As I round the corner and catch sight of Chris standing on the opposite side of the room, laughing with some of the other journalists, my sudden burst of confidence deserts me. I don’t have a choice in the matter, though, so I take a deep breath, smooth out my skirt and join my parents on the couch.

Three extra television sets have been imported into our living room so that we can watch all four of the major networks at one time. The volume is turned down low on each set, but the newscasters’ voices still mix together in a cacophony of speculation. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I swear I can hear my name mentioned a couple of times.

Each network features a map displayed prominently behind its anchor, and by the time I arrive, I can see that several of the Southern states have already been colored red. We’ve got a couple of tiny blue states up in New England (Vermont, of course, as well as Connecticut and Delaware), but they look paltry compared to the mass of red stretching across the Southeast.

As the minutes tick by, the West starts to fill up with red, too, and I begin to think that perhaps my fervent prayers aren’t going to be answered. My father has gained a few more important states on the East Coast and in the Midwest, and the campaign staff remains hopeful, citing the newscasters’ predictions that Dad could still pull off a win. I, on the other hand, am completely discouraged. I can’t bear to watch any more states turn red, so I get up and head for the downstairs bathroom.

My hands planted firmly on the sink, I stand and look at myself in the mirror for several minutes. I start to cry, but swallow the tears back. I’ve got to get it together, I think. I run a washcloth over my face, smooth my hair down and take a deep breath.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I’m startled to find Chris standing in the empty hallway. I stare at him, not sure what to say.

We stand there in silence for a few moments. I wait for him to speak, to offer some kind of explanation or apology, but he says nothing. Finally, as I move to head back to the living room, he says to my back, “I had to do my job, Julia.”

I spin around. “Is that your idea of an explanation?”

He only shrugs.

“So that’s it, then,” I say resignedly. “You did this all just to get a story. It was all just an act.” He looks down at the floor. “I suppose I should congratulate you on a job well done, then,” I continue bitterly. “Because you certainly had me fooled.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says, looking up and meeting my eyes. “I did care about you. I mean, I do care about you.”

“After everything that’s happened, do you really expect me to believe you?” I ask incredulously.

He shakes his head and looks down again. “No, I guess you probably wouldn’t,” he replies quietly.

I stay in the hallway for a few more moments, regarding him sadly, before making my way back to the living room.

When I get there, I find that the mood has heightened considerably. People are out of their seats, jumping around and hugging one another. I race over to my parents, who are standing next to the couch, their arms around each other as my dad high-fives various campaign staffers.

“What’s going on?” I ask excitedly.

“We just took Florida!” my mom exclaims, pulling away from my dad and embracing me. “We’re only trailing by five electoral votes!”

As she hugs me, I jump up and down. A win, and with it, the dissolution of the guilt and worry that have been plaguing me for the past week, seems imminently possible now.

The jubilation eventually dies down, and everyone returns to their nervous perches.

“They’re saying it’s all going to come down to Pennsylvania,” someone calls. The current vote tally for Pennsylvania flashes on one of the screens, under the heading “Too Close to Call.” I see that my dad is only trailing General Bennett by a couple thousand votes, with nearly half of the precincts reporting. I grab my dad’s hand and squeeze it nervously. He gives me a hopeful smile.

Within an hour, the mood of the room has taken a downward turn, from optimistic to defeated. With three quarters of the precincts reporting, General Bennett’s lead in Pennsylvania has increased to nearly thirty thousand votes. The networks are still refusing to call the state in his favor, but most of the campaign staff seems to think that’s inevitable. Only a tenacious few are still trying to encourage the others not to give up. The last vestiges of hope seemed to have drained from my parents eyes.

One television screen at a time, I watch the state of Pennsylvania turn red on each of the networks’ maps as each of the anchors announce Bill Bennett as the next president of the United States, flashing a heroic-looking picture of him in uniform up on the screen. No one says anything for a few moments. Finally, my dad stands up and clears his throat.

“Well,” he begins. Everyone in the room looks at him expectantly. “We gave it our best shot. There’s nothing more we could have done. I just want to thank everyone in this room for all of the hard work you’ve put in over the past few months. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”

My father retires to his office to phone General Bennett with his concession. Silently, campaign staffers mill around the room, switching off the TVs. Eventually, only the set that’s always in the living room is on, and before anyone can get to it to turn it off, I hear the anchor say, “There’s no doubt that the family scandals that plagued Charlie Rowan in the final days of the campaign marked the turning point in this election. He was just never able to recover.”

I hang my head down, but I can feel the eyes of the entire room on me. My mother reaches over and takes my hand, but I break free from her grasp and run out of the room. By the time I reach the stairs, I’m crying so hard that I have to sit on the bottom step for a moment and collect myself. Just as I’m turning to go up the stairs, I hear someone call my name.

I turn back around to see Suzette standing at the end of the hallway.

“You have a phone call,” she tells me coldly before disappearing into the living room.

Tentatively, I pick up the phone on the hall table. “Hello?”

“Don’t hang up,” is the first thing I hear on the other end. The voice is Jake’s.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” I reply angrily.

“Just hear me out,” he pleads. When I don’t respond, he rushes on. “I just wanted to call and offer you my condolences.”

“How nice of you,” I reply sarcastically. “But shouldn’t you be out celebrating? I mean, really, this was quite the coup. You managed to use me to sabotage our campaign and win the White House for your father. He must be awfully proud.”

“It’s not like that, Julia,” Jake begins.

“Really?” I shoot back. “Because from where I stand, that’s exactly what it’s like.” I slam down the phone before he can get another word out and race up to my room, tears pricking my eyes yet again.

After a few minutes of sobbing into my pillow, I’m lying, worn out and broken, across my bed when I hear a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I mumble halfheartedly, not even bothering to raise my head to see whom I’ve just granted admittance.

It’s not until I feel the weight of another body sit down on the bed next to me that I turn my head to see who it is. I find my father, regarding me seriously, looking almost as beaten down as I feel. The mere sight of him causes the tears to flood once again.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper through my sobs. “This is all my fault.”

“Shh, shh,” he says, scooping me into his arms and stroking my hair. “Don’t you ever think that,” he tells me.

“But it’s true,” I wail. “Even the newscasters said it’s true.”

“Aw, you can’t believe anything they say,” he says with a chuckle. I sniffle and give him a little smile.

