Page 81 of Tips and Trysts

“No, I get it.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“No worries.”

He rolls his shoulders, regaining his composure. “Accept that this is a good thingfor your campaign. A week ago, we sat at your kitchen table, and you looked me in the eyes and said you wanted to win the electionandbe with Cora. This is what it takes.”

I know.I know. Still, the thought of Cora out with someone else and the rest of the world seeing them together…

Screw this.

“Can you be my friend and not my campaign manager for a minute?” I demand. I close my eyes, steadying myself. “This is getting to me. The secrecy. The sneaking around. Some days, I wonder if it would be easier to tell the truth.”

Lander’s a softie, so his expression immediately flips from razor sharp to fluffy like a pillow. “Hey,” he murmurs, putting his hand on mine. “I get it. You know I do.” And he moves to hug me—

—because he’s a goddamn chump.

Please. I can’t believe he fell for that shit. As if I would ever outright confess—in the United States of America—that my girlfriend is a professional fucker right before an election.

“Damn it, Everett,” Lander grits when I drop under his arm and lunge for the door. He catches me (sort of) and pulls me back (sort of).

“Let go,” I order, elbowing him—but not too roughly because Lander has an old rib injury from high school lacrosse, and it really wears on him when it acts up.

“Get it together,” he orders back, trying to pull me away, but he’s careful not to squeeze me too hard because I’m actually pretty ticklish. “This is for your own g—”

To my surprise, Lander releases me, and we both look down to see Pierre’s tiny mouth latched onto the hem of Lander’s pants.

“Traitor!” he declares and tries to remove the puppy, but Pierre skitters to the side, avoiding his father’s hands. His big eyes meet mine, and I, personally, interpret that stare as a clear,Go get your girl, Uncle Everett!

Nobody has to tell me twice. I grab Lander’s keys from the hook by the door and throw them as far as I can into the depths of his living room before I dart into the hallway and make a beeline for the stairs.

“Oh, fuck you!” Lander shouts after me. And just before the door to the emergency stairway slams behind me, I hear him mutter, “Valeria is going to kill me…”

***

Am I proud of myself for texting Beverly to figure out which club Cora went to? I shouldn’t be, but I am. So proud, in fact, that I wear this shit eating grin the entire time I’m in the Uber, ignoring Lander’s texts.

My arrival at the nightclub, Found House, is a sobering moment. More than a couple people out front notice me, and I remember: My face is so fucking recognizable.

Luckily, I’m not entirely reckless. Quite a bit, yes, but notentirely.

Would an entirely reckless man dip into the CVS a block over, purchase a baseball cap and a pair of reading glasses, throw away his button-down in an alley, once again pocket the twenty-thousand dollar watch his father gifted him for his eighteenth birthday, and sneak into the backdoor of a nightclub?

Inside Found House, the lights are negligible and the music throbs with an overpowering bass beat that immediately tangles itself into my chest.

It takes me too long to spot Essie and Valeria at the bar, and to my chagrin, they’re not with Cora. Briefly, I’ve never been more annoyed with a pair of women, which is saying a lot because I once had dinner with two of the Real Housewives of Potomac and suspect my father, in pursuit of a campaign donation, may have told one (or both) of them that I was down to fuck. Then I remember Cora Flores excels at everything she does, and engaging in a PR stunt would be no exception.

She’s probably already with someone.

This weird feeling lives in my chest, countering the long-repressed temptation to take another shot and make myself anonymous in the sea of gyrating bodies on the dancefloor. I need to know where she is. I need to know who she’s with. I need to know if he could take her on a date. Introduce her to his parents.

I need to know if he could press his body against hers in a club without anyone else giving a shit.

I need to know if he could take her on a date to a restaurant with vegan and non-vegan options. Bring her to Princeton Reunions so she can grimace at the orange costumes and tell him Harvard is superior. Take a black and white picture of her laughing for his holiday cards. Dance with her at their best friends’ wedding and beam with pride when she catches the bouquet—because shewouldcatch the bouquet.

I need to know if she wishes I could do all that for her.

I need to know if she hates that I may never be able to.

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