his hand and she reached for it without looking, and as soon as their palms touched, a thrill ran through her that she’d never felt before. “I’m Patrick,” he said, and she said her name in a voice she barely recognized.
She was used to men approaching her. She was blond and thin and pretty—she acknowledged this about herself, she didn’t engage in the false modesty that most pretty women insisted upon—and, despite her mother’s worries, her air of detachment worked like catnip on men. She could sense it inside them when they looked at her, this desire to know what she was thinking. There were times when she caught a man she’d been talking to sizing her up like she was a specimen awaiting dissection and he was wondering which tool to use to pry open her skull. Sometimes she would give them her number, and sometimes she would even answer when they called. Mostly, though, she kept herself separate. Love, in her mind, was something powerful and all-encompassing, an earthquake or a hurricane. She was waiting for it to strike her.
With Patrick, it did, full force. By the end of the evening, he’d kissed her. She couldn’t remember when she’d been kissed like that, his hands cupping her face, his eyelashes brushing against her skin as he pulled away, and she knew immediately that she was a goner.
Later, she’d ask herself if she’d had a choice in the matter. The more she knew him, the more she realized that Patrick had a singular vision for his life, and when he saw her from across the room at that party, she slid into it like fingers into a glove.
Two Years Earlier
The cut and scrape of silverware on good china. The tinkling of champagne glasses clinking together in a toast. The murmur of polite conversation, gentle as a babbling brook.
The thrum of a headache pressing against her sinuses. The nipped-in waist of her dress digging into her rib cage. The bile rising in her throat.
“Excuse me,” Rebecca whispered as she pushed back from the table. Patrick barely noticed: he was elbow-deep in conversation with a major donor, some oil impresario whose name she’d already forgotten. The man’s wife—Sara, she thought, or maybe it was Tara—gave her a tight smile and went back to staring at her plate of langoustines. She seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to Rebecca, or maybe she was just exhausted by the thought of another evening of making small talk while the men flexed their muscles and did their deals. Rebecca could sympathize.
She asked a passing waiter for directions to the bathroom, and he pointed to a door across the ballroom. She plucked her way through the tables, pleasant smile slapped on her face, and hoped she’d make it before she passed out.
The bathroom was one of those strangely formal affairs, complete with velveteen armchairs and vanity mirrors lined with lightbulbs, like something out of a Marilyn Monroe film. The designer had misjudged his audience. None of the women frequenting this bathroom wanted to inspect their faces under harsh incandescents.
There were only three stalls, so the line felt interminable. The women smiled at one another and then tucked in their chin and stared at the floor or their phones. No one wanted to make conversation while waiting for the bathroom. It was too personal, too humiliating. Besides, there was enough conversation waiting for them back in the ballroom. This was meant to be an escape.
Rebecca leaned against the wall while she waited, checking first to make sure it wouldn’t smudge her dress. Another pastel number, high-necked and below-the-knee, and sprigged with spring flowers even though it was February. Rich had sent it over earlier, along with a note reminding her to wear hose. She’d rolled her eyes but had gone to her underwear drawer and double-checked that she had a pair without a run.
Four months. He’d been a congressman for four months. A minute and a lifetime. Long enough for her to have gotten the hang of being a politician’s wife, especially if you factored in the months of campaigning. Some things were easier. She knew how to navigate her way through an interview now, and where to stand onstage so that she was visible but didn’t overshadow Patrick. She had learned how to navigate these fund-raising dinners, even if they left her hollowed out with exhaustion.
Tonight was different, though. Tonight she’d felt exhausted before setting foot in the car. Her head was pounding. The bathroom