Wiping my eyes, I sit up on the bed as he says, “Julia, I want you to know that I could never blame you for what happened tonight. You were not responsible for me losing this election. I want you to understand that. Okay?” He searches my eyes.

“Okay,” I finally tell him, hoping my answer sounds more convincing to him than it does to me.

Apparently it does, because he smiles and, giving me a little punch on the arm, says, “That’s my girl!”

I return his smile, but when he leaves, I dissolve into tears once again. Who is he kidding? I think. I’m old enough to realize that parents just say those kinds of things because they don’t want their kids to feel guilty. My dad might have told me that I wasn’t the reason he lost the election, but I know the truth. And the truth is, the only thing that kept my father from becoming the next president of the United States was my foolish, trusting heart.

Nineteen

In Seattle on the last day of the campaign, I find myself once again under hotel arrest. Apparently my appearance at the event in Portland sparked too many questions from non-embedded reporters (I can only imagine that the embedded ones were satiated by the inside scoop from Chris), so Suzette has forbidden me from attending any more events for the remainder of the campaign. I almost can’t believe that, after everything I’ve done so far during this trip, I’m forced to spend the most exciting day yet trapped in a hotel room. Then again, I’m thankful for anything that keeps me from having to face Chris again.

I still haven’t spoken to him since the picture of me in the bar was splashed across every newspaper in the country, and at this point, I’m doubtful I ever will. I’m still a little bit angry, but mostly I’m just hurt that he hasn’t bothered to try and explain, especially if my hunch is right and Jake really is the one behind the whole thing.

Attempting to pass the time, I flip on the TV in my hotel room and cringe when I discover that my bar-dancing shenanigans are still the main story on the news. The first channel that pops up is a 24-hour news channel, featuring four commentators engaged in a heated discussion about my drunken exploits.

“The topic today is: Will Julia Rowan cost her father the election?” a stuffy-looking man in a bow tie says ominously. He turns to his counterpart, a sneering woman in a red suit. “Susan, what do you think?”

“Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt,” she replies in a nasally voice. “Since Julia Rowan’s underage drinking came to light, Bill Bennett has gained a five-point lead in the polls. Unless the Rowan campaign can dig up some huge secret on Bennett at the last minute, I’d say this one’s pretty much in the bag.”

“I disagree,” pipes up a white-haired man in glasses. “I think we tend to overestimate the importance the public puts on a candidate’s personal character. Not to mention the fact that Charlie Rowan’s daughter is, by all standards, an adult. She should be held accountable for her own decisions, and they shouldn’t reflect on her father.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” the nasally woman exclaims. “First of all, to claim that character has nothing to do with the voting habits of the American public is just ignorant. Second, from what we’ve seen of the poor decisions she makes, it’s obvious that Julia Rowan is anything but a responsible adult.”

Disgusted by being picked apart and judged by people who have never met me, I switch off the TV. Flopping down on the bed, I decide to pass the time by reading some magazines, but much to my dismay, I discover that, besides the issue of Vogue with the story about me in it, the only one I have is the old copy of Us Weekly with Jake and Skylar on the cover. Still, I think, flipping listlessly through the pages, I guess it’s better than nothing.

When I get to the picture of Chris and me, I stop and study it. We’ve just climbed out of the limo at the hotel, and we’re standing there, grinning at each other. Perhaps because I know what’s about to happen once we move out of the photographer’s frame, I can almost read the anticipation on our faces. I stare at Chris’s face, trying to find some sign of malevolence, something that I should have noticed before that could have prevented this pain, but still I see only sincerity.

Letting out a scream of frustration, I throw the magazine as hard as I can against the opposite wall. I can’t stay in this hotel room any longer or I’ll go crazy. When we pulled up to the hotel last night, I spotted a Starbucks around the corner; surely I can run out for a quick coffee without getting into too much trouble.

Of course, I think, I’ll need some sort of disguise just in case. As I’m rifling through my suitcase, I come across Chris’s green ski cap—my original disguise from the days when we were still trying to hide what was then only a friendship from the rest of the people on the bus. I gaze at the hat sadly, then fling it into the trash can. I wish I could burn it, but having neither matches nor a lighter, and also not wanting to augment my sudden wild child reputation by setting my hotel room on fire, I decide to settle for the trash can.

I don a pair of sunglasses, wrap a bandana around my hair and head out of the hotel. When I get to Starbucks, I’m thankful that none of the other patrons seem to take much notice of me. Feeling a bit bolder, I remove my sunglasses and step up to the counter.

“I’d like a—”

“A grande caramel macchiato,” a familiar voice pipes up behind me.

I whirl around to see Jake standing behind me. My cheeks flush with rage. For days, I’ve been having imaginary confrontations with him in my head, but now that he’s actually standing before me, I’m not sure where to start. Moreover, I’m not sure that I even want to.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says quietly.

“Actually, I was just leaving,” I snap.

“But you haven’t gotten your coffee yet,” he points out.

“Suddenly, I’m not in the mood for coffee,” I respond, storming past him.

“Julia, wait,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my arm.

I turn around. “Don’t touch me,” I warn him, my voice shaking. He lets go of my arm.

“Julia, I just wanted to tell you—” he begins, but I cut him off.

“Whatever you have to tell me, Jake, I don’t want to hear it. Your actions, and the actions of your employee, have spoken loud and clear.”

“But Julia—” he attempts again.

“No!” I cry. “I don’t ever want you to speak to me again!”

As I stalk across the store, he calls after me, “I just came to tell you that I’m sorry.”

I pause at the door and turn around, staring at him for a moment and shaking my head. “It’s a little too late for that,” I tell him as I leave.

Eighteen

With one week to go before the election, the polls are showing my father with a fairly substantial lead over General Bennett. The mood on the campaign bus as we prepare for our last few events is celebratory but wistful. As the election draws nearer, the end of our road trip draws closer, too…as does the end to my secret affair with Chris. Whether it’s just the secretiveness or the affair itself that’s ending, I’m not really sure. We haven’t exactly talked about what will happen with us after the election is over, preferring to spend what little time we have together not doing much talking at all.

And then there’s Jake. It’s been nearly a week since I last saw him in San Francisco, and part of me is relieved that I haven’t run into him again, knowing that such an encounter is bound to be supremely awkward. But there’s also part of me that can’t stop thinking about the day we spent together. During this whole campaign, I haven’t felt as comfortable with anyone (not even Chris) as I did with him that day. It’s too bad he had to ruin it with that unwelcome kiss…and yet the more I replay the moment in my mind, the more I wonder just how unwelcome his kiss actually was.

