Page 33 of Primary Season
“What kind of thing?”
Doug cleared his throat, yanked his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and pulled up the Safari screen. He turned it toward me without a word. He didn’t need to say anything.
“Oh, my god.” I grabbed the phone and scrolled up and down the screen, willing what I saw to go away.
It didn’t.
For the second time in two weeks,Daily Mailhad an exclusive about Patrick Blanco. A big one. A ten photo one, to be exact, and the tabloid didn’t have to put many words with the images. The pictures spoke for themselves. “Cozy on the Campaign Trail? A Little Southern Comfort?”screamed the headline.
All ten photos featured Patrick and me. Behind the lobby column. Speaking “intently.” Looking at each other “longingly.” “Secretly meeting.” To back it up,Daily Mailquoted one or two anonymous sources who confirmed “sparks had been flying” between the two of us “for some time—the worst-kept secret in the Blanco campaign.” Then the publication wondered, “How will Kathryn feel about this betrayal?” A third anonymous source claimed she was “heartbroken to have been cheated on by Patrick.”
“This can’t—” I struggled to say something. “I didn’t…” My throat closed up and my tongue felt thick. I swallowed, but it didn’t help. And I wondered for moment if I might faint.
“This is bad, Alex. Really bad.” Doug narrowed his eyes. “Is this even true?”
I struggled for an answer.
“Holy fuck.” Doug groaned. “It is, isn’t it? How long has this been going on?”
“What? Nothing is going on.Nothing.”
Deny, deny, deny. Always a good option. Deny first, then insist the tabloid had it wrong. This wasDaily Mail, after all, notThe New York Times.Daily Mailhad about as much credibility as the town gossip on her second martini. Their journalists made mistakes all the time.
Didn’t they?
“Someone manipulated those photos.” I handed him back the phone. “They’re trying to make something out of nothing.”
Doug stood up, shoved his hands in his back pockets, and paced around the atrium. When he wandered back, his face had tightened. “I’m not going to ask you about your personal life. That’s not my business. But what is my business is this campaign we’ve been working so hard on for the last few months. And I can’t believe you and Patrick would jeopardize this.” He sighed. “It’s reckless.”
I started to answer him, planning to insist this wasn’t what it seemed, but the elevator dinged open at that moment. Patrick, Kathryn, and Heather all filed out, each one looking glummer and more upset than the last. When they reached us, Kathryn spoke first.
“This is a betrayal,” she said, aiming her words at me, though she kept her voice lowered as if she was trying not to yell. “An absolute betrayal.”
“I don’t see how,” I said. “It’s not like you two are in a real relationship, so I’m not really sure why this bothers you so much.”
The words just tumbled out of my mouth, but I didn’t care who heard me. I wasn’t going to take the brunt of this, no matter what she wanted to pin on me. Doug’s eyes widened and Heather gasped.
“You little bitch,” Kathryn snarled under her breath after sweeping her gaze around the lobby. “You think you can—you have no idea who you’re dealing with. Believe me.”
“Kathryn, stop it,” Patrick said. “That’s unnecessary.” He scanned the room. “Let’s move this to the business center, okay? We all need to talk. Now.”
The five of us agreed and made our way to the small room between the front desk and the bank of elevators. It contained a few particle board desks, some computers, a fax machine, an ancient copier, and a bank of phones. We dumped our luggage near the doorway and gathered in a semicircle.
“This is a setback,” Patrick began. “A major one.”
“Is it true?” Heather asked. “Are you all fucking?”
“Jesus.” I sighed. “That’s not how I’d put it.” I glanced over at Patrick, wondering how he’d describe things. “We’re—”
“We were discussing something important, and the photos caught us in an intense conversation,” Patrick insisted. “That’s all. There is nothing going on between Alex and me. She’s fantastic at her job, but that’s it.” As he spoke, he made eye contact with everyone in the half circle, everyone except me. “The article is wrong.”
When everything started between me and Patrick, I hadn’t expected that I’d grow to care about him so much, or that I’d want more than he’d be willing to give me. I had just wanted him—his body, his attention, his presence, his encouragement. I didn’t think much about the consequences his eventual repudiation of me would have on my feelings.
But here we were. He was loudly denying that he’d ever cared about me—that we’d ever had anything going on at all. And he was doing it to save himself.
“We’ll issue a full denial,” he said. “I’ll make a statement this afternoon in Myrtle Beach. Once again, this will go away. We’ve been here before. We can make this happen.”
“Even so,” I added. “I’m resigning from the campaign.”
