Page 121 of Bona Fide

? This Town — Niall Horan ?

I don’t wantto fucking be here. I actually tried to get out of it, but here I am, in Daphne, Connecticut—the place where Reagan grew up.

I’m here to show my face to the public and discuss the ongoing project to bring more jobs and money into the city. To help people budget and for businesses to grow, to spruce and clean up the city so that it doesn’t look like a garbage dump. All of this so people actually might want to live here.

Today, we cleaned up the streets like a court-ordered citation with garbage bags and sticks with sharp edges. Loads of volunteers signed up, Em believes it's because I was the governor here and it's my home, relatable.

I can’t relate to this shit at all because I’m the rich prick with a class-A education from private schools and Yale. The only hardship I’ve dealt with are mistakes my heart made.

But here, I have no heart strings attached, so I can’t fuck the place up too much.

However, I do want to help the city. I trust that with a lot of hard work, Daphne can be a town that would be a good starting place for families.

We’ve already painted over a dozen homes, fixed mailboxes and fences. Em is keeping a list of supplies we need, things the people can’t afford to buy to see if we can have some items donated. Reagan would’ve been proud of the things we’ve accomplished today.

She should be here—but she’s not.

She’s in New York working and trying to rebuild her life. Something I’ve been struggling with ever since winning the Democratic nomination and then the presidency.

I’ve restrained myself like you wouldn’t believe the multiple times I’ve almost texted her. The many times I’ve wanted to swoop in and show myself. But then I let that video creep into my head and end up so overcome with rage that it makes the decision so much easier for me.

I drop it.

“I can’t reach,” the little girl next to me whines as she jumps up to try and paint a spot on the white siding of the house we’re working on.

Her little brown bun is tied with a pink bow, and her green eyes peer up at me expectantly.

“Wanna lift?” I ask her, leaning my paint roller along the side of the house.

She nods like a bobblehead. “Yes, please.” I hoist her under her armpits and place her butt on my shoulder so she can paint whatever the hell it is she wants.

“I need more paint,” she orders after another minute.

I glance up to the blue paint—because it has to be a blue house we’re doing—then see the drips of said color go down her hand.

“Flip your brush so the paint drips down to the bristles.” She does and continues to slap paint along the house, splashing a tiny bit on my face.

“Mr. President—” I turn myself and the little girl in my arms to see two of my Secret Service agents barricade someone from stepping further onto the wooden porch that goes around the house.

“It’s fine,” I order before they promptly part to let a heavy-set woman with red hair and glasses proceed towards me.

With a camera in hand, her face begins to turn the color of her hair. “I’m sorry to interrupt but...do you mind if I get a picture?”

Em would love this shit.

I force a smile. “It’s fine, go right ahead.”

She quickly pulls the lense to her face and snaps a few shots then beams at me. “Thank you, Mr. President. I’m trying to start up a blog, and this will do wonders for it.”

“Do you live in Daphne?” I ask, adjusting the little girl better on my shoulder, who must have bricks in her shorts because she’s getting heavy.

“I do. I’ve been reading your speech about getting more involved in the community and encouraging people to take an active role. I’m hoping to start a neighborhood watch as well as a newspaper, if you will, but online, of course. Something that the bigger cities have.”

“Hang around, if you can,” I tell her, almost reaching out to shake her hand, but I need it on the little bundle on my shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Rose McGunis, sir.”

“Rose,” I repeat. “If you’d like, I’d love to do an interview with you. Whatever you want, nothing off the record.”

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