I don’t have too much time to dwell on these thoughts as I prepare for my final college appearance of the campaign at the University of Oregon. While the rest of the campaign heads up to Salem for appearances with state officials, Chris has convinced Suzette to let him be the one to stay behind with me in Eugene and drive me back up to Salem when my event is over.

The afternoon rally goes off perfectly, and I marvel at what a long way I’ve come from my early embarrassment at the convention. It’s too bad the campaign is just ending, I think, because I feel like I’m finally getting warmed up. After the event, Chris and I spend a few hours walking around campus and hanging out in a local coffee shop, trying to squeeze as much as we can out of what we know will be our last few moments alone together. Finally, as the suns starts to set, we resignedly head for the car and get on the road to Salem.

As we’re driving, it occurs to me that perhaps now is the perfect time to have that serious talk about where our relationship is going. The problem is, I can’t figure out exactly where to begin. We ride in silence for a while before I attempt to initiate the discussion by venturing tentatively, “I wish this didn’t have to end.”

“Me neither,” Chris agrees.

Just when I’m wondering where exactly I should go from here while cursing myself for broaching the topic in such a lame way, Chris turns to me with a decisive look on his face.

“You know what?” he says. “It doesn’t have to.”

“What are you—” My thoughts are momentarily interrupted by the squeal of our tires as Chris swerves sharply onto an exit ramp just as we’re about to pass it.

Once I’ve recovered, I finish my question. “What are you talking about? And better yet, where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Chris says, grinning.

A few minutes later, we pull up under a half burnt-out neon sign that says “Motel.” There are a couple of rusted old cars parked outside the faded blue doors to the rooms, and peering in the office, I can see a fat, balding old man chowing down on some fast food.

I give Chris a skeptical look. “Great. So we’ve gone from a plush suite at the Bellagio to the Bates Motel in just a couple of weeks. How far our relationship has come.”

“Hey,” Chris says, leaning over and giving me a kiss. “It could be worse. We could be spending the night on the campaign bus with your parents.”

“Speaking of which,” I remind him, “they’re going to be a little suspicious if we don’t show up in Salem tonight.”

“I’ve got it covered,” he says, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket.

He punches in a number, and it rings a couple of times before the person on the other end picks up. “Hey, Suzette,” he says. “It’s Chris. Yeah, yeah, we’re fine. Actually, I’m calling because we’ve had a bit of trouble with the car. It broke down on us. No, there’s no need to do that. We got it towed to a mechanic, and he said he can fix it first thing in the morning. Yeah, we’ve got a place to stay for the night, so we’ll catch up with you in the morning. Okay, talk to you later. ‘Bye.”

Chris snaps the phone shut and gives me a big grin. I return his smile, shaking my head.

“Stay right here,” he says. “I’m going to go get us a room.”

As Chris walks across the parking lot, I take a moment to survey our surroundings. Maybe this isn’t so bad, I think. Sure, it’s no five-star hotel, but, upon closer inspection, it doesn’t look quite as sketchy as I’d originally thought. In fact, it’s almost kind of cool in a kitschy, 1950s kind of way.

Chris returns with the key, and we pull up outside the door to our room. When we walk in, I’m pleasantly surprised. Rather than the cheap plastic-covered bedspread I was expecting, it looks sort of like a grandmother’s house—outdated, of course, but homey and welcoming. Of course, I don’t have much time to check out the décor, because Chris and I immediately get to work breaking in the king-size bed.

After a few minutes of frantic kissing, Chris pulls away and says, “You know what? I think we should go out and celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows.

“Our impending freedom,” he responds, kissing me on the forehead. “After next Tuesday, we won’t have to hide our relationship anymore.”

“So there will still be a relationship after next Tuesday?” I venture.

“Of course,” he says, sounding slightly bewildered. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” I reply shyly. “I thought maybe you just considered me your campaign-trail fling.”

“Never,” Chris says, and kisses me again.

We kiss for a few more minutes, during which I marvel at the relative ease with which we were able to have the serious relationship summit. Finally, I ask him, “So what are we going to do to celebrate?”

“Well, there’s a bar right down the road,” he says.

“I don’t know,” I hesitate. Although I frequently went out to bars as a freshman at Brown, I’ve tried to be careful not to go out during the campaign. After all, the last thing I need is a picture of me chugging a beer plastered all over the evening news—particularly since the only ID I can use to buy beer is of the fake variety.

“It’s just a little hole-in-the-wall honky-tonk,” Chris says. “I’m sure no one there will even know who we are.”

I waver a bit more before finally giving in. He’s right, I think. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, so it’s unlikely I’ll be recognized. Besides, the campaign’s almost over. One little night of celebratory indulgence can’t hurt, right? Especially if there’s no way anyone’s going to find out about it.

Chris and I grab our jackets and set off down the street to the bar. When we get there, it’s practically empty, save a few rough-looking guys playing pool. I take a seat, trying to look inconspicuous, while Chris goes up to the bar and gets us a couple of beers. We sit for a moment, drinking our beers and glancing around for some diversion to occupy our time. I spot a jukebox in the corner, and we head over to shuffle absentmindedly through the songs.

Within an hour, the what was originally a nearly deserted bar is practically full of people. Guys are crowded around the pool table, and Chris and I (along with several other people) are out on the dance floor, spinning around and singing along with The Temptations as they croon “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” from the jukebox. I’ve lost track of how many beers I’ve had, but I know it’s enough that I feel a little bit warm and very, very happy. When we finally sit down, exhausted, Chris presents me with a fresh beer.

“No!” I cry. “No more!”

“Come on,” he insists. “You’re just getting started!”

I grab the beer from him with an admonishing look. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny digital camera.

“No, no, no,” I protest. “I have to draw the line at pictures.”

“Come on,” he cajoles once more. “In a week, I’ll no longer get to see you every day. I’ve got to have something to stare at while I’m sitting at my desk, daydreaming about you.”

“And this is what you want to see?” I ask, pulling my hair off my sweaty neck and into a messy ponytail.

“I think you look gorgeous,” he tells me, snapping a picture. He takes a few more of me before I grab the camera and aim it at him, amidst his protests.

