“Honey, I’m okay. You and Jude have your hands full right now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” My tone is outraged because I can’t give in to what I’m really feeling, or I’ll burst into tears. “Who’s there with you? Is Abby there?”
“Your sister is still on assignment in Europe. I don’t need anyone here with me.”
“Well, I’m coming anyway. When is the biopsy?”
After a pause, she says, “Wednesday.”
Two days away. I close my eyes and steady myself.
“I’m booking the soonest flight out. I’ll text you my landing time. Can you pick me up?”
“Of course.”
“I love you, Mom. I’ll be there soon.”
“I love you too, you headstrong girl.”
I end the call and log on to a travel site, finding a flight that leaves in two hours. It’s nonstop to Miami, where my mom lives by herself in a modest beach house.
As soon as my travel is booked, I text Jude, telling him I’m going. I don’t really even have time to go back to the campaign bus and pack a bag. I can borrow clothes from my mom or pick a few things up when I get there, though.
All I care about right now is getting to my mom as soon as possible. I walk outside and hail a cab, steeling myself.
I can’t fall apart. My mom needs me.
Jude texts back.
Jude: Babe, I’m so sorry. What can I do?
Me: I don’t think there’s anything, but thanks for offering. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I won’t be able to do that luncheon thing Thursday.
Jude: Don’t worry about anything, I’ll have staffers cancel your stuff. Do you need me to come with you? I will.
Me: I know. Thanks. I’ll be okay.
Jude: Let me know when you land, okay?
Me: Okay.
Jude: Love you more than anything.
Me: You too.
I slide into the waiting cab and ask the driver to take me to O’Hare. On the drive, I open a browser on my phone to check my Google alerts for anything on Jude’s campaign.
The headline I see stops me cold:Secret Titan Tryst?
Oh, hell no. This is the last thing we need right now. I click on the link, my heart pounding uncontrollably as the page loads.
My gaze goes right to the photo. It’s Jude, his face partially covered but recognizable between two long curtains in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. His arms are wrapped around the waist of a woman whose dark hair conceals her face.
I can’t help but laugh, because it’sme. Jude’s “tryst” was our night at the hotel the other evening. The photo looks like it was shot from a building across from us as we waited for our room service to arrive.
For fuck’s sake. Those reporters need to find some actual stories to work on.
18
