Red, White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston Page 0,107
give a shit about what you owe us. I trusted you,” he says. “Don’t condescend to me. You know as much as anyone what I’m capable of, what I’ve seen. If you told me, I would get it.”
He’s so close he’s practically breathing Luna’s reeking cigarette smoke, and when he looks into his face, there’s a flicker of recognition at the bloodshot, blackened eyes and the gaunt cheekbones. It reminds him of how Henry looked in the back of the Secret Service car.
“Does Richards have something on you?” he asks. “Is he making you do this?”
Luna hesitates. “I’m doing this because it’s what needs to be done, Alex. It was my choice. Nobody else’s.”
“Then tell me why.”
Luna takes a deep breath and says, “No.”
Alex imagines his fist in Luna’s face and removes himself by two steps, out of range.
“You remember that night in Denver,” he says, measured, his voice quavering, “when we ordered pizza and you showed me pictures of all the kids you fought for in court? And we drank that nice bottle of scotch from the mayor of Boulder? I remember lying on the floor of your office, on the ugly-ass carpet, drunk off my ass, thinking, ‘God, I hope I can be like him.’ Because you were brave. Because you stood up for things. And I couldn’t stop wondering how you had the nerve to get up and do what you do every day with everyone knowing what they know about you.”
Briefly, Alex thinks he’s gotten through to Luna, from the way he closes his eyes and braces himself against the sill. But when he faces Alex again, his stare is hard.
“People don’t know a damn thing about me. They don’t know the half of it. And neither do you,” he says. “Jesus, Alex, please, don’t be like me. Find another fucking role model.”
Alex, finally at his limit, lifts his chin and spits out, “I already am like you.”
It hangs in the air between them, as physical as the kicked-over chair. Luna blinks. “What are you saying?”
“You know what I’m saying. I think you always knew, before I even did.”
“You don’t—” he says, stammering, trying to put it off. “You’re not like me.”
Alex levels his stare. “Close enough. And you know what I mean.”
“Okay, fine, kid,” Luna finally snaps, “you want me to be your fucking sherpa? Here’s my advice: Don’t tell anyone. Go find a nice girl and marry her. You’re luckier than me—you can do that, and it wouldn’t even be a lie.”
And what comes out of Alex’s mouth, comes so fast he has no chance to stop it, only divert it out of English at the last second in case it’s overheard: “Sería una mentira, porque no sería él.” It would be a lie, because it wouldn’t be him.
He knows immediately Raf has caught his meaning, because he takes a sharp step backward, his back hitting the sill again.
“You can’t tell me this shit, Alex!” he says, clawing inside his jacket until he finds and removes another pack of cigarettes. He shakes one out and fumbles with the lighter. “What are you even thinking? I’m on the opponent’s fucking campaign! I can’t hear this! How can you possibly think you can be a politician like this?”
“Who fucking decided that politics had to be about lying and hiding and being something you’re not?”
“It’s always been that, Alex!”
“Since when did you buy into it?” Alex spits. “You, me, my family, the people we run with—we were gonna be the honest ones! I have absolutely zero interest in being a politician with some perfect veneer and two-point-five kids. Didn’t we decide it was supposed to be about helping people? About the fight? What part of that is so fucking irreconcilable with letting people see who I really am? Who you are, Raf?”
“Alex, please. Please. Jesus Christ. You have to leave. I can’t know this. You can’t tell me this. You have to be more careful than this.”
“God,” Alex says, voice bitter, his hands on his hips. “You know, it’s worse than trust. I believed in you.”
“I know you did,” Luna says. He’s not even looking at Alex anymore. “I wish you hadn’t. Now, I need you to get out.”
“Raf—”
“Alex. Get. Out.”
He goes, slamming the door behind him.
Back at the Residence, he tries to call Henry. He doesn’t pick up, but he texts: Sorry. Meeting with Philip. Love you.
He reaches under the bed and gropes in the dark until he finds it: a bottle of Maker’s. The emergency