“What am I supposed to look at when I’m sitting in my dorm room pretending to study?” I ask. “I’ve got to have some pictures, too.”

Reluctantly, he lets me take a few shots, and then I scoot my chair around next to him and, holding the camera at arm’s length, take a few pictures of both of us.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says, slipping the camera back in his pocket and giving me a kiss on the cheek.

“Providence isn’t that far from New York,” I remind him, kissing him on the mouth.

“Julia.” He pulls back from the kiss and glances around.

“No one knows us here, remember,” I say, resting my hand on his leg. “We’re completely and totally anonymous.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” he grins, leaning back in for another kiss.

We sit at the table kissing, blissfully unaware of the other bar patrons, for several minutes, until my attention is diverted by a commotion at the bar. Turning around, I notice a few women dancing on the bar to the hoots and hollers of the crowd below. I look at Chris and shrug.

As we’re watching the commotion, I feel someone grab me by the arm and yank me out of my seat. It’s a blonde girl I vaguely recognize from the dance floor, imploring me to hurry up.

“Wait!” I cry, planting my feet to the floor. She turns around and looks at me impatiently. “Where are we going?”

“It’s tradition,” she yells over the noise of the crowd. “All of the women get up and dance on the bar and take off their bras.” She points to the top of the bar, which I now notice is wallpapered with bras of all shapes and sizes.

“Oh, no, no, no,” I say, attempting to free myself from her grasp, but she won’t be so easily deterred. As we’re locked in this ridiculous tug-of-war, Chris walks up behind us and gives me a little push in the direction of the bar.

“Hey!” I cry. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m on the side that has you taking off your bra,” he responds with a big smile.

I shake my head at him, but I’m smiling.

“Here,” he says, holding up my half-finished beer. “Drink the rest of this, and then go.”

Chris and my bar-dancing advocate watch as I chug the rest of my beer then slam the bottle down on a nearby table. Emboldened by the sudden infusion of alcohol, I exclaim, “Let’s go, then!” and scamper off to the bar.

My newfound buddy and I push our way through the crowd, and the bartender grabs our hands and helps us up onto the bar. I wobble around for a moment, but then gain my balance and start dancing as the Rolling Stones’ “Honky-Tonk Women” plays in the background.

“Take it off!” several of the guys in the crowd yell. I reach under my shirt and unhook my bra, pulling it through my sleeve and waving it around over my head as I dance. The crowd screams, and a camera flashes. I scan the crowd and see Chris standing on a chair behind it, once again wielding his digital camera.

“No!” I mouth, shaking my head and waving my arms at him.

“Yes!” he mouths back, snapping another picture of me on the bar.

I roll my eyes and, adding my pink cotton bra to the hordes of satin and lace already hanging from the top of the bar, jump down to the floor and race through the crowd.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I say, running up to Chris and slapping him playfully.

“Now that’s the picture that’s going on my desk,” he laughs, handing me another beer.

“I don’t think so,” I tell him, taking a much-needed swig.

A couple of hours and several more beers later, we’re heading back to the hotel, which is proving a bit difficult because I’m so drunk I can barely walk. Chris has one arm around my shoulder and is trying to get me to take steps, but my legs remain stationary. I’m getting sleepy, and the gravel parking lot is looking like a pretty comfortable bed.

“Let’s try this,” he says, grabbing me by the legs and throwing me over his shoulder. I scream as I go flying through the air, but as we bounce along down the road, I soon become subdued, circling my arms around his torso and resting my upside-down head in the small of his back.

When we get back to our motel room, he plops me down on the bed and stands there staring at me for a few moments before he turns around. As he’s walking away, I sit up and grab one of his belt loops. He turns back around.

“Chrissshhh,” I whine, flopping back down on the bed.

“What?” he asks calmly, sitting down next to me.

“I want you to—” I don’t get to finish my sentence, because the combination of alcohol and being carried upside-down suddenly catches up to me and I gag. Sensing what’s about to happen, Chris quickly turns around and grabs a trash can, sliding it under my chin just before I puke up the contents of my dinner.

“Ugghhhh,” I moan, throwing myself back on the bed. “That was so unromantic.”

Chris laughs, then makes his way to the sink. He returns with a glass of water and a cool washcloth. He wipes my mouth, then folds the washcloth and runs it over my forehead and my cheeks.

“Now drink this,” he says, holding the glass of water up to my mouth. I sit up and obligingly down the whole thing before sinking back into the bed.

Half asleep, I feel Chris remove my shoes and then pull back the covers underneath me. As he slips them back over me, tucking me in, I murmur, “I’m sorry I ruined our last night together.”

“You didn’t,” he assures me, brushing my hair off my forehead and giving me a soft kiss. “And besides, there will be many more.”

Hearing this, I smile dreamily before falling into a deep, drunken sleep.

* * * * *

The next morning when I wake up, I fling my arm over to the other side of the bed, expecting to find Chris. Instead, it hits the pillow. I look over, confused. Sitting up, I see him sitting at the table near the door, tapping away on his laptop. I give him a sleepy smile, then moan, clutching my throbbing head.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, shutting his computer.

“Horrible,” I reply, lying back down and covering my head with a pillow.

“I got you some coffee,” he announces, walking over to sit next to me on the bed.

“I don’t suppose they have Starbucks out here in the middle of nowhere,” I mumble, tossing the pillow aside. The generic styrofoam cup sitting on the nightstand answers my question. Still, coffee is coffee, even if it’s generic and brewed by the gross man at the reception desk, so I grab the cup and take a tentative sip.

“Do you feel like breakfast?” Chris asks.

The very thought of food makes my stomach lurch. “Ugh, no,” I reply.

“Well, take these,” he says, handing me a couple of aspirin. “Hopefully you’ll feel better by the time we get to Salem. And if you don’t, we’ll just tell your parents you’ve got a cold or something.”

I shoot him a skeptical glance, but I’m too weak to argue against his flimsy excuse. As soon as I feel okay enough to drag myself out of bed, I stumble out to the car. I sleep soundly all the way back to Salem, and when we pull up next to the campaign bus, I awake feeling a little bit better.

