Page 39 of Catfish

“You promised,” he states as though he’s remembering the phone conversation we had when all he did was yell at me.

I deserved it.

A rustle of male voices sounds on his side of the phone, and Marty sighs. "Hey, I gotta go. I'll try to call you again as soon as I can, okay?"

“Okay.” I repress back more tears.

“I love you,” he mutters. “So much. Take care of Ma and yourself for me.”

“Come home safe. I love you more.” The call ends, leaving me to suffocate on my fear of how he’s really doing and that his life is now a secret to me.

Marty never liked saying goodbye, and neither do I. It's too final for us. It holds so much uncertainty in our world and what will become of us. Only Mama has changed for the better because of our sacrifices, and that's how he and I prefer it.

That we’d both rather die before she found out what we have sacrificed.

Marty and I were always on the same wavelength, we never held back on anything when we were kids. But the moment he left for the Marines, my whole life shattered and chopped me into the person I have become today.

Shady, dishonorable, a fucking con.

Chase: Enjoy the cookies, Sox. I have to run into a meeting.

Right.

I shake myself out of my feelings, knowing that Marty will never break his pledge to me on staying safe. I kept mine on keeping Mama secure and as healthy as she can be.

Me: Catch you on the flip side, Yank.

Me: Thank you again for the cookies.

He doesn’t respond back.

Another thing I like about Chase.

He’s not clingy.

He doesn’t ask a million questions—ones I’m sure I’ll never want to answer.

Especially to a lawyer.

? Little Lies — Fleetwood Mac ?

Seated in my office, I lean back in my leather chair and listen to Em, my press secretary, John, and office manager, Laura, talk amongst themselves about our upcoming fundraiser. My desk is full of binders and papers, Em moved my computer monitor so she’d have more room and hasn’t noticed my raised brow at her touching my shit.

Nor would she give a fuck either.

I should be paying attention, focusing on the next few weeks that are going to be crucial to getting my name on the ballot, but Reagan has a front-row seat in my mind.

The cookies were for the bet that she won but also a silent apology for ruining her party to make me feel somewhat less of an asshole.

It didn’t work.

“What’s going on with Mayor Montgomery?” I voice between them running through potential newspapers and bloggers for me to talk with.

“His team isn’t responding yet to any phone calls,” Em states, looking down at the mess of papers in her lap. “They obviously haven’t come up with a good enough story yet.”

“What about Mrs. Montgomery?” I press.

“Locked up in the house,” John replies. “They are probably threatening her not to speak against him. If they were smart, they would’ve had her sign papers that she’d never be able to spill a bad thing about him, so she might be in a bind.”

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