THE MORNING sky is a deep shade of blue, and for a moment, I wish I’d gone with the crimson coat. The contrast of red wool against blue sky would have been powerful. But it’s too late to change now. This is what I’m wearing. Cream-colored coat over a crisp white suit jacket and matching pants that the designer made personally for me. We’d originally talked about doing a skirt, but the January air is cold and I’m glad for the last-minute change.
“Diffenderfer.”
My husband and I both turn at the sound of our last name, but the Diffenderfer they’re looking for is me, of course. The professional young woman whose job it is to tell me where I need to be and when says, “We’re five minutes to go time.”
Five minutes. The moment is so close and yet it still doesn’t feel completely real. My friends will tell you that they always knew. That out of all of us, I was always the most likely to end up here. Respectfully, and with love, I think they’re full of crap. The truth is, if someone had told me back in high school that this is where my life would lead, I never would have believed it. In some ways, I still can’t believe it’s about to happen. And I really can’t believe it’s about to happen to someone with the last name Diffenderfer.
Diffenderfer. Ugh. I wonder for the millionth time why I took his name. It was a choice, of course. But I was heavily advised to choose it. Even in this day and age, people felt that it would make me seem more relatable. More approachable. More…“traditional” is the word that one brave soul used before I kicked him out of my office. The reason it pissed me off so much is because I knew he was right. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s important to put on a bit of an appearance. So as much as I hate my husband’s last name, I made the traditional choice and took the damn thing.
I look over at the man who gave me the gift of being a Diffenderfer and smile. He winks back. “Big day,” he says.
“Is it?” I tease, and take his hand. I’m surprised to find it shaking slightly. He’s nervous, and this fills me with such a sudden sense of tenderness that I’m momentarily overwhelmed. I give his hand a squeeze. He squeezes back. Twice. To tell me that he loves me. “Don’t be nervous,” I whisper.
“Aren’t I supposed to be saying that to you?”
“But I’m not nervous.”
“Of course you’re not.”
I lean in and kiss him. My makeup artist, Margot, will have to refresh my lip gloss, but I don’t care. I may not love his name, but I do love this man. I have ever since high school. I’ve told the story of senior year and that first kiss close to a thousand times now. People apparently like that my love story is uncomplicated. Uncomplicated. It always makes us laugh. It’s only uncomplicated because they don’t know about the complicated parts—which are actually my favorite parts. Those definitely wouldn’t have helped my image, though. So we’ve kept it our little secret. Thinking about this makes me smile. I like that, in spite of everything that’s happened, there are still a few things that belong only to us.
The young woman with the headset walks up to tell me that it’s time. My husband gives me a look. “You ready?”
“Yes,” I whisper back, even though the answer is no. How can I ever truly be ready for something like this? I take comfort remembering that the most important moments of my life have been the ones that terrified me. Like that first kiss. Not the story we’ve told a thousand times. The real one. The one that was messy and excruciating and painful and exhilarating. The one that broke my heart and healed it all at the same time.
I take a deep breath and give my husband’s hand one more squeeze. I suppose it doesn’t really matter that I share my last name with him. Because the title they’re about to put in front of it will belong only to me.
I, and I alone, will be president of the United States of America.
CHAPTER ONE
Cleveland, Ohio
Fall 2019
LOGAN DIFFENDERFER kept a strong pace as he rounded the track. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his body, and his brown hair bounced as if to the beat of