I’m hoping to be able to slink onto the bus unnoticed, but as soon as I climb the steps, I can tell that’s not going to be the case. The buzz of chatter ceases and the bus falls silent as I walk on. I suddenly feel what little color I had regained drain from my cheeks, and my somewhat calm stomach resumes its flip-flopping. I look around warily, but everyone seems to be dodging my gaze.

The only people who aren’t staring at me in silence are my parents and Suzette, who are huddled near the conference table. The table is spread with several newspapers, and they’re all whispering frantically. I approach them warily.

Their whispering stops when they notice me. No one says anything, and I search their eyes for any clues as to what’s happening. My parents look simultaneously sad and worried, and Suzette looks…well, Suzette looks even angrier than she did in St. Louis after I insinuated that my father had done marijuana, which is quite a feat.

“What’s going on?” I ask in a small voice.

Suzette glares at me disgustedly before storming off to the back of the bus.

“Mom? Dad?” I ask, my voice beginning to tremble with worry.

“Julia, where were you last night?” my dad asks, quietly and evenly.

“I was…with Chris,” I say. “Our car broke down,” I add quickly, “and we had to stay the night until we could get it fixed this morning.”

My father says nothing, looking down at the table. I turn to my mother with a questioning look, but she just turns her head. Desperate, I follow my dad’s glance down to the newspapers that lie strewn across the table. Suddenly, I realize what’s wrong. The front page of every single paper features a picture of me standing on the bar, waving my bra around in the air.

“Oh, God,” I moan, sinking down into one of the conference chairs and covering my mouth with my hand. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to throw up again.

“Now would you like to answer my question again?” my dad asks firmly. “Where were you last night?”

“Chris and I went out to celebrate…the campaign being almost over,” I mumble dazedly. “He had a camera with him…and he took some pictures of me…dancing…someone must have figured out who I was and stolen the camera.”

“I don’t think so, honey,” my dad tells me ruefully, handing me the Washington Post. “Read the third paragraph.”

I skim the headline (“Out of Control”) and the lead-in blurb (“Can Rowan run the country if he can’t even lay down the rules for his own daughter?”) before trailing my eyes to the third paragraph.

“‘When I first started talking to Julia, she told me her parents have never really been too controlling,’ said Chris Abbott, a reporter embedded with the Rowan press corps. ‘But it wasn’t until I witnessed her inebriated antics last night that I knew just how true that statement was.’”

I see that the next paragraph of the story mentions Chris as well, so, almost as if I’m driving past a car accident on the highway, I keep my eyes trained to the page out of terrible curiosity.

“Abbott, who says he’s spent a good deal of time getting to know Julia Rowan during the campaign, plans to publish a story about the presidential candidate’s wild-child daughter in an upcoming issue of Politico magazine.”

Slowly, I set the newspaper down on the table and sink back into the chair. I can only stare into the distance, my mouth agape. There’s no way I can begin to process what I’ve just read.

“Julia, why would you do something like this?” my mom asks.

I can’t bring myself to look at her, nor can I bring myself to formulate any kind of defense for my actions. “I don’t know,” I answer sadly, looking down at my hands as tears well up in my eyes.

The bus is silent for a moment. The campaign staffers have all been eagerly watching our scene, and I can only imagine they must be afraid to start talking amongst themselves again, fearing that the sudden increase in noise will make their curiosity all the more obvious. Finally, sniffling and wiping my eyes, I force myself to look up at my parents.

“I’m sorry,” I tell them. “But I’m sure there’s an explanation. If I can just go talk to Chris—” I make a move to leave my seat, but my dad reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to sit back down.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he says sternly. He sighs, shaking his head. “I blame myself for this. I should have known better than to let you become friends with that boy.”

“Dad, it’s not your fault!” I cry, my voice shaking. “I’m the one who—” Suddenly, the weight of Chris’s betrayal comes crashing down on me, and I dissolve into tears, unable to finish the sentence.

As I sit, shaking with sobs, my mother walks around to my chair and leans down to embrace me.

“I can’t believe I trusted him,” I sob into her shoulder as she strokes my hair.

“It’ll be okay, honey,” she whispers, but I think bitterly that she doesn’t know the half of it. This isn’t just my father’s political career on the line—it’s my pride and my dignity. Not to mention my heart.

Later in the afternoon, we stop in Portland for another rally. As the press corps files off the bus, I see Chris. My heart drops, and tears sting my eyes once again. How can I reconcile the image of him I have in my head—a nice, sweet guy who cared so much about me—with what I now know to be the truth—that he was just a manipulator, just using me for his story?

During my father’s speech I try to catch his eye to perhaps discern some sort of nonverbal explanation, but he deftly avoids my glance. Sadly, I watch him joke around with the other journalists. He’s probably a hero to them now, I think, my stomach turning.

As we drive through Washington to Seattle, the final destination of our campaign trip, I have plenty of time to attempt to analyze Chris’s actions. Although I’m angry at him, part of me still wants to believe that this was all just a big misunderstanding, but I can’t figure out any scenario in which that would be the case. And then one day it hits me: Perhaps Chris was just as much a pawn as I was in this whole thing. Perhaps his course of action was forced upon him by someone else, someone who had a much more vested interest in seeing me—and my father—falter. Someone like his boss, Jake Bennett.

Seventeen

A couple of days later, the bus is stopped at a gas station outside Reno, and I spot the new issue of Us Weekly on the newsstand. I grab it eagerly, only to find that Chris and I are hardly the big gossip of the week—the cover features a picture of Jake, beer in hand, gyrating against Skylar Williams at what I can only assume is one of the fabled MTV after-parties. Eagerly, I pay for the magazine at the cash register and rush back to the bus to get a look at the story.

For someone who likes to talk about others “looking cozy,” Skylar appears to be no stranger to coziness herself, by the looks of the pictures. The two-page spread features several photos of the couple in various compromising positions. According to the article, Jake had broken up with Sophie a couple of weeks before (serves the bitch right, I think bitterly, remembering her comment to me at the Vogue photo shoot) and was spotted partying with the teen starlet at several Las Vegas hot spots the night of the Movie Awards. The article naturally includes the requisite quotes from both Jake’s and Skylar’s publicists, vociferously denying any romance between their clients.

There’s a small sidebar to the story entitled “More Love on the Campaign Trail?”, which focuses on the allegations of a relationship between Chris and me, but it seems tacked on almost as an afterthought. And the picture of us, which Suzette was worried would be so scandalous, looks positively tame next to the ones of Jake and Skylar. I smile happily as I toss the magazine aside.

