Year 28 - J.L. Mac Page 0,3

side to side like a plane caught in turbulence. “Last I checked, I’m the highest-paid campaign manager out there right now and I did it without fucking anyone for gain.” To his credit, Preston gets up on his elbows and narrows his eyes at me. The campaign manager in him is now officially on the scene. Gone is the heavy accent and flirtatious crap, replaced by shrewdly assessing eyes. I can practically see the cogs in his brain grinding on, considering if he should prepare to run damage control. I know the drill. I smile at the sight of his narrowed eyes and flattened lips.

That’s much better.

Politics seemed to be my predetermined destiny, having been born to an American politics and history junkie like my mother. She named all three of her children—myself included after American political history icons. The Centrist she is, she hand chose the names of the icons she revered most not caring much for party lines. It’s one of the several reasons I admire her. I have disregarded party lines, too, by screwing around with Preston. Not the savviest move, but I have it all in hand.

We’ve only slept together twice, and he has turned all syrupy-sweet while attempting to make this a thing between us so I don’t anticipate seeing him again, anyway. I much prefer enemy version of Preston than the southern drawl, sugar-coated compliment machine version of him. This city is dog-eat-dog. This industry rewards ruthless manipulation for personal and professional gain. The news cycles are twenty-four hours a day and the material never changes. It’s always political stunts and sensational headlines because that’s what sells. These people are about trading and bargaining for dirt. They cut deals with demons and devils in suits with a little American Flag pinned to their lapel and faux-patriotism oozing from the speeches they didn’t bother to write themselves. These things all fall under my job hazard column. Most don’t have the stomach for this, but I do. In fact, this is perfect for me. My job requires me to be the way I am. All of this I can handle. This is what I do. This is my safe place. These are familiar, predictable monsters. This is Washington, D.C. These monsters are my pets, and this is my playground.

I wasn’t always this way. I used to be a naïve, vulnerable girl with childish notions about love and life and career. And then life happened. The girl I was had been meted upon by a monster, and I had not been prepared. Now, I am prepared for the monsters because in many ways I am one of them. Get or be gotten is the motto. Ironically, it’s safer for me here with the monsters I know and see coming than it is back home. It’s safer to be this version of me, and it’s just good fortune that my career requires that I be exactly this way.

Here, a “fuck you” means, well… fuck you! Back home, “Bless your precious heart” could mean, “I’ll destroy you in your sleep and steal your dog, so fuck you!” Or it could mean someone from the Baptist church is going to drop off a peach cobbler the next day because truly, “Bless your heart.” You never quite know which to expect. Yes, D.C. is my safe place.

Southerners have a knack for sandwiching judgment and insults between hugs at Sunday service and the occasional Hallmark card. The political strategist in me can appreciate these antics, but the rest of me is content with living my life free of “bless your heart” and peach cobblers. I prefer apple, anyway.

Three days later, I find myself staring at the beautifully embossed invitation to my sister’s wedding.

Mr. and Mrs. Garrett Potter request the honor of your presence

at the marriage of their daughter

Eleanor Jacqueline Potter

To

Douglas Scott Kearney

The invitation is gorgeous. The bride is stunning. The groom is handsome. The venue is ideal. The catering is the best available. It will all be perfect, I am sure, and yet I can’t bring myself to find joy in any part of this because it just means I have to make the trip home. As though she’s felt me thinking about her, my personal cell phone rings. I groan at the screen displaying a photo of my baby sister’s serene face. I slide out of my leather chair, leaving my heels beneath my desk, and walk to the windows in my office. I stand here, peeking down at the screen,