7
SELENE
My hair still smells like Cal’s cologne.
I can’t tell if it’s my imagination or not, but every time I turn my head or run my fingers through my hair, I catch a whiff of him. The notes of smoke and spice combined with my aching knees and the faint bruise on my knee from the jade tiles of the bathroom floor are the only reminders I have of the stolen moment we shared two days ago, and I’m clinging to them desperately today, knowing they’re the only thing that will get me through the tedium of the final planning meeting for the State Dinner.
Playing hostess has never been an interest of mine, and my apathy toward planning this event has been treated as a direct affront to everything the First Lady position stands for by Allegra, my social secretary, and Spencer, the White House Chief Usher. Every time I sit down with them, there’s a new layer to my indifference and a new degree to their joint indignation.
“Ma’am,” Spencer chides gently, rubbing at his temple while I stare blankly at the flower arrangements covering the small coffee table in the center of the sitting area in my office. “All you have to do is choose one.”
“But I don’t like any of them,” I state plainly.
Spencer scoffs, fingers moving faster as his leg starts to bounce. He’s a short, impeccably dressed Black man with a round belly, harsh features and a deep disdain for indecisive people. He cuts his eye at Allegra, and she hops in immediately, scooting to the edge of the armchair across from me and picking up one of the glass vases from the line up.
“What about this one?” she asks, hope clinging to the edges of her voice. She always grows a bit antsy when Spencer gets wound up. All of the staff members do. It’s actually kind of comical, the way everyone assumes the White House is ruled by the President, when really a stubby man in a tweed jacket with elbow patches is actually keeping everything and everyone in line.
I eye the fragrant bouquet of roses, chrysanthemums and hydrangeas with the same disinterest I gave them from afar. “They’re lovely, Allegra. All of the flowers are lovely, which is why I couldn’t care less what we go with.”
“But you have to care,” she insists. “Every place setting will include a note from you giving context for the decor choices you’ve made. It’s a personal touch that will?—”
“You explained this when we chose the flowers the first time,” I remind her, leaning back in my seat and folding my arms over my chest. “The notes were finalized yesterday, so I don’t understand why we’re even having this discussion right now.”
Too often I find myself revisiting conversations with no context as to why the solutions we came up with previously are no longer viable. No one seems to think that kind of information matters, but when it’s my time and mental energy being taxed it matters to me.
Allegra relaxes into her seat, smoothing a hand over the lines of her pleated skirt. It’s sage green and matches perfectly with the blazer she’s wearing but does nothing for her complexion,clashing with the pink undertones of her pale skin and making her look sallow.
“We, um, realized that the First Lady of Singapore is allergic to cherry blossoms,” she admits, sliding a helpless look in Spencer’s direction.
“It was an oversight,” he adds. “Now our florist is scrambling to re-do the arrangements and the calligrapher has to stay late penning another set of cards, but no one candoanything untilyoudecide which arrangements to go with.”
“Your tone suggests you believe the issue here is me when it sounds like the real problem is a lack of attention to detail and a refusal to hear me when I say I don’t care what flowers end up on the table at this dinner.” I stand, splitting a look between him and Allegra. “Please select the arrangement that will be easiest for Paige to put together and nix the note cards. It doesn’t make sense for the calligrapher to stay late working on something no one will bother to read anyway. I’ll be at the office for the rest of the day. Please don’t disturb me with anymore last-minute emergencies you can sort out yourselves.”
I take my leave before either of them can respond, stepping out into the halls of the East Wing that are never quiet but don’t come anywhere close to the hustle and bustle of the West. Agent Shaw is waiting for me outside of my office, falling into easy step behind me as I make my way toward the exit where I know Agent Morgan is already waiting with the car. I’m eager to get to Culture Code and dig into the situation that unfolded at Dahlia’s. Before we went our separate ways, Cal gave me as much information as he could about the encounter with Cordelia and the men who refused to make themselves known to him, emphasizing how distressed Aubrey looked when he waved them through.
Fear isn’t an expression I normally see on that man’s face—especially now when he feels like he’s untouchable—so I wouldhave given anything to witness it, to lay eyes on the people who inspired it. The result of missing a moment that could be the key to finally being free of Aubrey is sparks of anxious excitement dancing underneath my skin and a level of hyper vigilance that makes no sense for someone who spends the majority of her day being monitored by people who specialize in neutralizing threats before they ever become a problem.
As we move through the East Colonnade, I find myself paying close attention to everything. The way my heels sound against the lacquered brick of the herringbone floor. The number of people soaking in the sunshine through the large windows overlooking the garden. And even the tinkle of feminine laughter coming from the Family Theater we never use.Thatgives me pause. I stop abruptly just outside the door, straining my ears to see if I hear it again. Agent Shaw slows too.
“What is it, ma’am?”
“I thought I heard something.”
Everything is quiet now, but I still push the door open and step inside, taking in the plush red carpet and reclining chairs that match. There are no windows in this room, so it’s dark save for the light spilling in from the hall, which makes it easy for me to identify the woman nestled in one of the chairs in the third row.
“Jordan?” I scan the room. “What are you doing in here?”
Her presence in this wing, but especially this room, make no sense to me. From the day Aubrey took office, she’s existed solely in the West Wing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her outside of it, but here she is, looking completely at home in a recliner in the middle of the work day, laughing at nothing and with no one.
“Are you okay?”
The question pops out of my mouth before I can stop it, before I can remember that this is the woman who went out of her way to make my life hell for years. Based on the bags underher eyes she’s failed to hide with concealer, karma is catching up to her, which is exactly what she deserves, not my concern.
“I’m fine,” she says, approaching me with her phone in hand, waving it around like it’s proof of something. “Just taking a little social media break.”
Not once in my years of knowing her, have I seen the woman open a social media app without an explicit goal in mind. Aimless scrolling seems like the last thing she’d indulge in, especially this far from the center of the action.
“In the theater? Why wouldn’t you use your office for that?”
