Page 15 of Where There's Smoke

He shifted his eyes toward me without turning his head. “So you’re an expert on body language now?”

“I make my living working with politicians.” I tapped my cigarette in the ashtray on the railing. “You’d better fucking believe I know body language.” I pulled in another small breath of smoke, and then blew it out. “And I can’t help thinking there’s something else. I’m not in this for the gossip, Jesse. I justwant to make sure you don’t shoot yourself in the foot before we even start campaigning.”

The ocean held Jesse’s attention for a long, silent moment. His cheek rippled, and I had a feeling if I’d touched his shoulder just then—God, I wish—his muscles would be taut as cables.

Finally he took a breath. “I’m just…” He swallowed hard. “I’m concerned about Simone. With everything she’s dealing with.” He laughed quietly. “I’m probably more worried about her than I should be.”

I eyed him.And you didn’t wantmeusing Simone’s problems as a smoke screen?“Is that really all there is?”

He chewed his lower lip. “Yes and no. The…everything with her eating disorder, it is a problem. It’s just… It’s only the tip of the iceberg.”

Fuck. One cigarette wasn’t going to be enough. “Meaning?”

Though we were the only ones out here, Jesse lowered his voice. “It’s not the problem, it’s a symptom. Simone has…” He bit his lip again, furrowing his brow and looking out at the water. “She can’t process emotions like most people.”

“She can’t?” I smothered my cigarette in the ashtray. “I’ve seen her in films, though. The woman can act circles around almost anyone in Hollywood.”

He nodded. “She can, but it’s fake. All of it. She wants to portray someone who’s grieving, she watches every scene she can get her hands on of people grieving. She needs to be happy, surprised, angry…same deal.” Jesse sighed. “But it’s all fake.”

I pulled out my pack of cigarettes but just kept it in my hand for now.

After a moment, Jesse went on. “Listen, Simone isn’t stupid. She’s not mentally defective. She doesn’t deal well with certain kinds of stress. Most kinds, if I’m honest. It’s almost like emotions happen, and she just…doesn’t know what to do with them.” When he turned toward me, the worry and sadness from earlier were in his eyes once again. “She can display any feeling anyone asks her to, but when it comes to her own, there’s a disconnect. That makes her feel out of control, and she deals with that one of two ways. One is to get angry. Like, almost violently angry.”

I swallowed. “And the other is the eating disorder.”

Jesse nodded. “The public knows about her temper. Everyone does. The rest, people assume that’s as simple as her being weight obsessed to the point of sometimes anorexia, sometimes bulimia. I just don’t want stress making either of those things worse, and I don’t want the public to know the real roots of it.”

“I can understand that. Do you honestly think she can handle this campaign?”

Jesse shifted his gaze out toward the ocean again, but not before the sad, worried expression faded. Something tightened in my gut.

What else aren’t you telling me, damn it?

I folded my arms and rested them on the railing, my cigarettes still securely in my hand for that inevitable moment when I couldn’t wait any longer to smoke one. “Jesse, you’ve got—”

“She can handle it,” he said, almost tersely.

Silence descended between us. I tightened my fingers around the pack of cigarettes, debating whether I could wait a few more minutes or desperately needed another hitnow. I already smoked more than I should have, but I was not going to become a damned chain-smoker.

Before I could think of something to say, Jesse broke the silence. “Well, unless you and Roger need me for anything else today, I should get out of here. I’m meeting my brother and his wife for dinner.”

“Sure, go ahead.”Smoke? Don’t smoke?“I’ll be in touch tomorrow. We can discuss the ad campaign.”

Jesse nodded. “Sounds like a plan.” He started to leave but hesitated. Lingered. His lips tightened like there was something unspoken on his mind.

The cigarette pack crinkled quietly in my hand.The next five minutes’ forecast calls for a seventy-five percent chance of smoking…

“Listen,” he said finally. “I appreciate you taking me on. I know you’re taking a huge risk here. Promoting an unknown and all of that.”

I shrugged. “Your uncle believes in you, so…”

“Do you?”

I faced him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you think I’m cut out for this?” He looked right back at me, not balking in the slightest from my e. “Do you think I’m cut out to be governor?”

Okay, an eighty-five percent chance.

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