As we make our way to San Francisco, I’m once again plagued with studying as I prepare for my event with Jake. Suzette was initially skeptical about the idea when approached by the public relations manager for the Bennett campaign, but she’s since decided in favor of it, especially since Jake presented it as a way to smooth out the tensions between us. We’re heading into the final weeks before the election, and there’s nothing like a show of goodwill between the campaigns to appeal to voters at the last minute.

This time, my studying isn’t mandated by Suzette, but rather self-imposed. I’m more anxious about this event with Jake than I have been about any other event since the campaign started. It’s not like it’s a formal debate or anything—just a casual Q-&-A session—but I still feel, once again, as if I’ve got something important to prove. And for some reason, proving myself to Jake seems more critical than all those occasions in the past in which I’ve had to prove myself to my parents or Suzette or anyone else.

The morning of the event finds me once again on my own, and once again at Starbucks, gulping down my favorite caramel macchiato while frantically going over my notes one last time. I’m concentrating so intently that I barely notice when someone plops down in the leather armchair opposite me. It’s not until I hear a familiar voice say, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” that I look up to discover Jake sitting there, grinning at me.

“I guess the siren song of mass-market chain-store coffee is too much for both of us,” I say with a shrug before returning to my notes.

Jake won’t be blown off so easily. “Studying hard, I see? Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me,” he says, moving over to the seat next to me on the couch and trying to peek at my notecards. I hold them teasingly out of his reach.

“You can’t look at the other team’s playbook,” I admonish him. “I thought this little event was supposed to be completely fair.”

“Well, you know what they say about love and war,” Jake grins, his eyes sparkling.

“Indeed I do,” I deadpan. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some last-minute preparations to make.”

“Well, by all means, don’t let me interrupt you,” Jake says overly graciously. He leaves the couch and returns again to the armchair across from me, where his presence is only slightly less distracting. I can feel him staring at me intently as I read, but whenever I look up to try and catch him in the act, he casually looks away and pretends to be studying the menu or the ceiling or a discarded newspaper on the chair next to him. After about ten minutes of this, I can’t take it any more.

“Are you happy?” I snap, breaking the silence as I shove my notecards back into my bag.

“Not bad, actually,” Jake responds with a grin. I roll my eyes.

“Oh, come on, Julia,” he says, moving back over to the couch now that I’ve granted him my full attention. “What are you getting so worked up about? It’s just going to be a fun, informal little Q-&-A. You’ve done a million of them. As long as you can manage to not implicate your father in any illegal drug use, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“You just had to go there, didn’t you?” I ask, jumping to my feet.

“I was trying to make a joke,” Jake insists. “Where’s your sense of humor?” I shoot him a glare that should suffice to answer that question. “Come on, sit back down,” he implores me.

“No, I don’t think I will,” I respond haughtily. “I should be going anyway. I’ll see you at the event.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I turn on my heel and walk out of the coffee shop before he can get a word out.

I make my way to the auditorium where our event is being held, fervently hoping Jake won’t try to follow me. I’m a little mad at him for bringing up my marijuana slip-up once again, but mostly I’m just annoyed at my utter inability to focus on anything else when he’s around. I can’t afford to let him break my concentration now.

Fortunately, the auditorium is practically empty when I arrive, save the scant few student volunteers who are busy setting things up for the event. I make my way backstage and resume frantically reviewing my notes. Jake arrives several minutes later, still clutching his Starbucks cup, but before he can try to distract me again, he’s attacked by a swarm of fawning student volunteers. Watching him flirt with them shamelessly, I can’t help but permit myself an eye-roll.

Minutes before we’re to appear onstage, the giggling pack of girls finally disappears, leaving me backstage alone with Jake. I tuck my notes into my bag and give him a smug smile.

“Ready?” he asks.

“You bet,” I reply confidently.

As the moderator introduces us onstage, I feel my palms start to sweat. I take a deep breath and try to force myself to relax. It’s just like Jake said, I think. Just a run-of-the-mill question-and-answer session. I’ve done this plenty of times. I try not to think about the debacles that have befallen my last few Q-&-A events.

Once Jake and I walk onstage and sit down next to each other on a big couch with our microphones, I start to calm down a little. Fortunately, the first question is for Jake, so I don’t have anything to really freak out about just yet.

“Jake, are you really dating Skylar Williams?” asks a bubbly blonde. A tiny, surprised chuckle escapes from my mouth. That issue of Us Weekly must’ve already made the rounds on the Berkeley campus.

“I hate to burst your bubble,” Jake tells the student with a grin, “but we’re just friends.” Once again, I roll my eyes.

Jake must have noticed this display of sarcasm, because the next thing I know, he’s turning to me and asking, “What about you, Julia?”

“What about me?” I ask innocently.

“How’s your love life?” he asks. “I seem to remember reading somewhere that you have a new fellow,” he adds with grandmother-like glee.

I resist the urge to glare at him and cover my malice with a pleasant smile. “If you’re referring to Chris Abbott,” I say, my voice perfectly calm, “then I’m sorry to tell you, he’s just a friend as well.”

“My, don’t we have a lot of friends!” Jake responds with even more false cheerfulness.

“Well, you can never have too many!” I reply, upping the exuberance ante. My God, a few more seconds of this, and I’m going to turn into Kathie Lee Gifford.

Fortunately, the moderator puts a stop to our banter by announcing that it’s time for another question. The next few cover a few of the more basic political issues, and Jake and I are able to field them without too much bickering. Then a tall, commanding girl in glasses gets up to the microphone and begins to speak.

“Julia, I’m president of the student government association here at Berkeley. During my tenure, I’ve worked hard to try and reverse the school’s reputation as a haven for hippies and drug users. Then you go and insinuate that, because your father was at this school in the 1960s, he must have used drugs. In one fell swoop, you’ve managed to counteract all of my hard work. So I’d just like to know, what have you got to say for yourself?”

My face flushes, and I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I almost can’t believe what I’ve just heard. What kind of question is that? I feel like I’m being lectured by a teacher for forgetting my homework.

I’m frantically trying to formulate a reply in my head, and I can feel Jake’s eyes on me as I desperately try to think. After a few seconds of silence, he pipes up.

