A baby doesn't fit neatly into my life plans. A baby, especially one fathered by Carter Crane, would complicate everything.
And yet.
My hand is still on my stomach. I can't seem to move it. Lying here in my quiet room with the afternoon sun on my face and my hand pressed to my belly, I already know that I’ve already made my choice because it doesn’t feel like a choice at all.
The little clump of cells is already my child, my son or daughter, and I know I’d do anything for them.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and open the browser. I type "early pregnancy Severex" into the search bar and hold my breath.
The results are sparse. A few forum posts, mostly inconclusive. One person says they took it before they knew and their baby was fine. Another says they miscarried but doesn't know if it was connected. There's nothing concrete.
I should see a real doctor, not Dr. Google. I need actual information from someone who knows what they're talking about.
Tomorrow. I'll make an appointment tomorrow.
For now, I close my eyes and let my hand rest where it is. The music from downstairs has stopped. The room is quiet except for my own breathing.
The only thing I know for sure is that I am keeping my baby and I don’t want Carter to know anything about it.
16. Carter
"Two minutes, Mr. Crane."
I'm standing backstage at a community centre in Fairfax County, reviewing my talking points while a volunteer adjusts my microphone. The crowd beyond the curtain is maybe two hundred people—teachers, local business owners, parents who care about school funding.
I nod and take a breath. This is what I'm good at. This is what I love.
It’s small potatoes compared to the national stage my father usually commands, but this is where campaigns are really won. I can have a thousand slick campaign commercials, but there is no better publicity than someone telling their friends, “I actually met Carter Crane and he really listened to what I said.”
It’s about people and making them know who I am. I can’t please everyone but I can listen. If I know what people care about, then that’s the first step to fixing their problems. That’s what the Crane legacy is really about. We’re in service to the people. It sounds like such a cliché, but I really believe it.
The investigation into my family is still grinding forward. It’s been eight months since Jamie dropped his smear piece and the initial frenzy has died down. The news cycle has moved on to fresher scandals. When interviewers ask about the exposé now, I've perfected my response: a rueful smile and a shake of the head, then a pivot to the future.
I’m looking forward to the investigation being concluded so we can put this behind us and focus on what really matters—serving the people of this state.
"You're on."
The curtain parts and I walk out into the lights.
The applause is warm but not rapturous. These aren't fans—they're persuadables. They’re people who came to take my measure. I like that. I've never trusted rooms full of people who already agree with me.
"Thank you for having me," I say, and I mean it. "I know you've got better things to do on a Tuesday evening than listen to another politician make promises. So I'm going to skip the promises and just talk to you."
A ripple of surprised laughter. Good. They expected the polished speech. They weren't expecting candour.
I talk about education funding using real numbers, real impacts, the specific schools in this district that are struggling. I talk about healthcare, about the clinic closures in rural areas, about the mother I met last week who drives ninety minutes each way for her son's dialysis.
This is the real work. Photo ops and fundraising dinners have their place, but they’re a necessary evil to get the job done. This is what Jamie didn’t see. He just saw photo shoots and thought there was nothing real underneath.
The thought of Jamie brings its usual pang. I’d like to say that I’ve put him behind me, but it’s not true.
For months, I’ve dreamed of him every night, waking up hard and wanting. I think that I’m going to spend the rest of my life dreaming of him and there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s not the person that I want him to be.
Prime matches are a bitch. At least, he never registered and I suspect that now he never will. I can’t imagine the circus that will roll in if the Bureau ever managed to officially match us.
When I open the floor for questions, a woman in the third row raises her hand.
"Mr. Crane, your family's been in the news a lot lately. How do we know you're not just more of the same?"
