Nine

The next week or so is blissful. We’re traveling through West Virginia and Ohio, and since my next solo campaign event isn’t until Michigan, I don’t have anything to freak out about for a while. Even better, my only obligation is to stand behind my dad and smile for the cameras, which is pretty much impossible to screw up, meaning that my life has been relatively free of instructions and admonishments from Suzette. Plus, now that my friendship with Chris has been sanctioned by the powers that be, I’ve been spending most of my free time on the bus with him.

Over the past few days, I’ve learned nearly everything about him, from his middle name (Brian) to where he went to school (Columbia) to his favorite band (Radiohead) to the name of his first pet (a golden retriever named Scout). However, there’s one question that still remain unanswered, and it the one burning a hole in my brain: How does he feel about me?

His behavior has only served as fodder for the internal debate constantly raging in my head. After I ran back to tell him that we’d been given the official seal of approval, he seemed pleased, but maybe not as excited as I’d hoped he’d be. But a couple of days later, at an event at a diner in West Virginia, as my father was talking with some local coal miners, he slipped into to the seat next to me and handed me a piece of blueberry pie, which definitely seems like the kind of thing you’d do if you were interested in someone.

On a Friday night, I’m in Athens, Ohio, sitting with my mom on the first row of a set of bleachers, watching my father play softball on one of the local plant teams. I’m trying my best to concentrate on the game, but I just keep turning the question of Chris’s interest over and over in my mind. Finally, I decide to give up the pretense of concentration altogther and tell my mom I’m going for a little walk. On our way in, I spotted a swingset behind the bleachers, and I head straight for it now. I sit down on the nearest swing and, resting my head on the chain and swinging back and forth listlessly, resume my brooding.

I’m so deep into thought that I’m slightly startled when someone plops down on the swing next to me. Looking up from where I’ve been drawing a circle in the dirt with my toe, I’m happy to see a grinning Chris facing me in the other swing.

“So, not a baseball fan?” he asks me.

“Not really,” I confess.

“The daughter of a presidential candidate doesn’t like America’s favorite pasttime?” he cries. “I smell a scandal!”

“Ah, too bad our conversations are off the record,” I smirk. “You could’ve been the next Bob Woodward.”

“I’ve always fancied myself more of the Carl Bernstein type, actually,” he counters.

I respond by rolling my eyes.

“So…if you don’t like baseball,” he continues, bringing the subject back around, “what sports do you like?”

“Soccer, actually,” I tell him. “I used to play when I was younger, and I played intramural last year at Brown with some of the girls from my dorm.”

“Me, too,” he says. “I mean, not that I played intramural girls’ soccer. But, you know, I played when I was little, and my friends and I would always play pick-up games on the weekends in college.”

“Hmm,” I say thoughtfully, “perhaps I should challenge you to a game sometime.”

“How about now?” he asks, gesturing into the distance.

I turn around and see that he’s pointing to a cluster of soccer fields at the far end of the park. I happen to be wearing jeans and sneakers (my victory in yet another wardrobe battle with Suzette, who finally agreed with me that her preferred skirt-and-stilettos combo would look completely ridiculous at a baseball game), so I respond, with a gleam in my eye, “You’re on!”

As we set off across the park, I’m struck with the thought that there might be a potential hitch in our plan. “Where are we going to get a ball?” I ask Chris.

“I’m sure we can find one lying around somewhere,” he says confidently.

Sure enough, when we arrive at one of the fields, we find a couple of abandoned balls sitting next to the bleachers. We decide to have a shoot-out, and Chris volunteers to be in the goal first while I kick.

As I’m setting up for my first shot, I call out, “What does the winner of this little contest get?”

“Umm…” Chris thinks for a second. “The right to lord it over the loser every day for the rest of the campaign!”

“Sounds good to me!” I say. “Although you do realize that I’d probably do that anyway, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but only if you win!” he responds. “Now come on! Give me your best shot!”

I try the old fake-right, shoot-left trick, but obviously Chris has seen this before, because he blocks it easily. In fact, he seems to have seen just about every trick there is, because I only manage to get about three of my ten shots past him. Knowing what a pathetic goalie I am, I’m already preparing to have to hear about my miserable failure as a soccer player for the next six weeks or so.

But just as we’re trading places, the field’s sprinklers suddenly shoot up and start pelting us with water. I scream with surprise and start to race off the field, but Chris runs up behind me and grabs my hand.

“Come on!” he says, pulling me back onto the field.

“Are you crazy?” I cry, trying to pull him back in the opposite direction, but his strength eventually wins out, and, hand-in-hand, we run across the field, jumping and laughing as our clothes soak through and water drips off our hair and down our faces.

In the middle of the field, Chris stops suddenly and pulls me to him, his arm circling around my waist. Almost before I realize what’s happening, he bends down and kisses me. I’m taken off guard at first, and I inhale sharply, but eventually I breathe out deeply, a sigh of pleasure, as I sink into the delicious kiss. Although the air is still warm with the last vestiges of summer, I feel a shiver run through my body.

After a few seconds, he pulls back, but we’re locked in the moment, our foreheads touching, our breath mingling. I smile contentedly as his hand moves up to my face, pushing a wet strand of hair off my forehead.

And then, just as quickly as the moment came, it’s gone. Dropping my hand, Chris reels back, his head in his hands. I stare at him, alarmed.

“Oh, God,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Oh,” I say in a small voice, suddenly aware of the water that’s hitting me. Each drop feels like a tiny, cold pinprick.

“Julia, no,” he says, rushing up to embrace me again. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I don’t regret kissing you. Who could? Look at you, you’re beautiful.” He reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear, his thumb caressing my cheek. My smile returns.

“I wish that I didn’t have these feelings for you,” he says, sighing. “Or I wish things were different so that I could feel this way about you without having to hide it. But the truth is, I could get fired over this if anyone found out.”

“But I don’t understand,” I protest. “You’re writing about my father, not me. Why does it matter?”

“Don’t you think that being involved with the daughter of the candidate I’m writing about might allow some bias to creep into my story? It’s bad enough already that I’m friends with you. Not to mention the fact that, over the past few weeks, I’ve completely fallen for you.”

“But if you’ve already fallen,” I say, running my hand up the back of his neck and through his hair, “then isn’t the damage pretty much done?”

“No,” he says, pulling away from me again and shaking his head resolutely. “I mean, yes, in a way, I guess it is. But this is just the way things have to be, Julia. At least for now.”

I sigh and look down at the ground. The sprinklers have stopped now, leaving the grass wet and squishy. I can’t believe what’s happening, that I got everything I wanted and that it’s being taken away from me so soon. This certainly isn’t the way I thought this night would turn out.

In the distance, I can hear the cheers from the softball game. Turning around, I can see a few fans starting to leave the stands, which probably means the game is almost over. We should probably be getting back. I turn back around to Chris, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing, but neither of us can seem to move.

Finally, he starts to walk off the field. As he passes by me, I reach out and grab his hand. He stops, and I turn around. We both look at each other longingly for a moment, then simultaneously rush to bridge the distance between our bodies. The second kiss is deeper, hungrier, more passionate, perhaps because we know it will be our last for a long time.

“This can’t happen again,” Chris mumbles breathily between kisses.

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, but right now I can’t bring myself to think about what may or may not happen in the future. In fact, my mind is empty, registering only the softness of Chris’s lips, the sensation of our wet bodies pressed against each other, and the absolute perfection of this moment.