Station after lunch on Friday. Cleo usually tried to bring Lucas back for her trips to New York, but he didn’t have friends there anymore, and he was old enough to launch genuine gripes about why he didn’t want to spend his weekend holed up at their apartment while she held town halls or did ribbon cuttings or 5ks for various cancers. When he was littler, though he required more from her, he was also easier in some respects. He did what she said; he was simply an extension of her, and questions weren’t asked or argued in the same way that they were now. He would whine, sure, but he could be easily bribed, and besides, he didn’t really know any other way. It was them, the two of them, in it together, and he did what she did, peas in a pod.
Now, at fourteen, he would still come along from time to time, but he preferred to stay with friends in DC, or when she was really, really hard up, Gaby would babysit. (“Don’t call it babysitting,” she snapped once. “I do not babysit. This is me pitching in to get you back to your constituents.”) But this weekend, Emily Godwin (anointed saint) had been happy to have him. The boys had soccer practice for half the time anyway—“It’s easier this way,” she’d said. “Then Benjamin doesn’t have to talk to us at all. He’s much more delightful when that’s the case.”
Cleo had laughed and wished that Lucas had someone else to talk to besides her. Well, and Benjamin. But the two of them, mother and son, their little unit, she could see how it might be getting claustrophobic for him. Maybe that’s why he had two girlfriends, she reasoned: more options. More outlets. Then she chastised herself for such a cavalier thought. Gross, she told herself. You’re part of the problem. Women aren’t options.
These weekend arrangements had been made before Cleo had caught Jonathan Godwin in his act of betrayal, which was a bit of a relief—Cleo didn’t know if she could call Emily and ask for a favor while keeping such a secret from her. Though Cleo was indeed excellent with secrets—she sat on the Senate Intelligence Committee, after all—this one was different; this one was personal, and Cleo didn’t have it in her to lie to one of her few friends.
So it was just the two of them—Bowen and Cleo—for the train ride up to Manhattan. Cleo had emailed the staffer set to travel with her—she nearly always went with at least one minder—and gave her the weekend off. This was a semipersonal trip, and the last thing she wanted was a lackey. Bowen was dressed down, and Cleo found she liked it. Jeans, a crisp light-green button-down, trendy navy sneakers. She was suddenly aware of how much she would like to sleep with him. This was not a feeling she welcomed or found particularly useful. He was here because she needed his help. She willed this notion out of her mind. It proved harder than she thought.
Bowen bought them both Starbucks and himself a giant scone; then they headed to the tracks and waited for the train to blow by. He asked no questions—she didn’t even know where he was staying in New York—though she imagined he had a penthouse in Tribeca that was wall-to-ceiling glass windows. He seemed, she thought, genuinely amused that she had texted him but not condescending or patronizing about it at all. Amused in a kindhearted way.
They settled into their seats and finally, as the train’s engines masked the sounds of their conversation, he said: “OK, Cleo, you have my attention. I’m headed all the way to New York for you. I assume this is not a whirlwind date.” He paused. “To be clear, if it is, that’s entirely fine with me too.” He read the look on her face, which she imagined was a bit like a schoolmarm’s. “All righty,” he continued. “Definitely not a date. So, then . . . what?” He furrowed his brow. “Are you OK?”
“I want you to cover a story. About me,” she said quietly, and she didn’t know if he could hear her over the rattle of the train. “Not just about me. About something I did.” She inhaled, stopped. Tried to start over. This wasn’t coming out correctly. “A long time ago, at law school, I made a bad decision—I mean, you probably read about it, sort of the half-truth about