side of the bed. Her building had security, so it wasn’t like the media could be literally beating down her door. Besides, despite the now twenty thousand retweets of the op-ed (at least as of last night when she checked), Cleo didn’t think the story would stay front of mind for all that long. Political scandals tended to come and go, and granted, this was her first, but she trusted that someone else, likely a man if the odds proved correct, would step in it soon enough. Insider trading. Groping a breast. Affair with a housekeeper. Who knew? That list could be long.
The buzzer blared, this time unrelenting, as if someone’s finger had been surgically attached to the button. Such aggressiveness could be only one person.
Gaby was in her running gear, naturally, because Saturday mornings meant long runs for her marathon training.
“Did I wake you?” This was a valid question because it was also so surprising.
“I lost track of time last night. On . . . Facebook.” Cleo was embarrassed to even admit it.
Gaby welcomed herself inside. There was no posturing between them; they knew each other too well. Gaby didn’t care that she’d just run fifteen miles and reeked of sweat, and frankly, Cleo didn’t either. They’d seen each other much worse.
“So I’ve made a decision.” Gabrielle reached for a Keurig pod and a mug in one simultaneous motion, her arms swinging in opposite directions, her brain working on both sides. “And you need to pack.”
“What? We already discussed this. I’m not going back to New York this weekend. Lucas has a soccer tournament, and I’m on snack duty. In fact, shit, I’d better wake him.”
Gaby couldn’t have looked less interested or less convinced. Children were not for her. Not that she couldn’t pinch cheeks and buy birthday presents, but priority-wise? She’d made that decision years ago. And she wouldn’t apologize for it either. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she’d say whenever the subject arose about her marital status (single) or motherhood status (party of one, thank you). “If you don’t want to be a mother, you shouldn’t be.” Cleo would always stand beside her nodding (and often grinning) because who the fuck was anyone to tell anyone else what they should do with their life? Or their uterus? Or their DNA? Gaby’s decision wasn’t borne from a terrible childhood or mother issues. She simply didn’t want children. She didn’t feel the tug. She didn’t want to vacuum Goldfish crumbs and drive carpools and yell about washing hands after using the bathroom, and Cleo thought that was terrific. Not because Cleo didn’t love being Lucas’s mom—she did—but because Cleo thought that every woman should do exactly whatever the hell she wanted. (Which, she realized, should make her reconsider how judgy she was about MaryAnne’s country club presidency aspirations.)
“Text Emily Godwin. She’ll cut up oranges,” Gaby said.
“I like Emily; don’t shit on her. She’s saved me a million times.”
Gaby nodded, a small concession that she was being petty. “You’re right. Sorry.” She plopped a sugar cube into her mug. Cleo’s house was Gaby’s house. “I’ve booked us on noon flights to Seattle.” She checked the time on the microwave. “So we need to leave here in about an hour. Give or take.”
“You’ve what?”
“I checked the weather, and it’s beautiful in Seattle this weekend, and we’re gonna knock on MaryAnne Newman’s door and rattle the shit out of her, and by the time we leave, this turd is going to turn into a diamond.” She blew on the top of her coffee, as if what she was announcing were perfectly innocuous, like, Let’s go to the grocery store this afternoon and pick up some Cheerios.
“I . . . I can’t just . . . I’m not going to Seattle today!” Cleo tugged her robe around her neck.
“Au contraire. You can and you are. This story spun even bigger overnight. While you were catching up on your beauty rest, CNN led with it last hour.”
“So it will go away! Like every other stupid story. I think Malcolm Johannsson is about to leave his wife for their nanny! That will bump it out of the cycle. He’s supposed to be a churchgoing, God-fearing devout Christian and is the minority whip! That should stay in the news for at least three days.”
Gaby shook her head. “Do you want to have a shot at the nomination?”
Cleo felt her jaw tighten. “Yes.”
“Then you do it my way. I ran some numbers last night, read some internal