“With all due respect,” he tells the girl, “I don’t think that’s a very fair question. All Julia did was state that her father had attended this college in the 1960s. The fact that he later admitted to using marijuana while he was a student here should not be viewed as a reflection on his daughter. Attempting to blame Julia Rowan for your public-relations problems is grossly unjust.”

This seems to shut her up, and she returns to her seat. I stare at Jake in amazement, my mouth still agape. Before I have the chance to recover and thank him, however, the moderator moves on to the next questioner.

After the debate, I grab him backstage and start to express my gratitude, but I’m interrupted by a breathless student volunteer.

“Julia, I have a message for you from Suzette Hines,” she pants. “She says she’s gotten waylaid at a rally for your father, so you’ll have to find your own transportation back to the hotel.”

“Great,” I mutter as the student turns to leave. Whatever happened to the good old days, when Suzette would send Chris to pick me up? Happily, I flash back to our canoodling in the car at the University of Michigan. It seems so long ago, I think as I dreamily reflect on everything that’s happened between us since then.

I’m interrupted by my reverie by a tap on the shoulder. I was so lost in my daydream that I’d forgotten that Jake had been standing next to me the entire time. Before I have a chance to resume thanking him, he asks, “Need a ride?”

I briefly consider the cons of accepting a ride from Jake Bennett, but soon decide that the cons of having to take public transportation are far greater.

“Actually, I do,” I tell him, smiling gratefully. I’m a bit unnerved by his continued onslaught of kindness, but I’m not really in a position to be turning down free rides at this point.

We walk out to his Audi convertible, and as we’re pulling out of the parking lot, I turn to him and say, “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” he says easily. “I don’t mind giving you a ride.”

“No, not that,” I clarify, “although I do appreciate it as well. I mean, thank you for saving me in there.”

He turns to me and smiles. “Don’t mention it.” Training his eyes back on the road, he says, “That girl was really out of line. Somebody had to put her in her place.”

“Yeah, but I hardly expected you to be the one to do it,” I return. “I mean, you’re usually the one doing things that are out of line.”

“Julia, you know I’m just teasing you with all those comments about your remark in St. Louis,” he says.

“I know,” I insist. “But that’s not what I was talking about.”

“Well, what were you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you tipping off the moderator at the debate,” I tell him with a pointed look.

He responds with a glance of confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Jake, don’t play coy with me,” I snap. “I know you told the debate moderator what I said about my father’s drug use at my Q-&-A in St. Louis. Just own up to it. It doesn’t really matter now anyway.”

“Believe me, Julia,” he says with a wry chuckle, “I would love to take credit for that. But the fact of the matter is, I was just as surprised as you were by that question. The moderator didn’t find it out from me, that’s for sure.”

He appears to be telling the truth, which just serves to wholly confuse me. If Jake wasn’t responsible for that question, who was? I heard my dad saying that the mainstream media hadn’t gotten word of it yet, so it’s doubtful that the moderator would have uncovered it himself. I wrack my brain, trying to think of who else might have been both at my event and at the debate that night, but the only person I can come up with is Suzette, and I know she wasn’t the one tipping him off.

As I’m pondering these questions, I suddenly notice the San Francisco skyline in my rearview mirror. More importantly, I notice that we seem to be speeding away from it, which is somewhat of a problem, as my hotel is located downtown. It dawns on me that Jake never asked me for directions back to the hotel. I glance over at him, but he’s driving confidently, as if he knows exactly where he’s headed.

“Um, I think we’re going the wrong way,” I tell him.

“No, we’re not,” he replies.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I say, “but isn’t that”—I turn and point behind us for emphasis—“downtown San Francisco?”

“It certainly is!” he replies brightly.

“Well, my hotel is downtown,” I say. “And we currently seem to be heading away from downtown, which seems to me a bit counterproductive as far as actually getting to the hotel.”

“We’re not going to the hotel,” Jake replies. I raise my eyebrows at this announcement, but before I can ask just where exactly we’re going, he explains, “I’m taking you to lunch.”

“Oh,” I say, sinking back into my seat. Moments later, I shoot up again. “Then would you mind explaining to me why we’re getting onto the freeway?” I ask.

“I know this great little seafood restaurant in Big Sur,” he says.

“Big Sur?” I yelp, nearly leaping out of my seat. “Are you insane?”

“Calm down,” he says sternly. “It’s not like you have anything else to do today.”

While this is technically true—I don’t have anything on my schedule except a big fundraising gala for my dad, and that’s not until much later in the evening—I was secretly hoping to be able to have some time with Chris beforehand. And besides, where does Jake get off thinking he can just cart me off down the coast without so much as informing me?

“You know, you can’t just kidnap me like this,” I tell him.

“Apparently I can,” he returns with a grin. When I answer only with a glare, he chuckles and says, “Look, Julia, I’m not going to hold you against your will. You’re free to get out of the car at any time.”

“I might find that offer more sincere if we didn’t happen to be going down the freeway at 70 miles an hour,” I respond.

Jake shrugs, still grinning, and I throw myself angrily back into my seat, crossing my arms across my chest.

As I pout silently, he pulls down his sun visor and removes a CD. Popping it into the CD player, he skips through a few tracks until he lands on the desired one. When I hear the unmistakeable first chords of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” I shoot him a quizzical glance.

He pretends not to notice me and starts singing along as if he’s the only one in the car. I let him get through a couple of lines before I lean over and turn the volume down.

“Leonard Cohen?” I ask, disbelievingly.

“Sure is,” Jake replies, reaching for the volume and turning it back up. “I thought you liked him.”

“I do,” I say, turning the volume back down again. “Since when do you?”

“I always have,” he responds, not bothering to re-adjust the volume again. “Why, does that surprise you?”

“Actually, it does,” I tell him. “I kind of figured your tastes ran more along the lines of…I don’t know, Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson.” I give him a smug smile.

“Oh, ha!” he responds sarcastically, turning the volume back up.

“She tied you to her kitchen chair, she broke your throne and she cut your hair,” Jake sings along loudly with Leonard, and I sink down even further into my seat, somewhat mortified by his impromptu karaoke routine, but also secretly dying to sing along, too. “Hallelujah” is my absolute favorite song of all time. Could Jake have possibly known that? I wonder. Watching him as he sings, blissfully oblivious, I’m struck with a horrifying thought—what if it’s his favorite song, too? If that’s the case, well…ugh, I can’t believe I have the same favorite song as Jake Bennett.

