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.