“Oh, Hayden,” Stella sighs, and I can visualize her sad, gray eyes in my head. “I’m sending you hugs right now. Do you feel them?”
When was the last time I cried like this? I collapse onto my couch, shoving my head in my pillow while my phone falls to the floor. I hear Stella’s breathing through the headphone in my ear and my body relaxes, sinking into the taupe cushions. The cool air from the open window kisses my skin, and I am comforted. Knowing I have someone in my corner who is simply willing to listen calms me. As the tears begin to fall slower and my breathing becomes more even, I tell Stella thank you.
“Let’s make a game plan,” she says. I grin through the salty tears still rolling down my face and sniffle.
“My favorite words.”
An hour and a half, several Lucas interruptions, a few hundred “I miss you’s”, and one demolished pint of ice cream later, we hang up.
“She’s right,” I say while hoisting myself off the couch. “There’s no sense in panicking. There’s got to be something available for me in this big city that is reasonably priced and not too far a drive from work. If I tell Darcy I need a day or two off to move, I’m sure it won’t be the end of the world.”
The trash can lid pops open with the tap of my foot on the floor lever, and I toss the empty ice cream container in. The chicken stench is overwhelming, but I think I can survive with the smell for one more day before mustering up the motivation to take out the trash.
“Also, she’s going to reach out to her contacts and give me names of women who might be suitable for Mr. Never Satisfied.”
I pause in my tracks on my way back to the love of my life—my couch—as an uncomfortable realization hits: I’m going crazy. I’ve been talking aloud to myself more and more with each passing day. I haven’t done that since I wandered the streets alone for days on end as a teenager.
Chapter Four
Darcy
Monday. It always arrives too soon.
That doesn’t matter much because my life is a constant string of Mondays. Sunday through Saturday—it’s all a blur. Interviews. Meet and greets. Dinners. Façades. Speeches.
I’m given a schedule by my campaign team, day after day, and I’m enslaved to it. A prisoner to the life I chose. The plan was never to run for president of the United States, but after the dumpster fire that was the last administration, I felt God calling me to run for office. I had the money, the connections, and the name, so it made sense to take the leap into the political arena, though I was not—and will never be—a people person. But I push through my introverted and autistic ways because I have something many politicians lack: selfless motivations and ambitions. I’m running for the homeless, for the orphaned, for the least of them, as Scripture says. Having my name attached to that type of reform is nothing short of spectacular. Okay, so my motivations are mostly selfless. We all have a bit of selfishness inside of us.
My phone buzzes on my wooden desk, and I shuffle through papers until I find it buried underneath the campaign budget report. A text from Ren Sato, my best friend, flashes across the screen.
Ren: Who’s the new woman?
I ignore him, directing my attention to the mountain of paperwork covering nearly every inch of my L-desk, but then another text comes through.
Ren: I want to meet her.
I crumple the newspaper in my fists, unpleasant words roaring across my brain. The door opens, pushing the scent of cedar and musk from the candle burning in the front of the room over to me.
“Mr. Marshall,” a too cheery voice calls. Hayden. The only reason I look up from my desk is to glare at her for having a sing-song voice that drives me crazy when I hear it in the mornings. How can a person be this happy in the midst of the political whirlwind every day? Seeing the burn marks still lingering on her face makes me feel a little bad for thinking negative thoughts about her. She does great things for me and this campaign.
She clears her throat. “I have your morning sched—”
“Leave it here.” I don’t want to hear the word “schedule” ever again at this point in time. I used to love planning and to-do lists, but only when I get to make them.
Hayden sets the horrid paper—that will only end up in the recycling bin—gently on the corner of my desk before turning to leave.
“Wait.”
She stops in her tracks and abruptly turns. A single curl falls from her bun, and she reaches to tuck it back in. “Yes, sir?”
A smidge of frustration flares within me at the word. “I’ve asked you several times not to call me sir.”
“Yes, sir,” she stammers. “I mean, yes. Just yes.”
“Do you have the next candidate lined up?” Her brows pinch together, and she cocks her head to the side. The coiled, black strand falls out again.
“Candidate?”
“For my wife,” I clarify. Her shoulders tense. The strand still cups her face, falling right over her temple.
