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.
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.
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