So, truly—regret was not an option.
8
Anyone Could Have Thought of That
The governor of Texas was irate. He sat next to Dakota at the sleek white conference table in Lise’s largest conference room, frowning at us and tapping his fingers. For a frightening moment, I wondered if Kenneth McGraw had leaked what happened at Bitter Honey. The lobbyist surely had a direct line to the governor; maybe he’d called to report that two people campaigning in the governor’s name had been involved in a very public street brawl. Grover certainly looked annoyed enough.
Though the governor had walked in with Dakota, he still seemed out of place inside Lise, with its angular, modern furniture, stark white coloring and subway-tiled walls. The aesthetic of the office was minimalist and futuristic, and Governor Mane, with his excessively broad linebacker shoulders and ever-present bolo tie, did not match.
Ben, on the other hand, looked right at home in his transparent glasses and another bold suit, this time olive green. He hadn’t said anything to me beyond a simple hello when he walked in, and in the few tense minutes while we waited for Wendy to arrive, he’d avoided my eyes.
Fine. All business, then.
The governor cleared his throat. “Bad news. Janus isn’t going to support the bill. He called to say it was too risky with his impending election.”
“What?” My jaw dropped. “But we went to every festival in Abilene for weeks. Everything from Comic-Con to the Polish Festival to Shakespeare on the Green. We got thousands of signatures.”
“And the ads have been performing great.” Ben looked equally stunned. “Janus’s Twitter is blowing up. I heard his phone’s ringing three times the normal volume.”
Governor Mane drew his hands together. “Well, it’s not enough to convince him the bill’s popular enough to take a swing. Man’s so risk averse I’m starting to wonder if anything short of an endorsement from God would move him.”
Ben’s eyes lit up.
“Is there nothing you can do?” Dakota put a hand on the governor’s shoulder. “I hate to say it, but is there any pressure you can put on him?”
“Trust me, I applied a thousand psi, but there’s no talking sense to a politician when his election’s on the line.”
“Is there anything we can give him?” Wendy asked coolly. “A bill he wants that we can trade for? Anything that isn’t too egregiously bad.”
I remembered Sarah saying that she was working on negotiating with the House to trade the Lonestar pipeline for an after-school program, and felt a creeping sense of dirtiness. If this wheeling and dealing was real politics, maybe I didn’t like it, after all.
“Hold that thought.” Ben stood abruptly from the conference table. He looked excited. “Just—give me a few days. I have an idea.” He heaved his shoulder bag and beelined for the door.
Ben had a brainstorm and he wasn’t even going totellme about it? Or even make eye contact, so I could try to discern the clues in his face?
Screw weeks of persuading fanboys, chucking axes and recitingMuch Ado About Nothing, apparently. Maybe it was because of the fiasco at Bitter Honey, but the tentative comradery we’d forged over the first leg of the campaign seemed to be over. It looked like it was every woman for herself again.
The rest of us watched through the glass wall as Ben hustled down the hallway, moving urgently, like a schoolboy late for class. We tracked him all the way until he made it past the receptionist’s desk and disappeared.
Dakota, Wendy and I turned to Governor Mane.
“Care to comment?” Wendy looked bemused.
He shrugged. “Benny boy has an idea. Can’t be bad, right?”
Oh, yes, it could. But mostly just for me.
Dakota lifted her champagne glass, smile as buoyant as the tiny bubbles that fizzed and raced to the top. “Here’s to Ben, whose brilliant plan won Senator Janus over and saved the day.”
“Saved ourasses,” the governor corrected.
“Hear, hear,” Wendy said. “One step closer to passing the bill.”
Everyone raised their champagne glasses—even me, though I was prepared to fling myself out of my chair if anyone asked me to make a toast. I suspected it would literally kill me if I had to swallow the anger boiling inside to push some words out. We were sitting at a lovely patio table at Clementine’s, a favorite lunch spot for Austin politicos, but the gentle October sunshine and breeze were wasted on me.
Obediently, I joined them in clinking my glass in the center of the table. Through the sparkling wine, I could see Ben sitting across from me, beaming like he’d just won the lottery.
I was officially losing our competition. Ben had catfished me with friendship, lulling me into a false sense of calm, only to sneak in and steal Janus’s yes right from under my nose. I think it was safe to say I now hated him with a renewed vigor.