Eventually, the melody overpowers me, and I begin to hum along quietly. By the time we get to the final line—“And even though it all went wrong, I’ll stand before the lord of song, with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah”—I’m belting it out at the top of my lungs, too. Jake smiles at me as we sing the final chorus of “hallelujahs” together.

“Leonard Cohen,” he remarks proudly when the song ends. “Works every time.”

“Aha!” I cry. “So you were just using his music to butter me up!”

“No,” Jake insists. “I really do like him. But yeah, I kind of figured that if I started playing it, it might pull you out of your snit. I had to hazard a guess about your favorite song. Was I even close?”

“Scarily,” I admit.

About half an hour later, we pull over to get gas. As Jake is filling up the tank, I survey our surroundings. As I’m looking around, I catch sight of a magazine in the back seat, its pages fluttering open in the breeze. The magazine settles open to a page containing a picture that, at first glance, looks strangely familiar. Upon closer inspection, I realize why: It’s a picture of me, in that ridiculous ball gown.

Eagerly, I snatch the magazine and confirm that it is, in fact, the new issue of Vogue, which, as far as I know, isn’t supposed to be out for another week or so.

“Where did you get this?” I ask Jake accusingly.

“Oh, that,” he responds nonchalantly. “I have a friend who’s an editor there. She managed to snag me an advance copy.”

“And were you planning on mentioning to me the fact that you’re driving around with a picture of me in your backseat?”

He rolls his eyes. “I guess I thought you’d already seen it.”

“Well, I haven’t,” I say, spinning back around in my seat and studying the article intently.

“By the way,” Jake says, slipping back into the driver’s seat, “you look gorgeous in that dress.”

I glance at him warily before scoffing, “Well, I’m no supermodel.”

“God, Sophie,” he says, shaking his head in exasperation. “What a bitch.”

I laugh, surprised to hear him referring to his ex-girlfriend like this, considering how pandering he was to her the day of the shoot.

“I’m lucky I got out of that relationship when I did,” he continues.

“So who ended it?” I ask curiously.

“She did,” he replies. “Said I was on the road too much, which is just really rich coming from a model, you know? Anyway, it was pretty much a pre-emptive strike. I was already planning to end things with her. I mean, there’s only so much of that diva attitude one man can take.”

“Which is why you immediately took up with Skylar Williams,” I deadpan. When it comes to divas, Skylar…well, let’s just say that if Skylar could sing, she’d be destined for VH1.

“Oh, God, not you, too,” Jake groans. “You want to know the truth about me and Skylar?” I nod eagerly. “She followed me around like a teeny tiny puppy that night of the MTV Awards. Apparently her handlers thought it would be good for her to be linked with a responsible politician's son. Most of those ‘romantic’ pictures they showcased are actually of me trying to get her to go away.”

I laugh, but I can’t say I’m really surprised. The whole thing seems typical to Skylar’s character.

“Well, you know how it is,” Jake continues. “I mean, look at the stories they’re making up about you and Chris.”

“Yeah,” I agree, looking away guiltily.

By the time we reach the restaurant, the conversation has thankfully moved away from tabloid love interests and on to the pitfalls of being part of a political campaign.

“It’s just…I hate not having any freedom,” I complain as we hand our menus to the waiter. “I hate having every single detail of my life scripted by someone else.”

“Tell me about it,” he agrees.

“Oh, you have no idea,” I tell him. “Until you’ve had Suzette as your PR manager, you can’t possibly begin to comprehend the ordeals I’ve had to go through.”

“I’ve only met Suzette on a few occasions,” he says, “but I can imagine. And at least you don’t have a general for a father. Believe me, he runs a pretty tight ship.”

I nod in agreement. Leaning across the table conpiratorially, Jake whispers, “Just between you and me, sometimes I wish we could trade dads. Yours seems so cool and laid-back.”

“He is,” I say, beaming. “Must be all the marijuana, huh?”

Jake cracks up at this, and I lean back in my seat, pleased that I’ve finally found someone to whom I can speak openly about the campaign, someone who truly understands what I’ve been going through. If anyone had told me a month ago that Jake was going to turn out to be a kindred spirit, I never would have believed them.

Yet, after we leave the restaurant and are driving back up the Pacific Coast Highway, I gaze out at the orange sun glittering on the ocean and think to myself what a perfect day this has been. In fact, it’s been one of the best ones I’ve had so far on the campaign trail, and amazingly, I’ve spent it with Jake. I study him as he drives, cornering smoothly around each curve of the highway, and wonder who this person is. Has he undergone a personality transplant? Been taken over by pod people? Whatever the explanation may be, he’s certainly not the same Jake Bennett I first met a couple of months ago.

Back in San Francisco, Jake pulls up to the curb next to my hotel and puts the car in park.

“Thanks for kidnapping me,” I tell him. “I had a really fun time.” I can’t help but let a bit of the surprise I feel about this creep into my voice.

“Me, too,” he agrees. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

“Definitely.” We grin at each other for a moment, and then, before I realize what’s happening, he leans over into the passenger seat and plants a kiss on me. Not fully cognizant of the situation at first, I start to kiss back, then realize who I’m kissing and pull away sharply.

“Jake!” I cry. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. “I mean…I guess I must have misread the signals.”

“Yeah, you think?” I shoot back sarcastically, and he looks even more hurt. I realize that maybe I’m being a bit too harsh and add, “Jake, I had a lot of fun with you today, but that doesn’t mean…I mean, can’t we just be…”

“Friends,” he finishes bitterly.

“Is that so horrible?” I venture. He says nothing. “It’s better than enemies, right?” I add.

“I guess.” He sighs resignedly.

I’m not sure what else to say, so I open the door and start to get out of the car.

“Julia?” he says, turning to me with a pained expression. I pause with one leg out the door. “Can we just forget this little incident ever happened?”

“It’s as good as forgotten,” I assure him.

As he drives away, I linger on the curb outside the hotel, my mind racing. Forgotten? He’s got to be kidding. Jake Bennett just tried to kiss me (did kiss me, actually, come to think of it), and that’s not something I can exactly forget. And furthermore, how did we get from him going out of his way to make me look like an idiot to him trying to make out with me in parked cars? As I wander dazedly into the lobby of the hotel, I know only one thing for certain: I’m more confused than I’ve ever been in my entire life.