idea of telling him that as much as I like him, I'm seeing someone else. When he asks again if it's Tom, I say, “No, it's another staffer, but I can't talk about it.” He dropped me off that night at the condo I was borrowing and gave me a semi-innocent kiss good night. The next day he posted something sweet about me being the best-looking girl on any campaign staff, and that was that. Except that he calls me every couple of weeks to chat, and then again last month when the Star printed this nasty piece insinuating that Tom was having an affair with an unnamed former staffer whose description fit me like a pair of True Religion jeans. Of course I denied everything, and of course he didn't believe me, and then he asked me if we could get together for a drink. I said I didn't think that would be such a great idea, and after that I stopped taking his calls.
“You drove all the way down here?” I say.
“Except for the last mile or so, which I walked.”
“I didn't see your car up at the gate.”
“I parked up the road a little, out of sight.”
“You're lucky you didn't get shot.”
“Folks around here seem friendly enough.”
“If I were you, I'd think about hitting the road before it gets dark.”
“How about a glass of wine before I go?” he says, taking a bottle out of his backpack. “This is the one you liked so much when we had dinner that night.”
It's true, we had an amazingly delicious bottle of wine that night. He hands me the bottle, a 2001 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “I remember,” I say. “The wine of the Popes.”
“Also reputed to have aphrodisiac qualities,” he says.
“That didn't really pan out for you, did it?”
“Hope springs eternal,” he says.
“Although I guess it worked for those old guys. From what I hear, Popes were like the rock stars of their era in terms of pussy. Oh my God, you're actually blushing. That's so sweet.”
“Well, I'm a Catholic. I mean, I used to be.”
Part of me knows I should get him out of here as soon as possible, but another part of me's dying for company. So we open the wine and I put out a rock-hard wedge of Brie and Carr's water biscuits—it's actually kind of amazing what you can buy these days at the Piggly Wiggly in East Jesus—and he tells me about what's going on with the various campaigns. I mean, who knew what a hound that Bill Richardson was, but then again, who knew fucking anything about Bill Richardson? He tells about his last girlfriend, who scarred him for life by sleeping not only with his best friend but also with his best friend's wife; then he asks me about my life. I'm telling him about my year at the ashram, pursuing enlightenment and trying not to lust after my guru, when I suddenly think, Wait a minute. He's getting background for his story. I can, like, visualize the blog post: The former party girl then sought enlightenment at an ashram run by controversial guru Darpak Lalit. … “Are you going to write about this?” I say.
“I don't know,” he says. “You do realize it looks kind of incriminating, you staying in a big house owned by one of Phipps's best friends and biggest donors. Are you having an affair with Phipps?”
“Why don't you ask me if I'm having an affair with Jackson?”
“Sounds like a nondenial to me.”
I hear what sounds like a gunshot somewhere in the distance and then my text tone sounds, the first three bars of Gnarls Barkley's “Crazy.” I flip open my phone, to find a text from Tom: Whassup Sugar Plum?
I don't know why, I'll probably always wonder, but I can't decide whether or not to tell him what's going on. I don't want to worry him. I feel like I could go either way. I can see reasons for both. I stare at the screen until Frank finally says, “Are you okay?”
“I'm fine,” I tell him.
I text back: Blogger found me. Here now.
Call Sheriff.
That will b big drama/story.
Dont say anything.
I wasnt born yesterday.
It bothers me, him telling me not to say anything. As if I haven't been the soul of discretion for the last year. Frank is looking at me, puzzled. He glances down at his watch.
Get rid of him.
Dont worry.
I decide to turn my phone off. His tone really bugs me.
“I should probably be heading back,” Frank says, downing