Please tell the kids I love them.
Shannon
P.S. I’m sorry for screwing up your content calendar.
“Natalie?Helloooo,anyone there?”
“Sorry,” I said, “I just—I need to look at something quickly. Give me one sec.”
I read the email a second time, then a third. Then I looked at Caleb. “What were you saying?”
“Is everything okay?”
I laughed a bit too brightly. “Just silly publicity emails. Now,please,I’m all ears: tell me about your father.”
“Well,” he said. He paused dramatically.Drumroll, please.“He thinks that now’s the time.”
I nodded impatiently—I already knew what he was going to say—before remembering this was meant to be the grand reveal.Play along, Natalie. Say your lines.“Now’s the time for what, darling?”
I knew exactly what was coming. In fact I had seenallthis coming—my father-in-law’s political push for Caleb, Shannon’s letter of resignation—had arguably orchestrated it myself, but still, I found myself unaccountably shocked that it was finally happening.Here we go. The dominoes are starting to fall.And yet: how dare she! I suppose it was the tone of the email that got under my skin, more than the email itself. Such faux maturity. Dripping with unearned condescension. Exactly the kind of letter you would expect from a twenty-one-year-old. Exactly the kind of letter I would’ve expected from Shannon in particular, that lost little lamb, that stupid little bitch.
Sorry, Lord. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
“Now’s the time to run,” Caleb said. “For office.”
“Oh my gosh. Wow.”
Caleb’s father wasn’t just a senator. He was a bona fide political icon. He’d been in office for four decades, running uncontested every six years. He was a war veteran, a family values traditionalist, the kind of guy people described with abject sincerity as areal-life John Wayne.They weren’t wrong. Doug Mills was broad-shouldered and confident. The ultimate patriarch. Nearly every comment he made to another man was accompanied by a hearty clap on the shoulder. He was, if the polling was even remotely accurate, aboutto become the next president of the United States. He was also my closest ally. What my father-in-law and I both knew: there was nootherwise.There was only this plan, a very delicate one, in which two variables—my producer, my husband—were taken care of in one fell swoop.
Final question, Mrs. Heller Mills: Would you like to comment on these horrific allegations of assault at YesteryearRanch?
“Unfortunately, I can’t comment on an ongoing legal investigation.”
I would just like to pause here and say: another woman would have cracked years ago.
I don’t think you’re a bad person.
A bold thing to say to the wife of the man you’ve been fucking. That was the word I was looking for:bold. The whole email was so hair-raisingly bold that it might have caused another, lesser woman to have a complete nervous breakdown, to throw her phone across the room, to hiss at her stupid, useless, can’t-keep-his-dick-in-his-pants husband,Look what you’ve done.Not me. As I stared at my philandering moron of a husband, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for all the work I’d done over the years to harden myself against the world. We were facing down the barrel of our firstPRdisaster. I could already see the headlines:AllegationsRoilInsta-Famous Family.Even worse:Is Natalie Heller Mills a Cult Leader? Former Producer Speaks Out.
Would a headline like that ruin a nascent political career? Assuredly not. America didn’t care one iota about morality when it came to politicians. If anything, we expected them to be a little sleazy. It might improve the odds for my coddled husband in the heartland. Might even give me a boost in followers, too.That poor pregnant woman, doing her best to keep her family together.Really, if you think about it: this whole situation would make for a hell of an Instagram post.
But I was getting ahead of myself. There was no need to think about that now. No need, even, to tell Caleb about the email just yet. This was not the kind of thing my husband was capable of dealing with. Not the kind of thing he—who, despite his best efforts, still wore his masculinity so roughly and unnaturally, as if it were an ill-fitting sweater I’d forced over his head—would be able to fix. If he knew, he’d only make it worse. He’d do something completely idiotic like drive to the bus stop and beg for forgiveness from Shannon in front of a crowd of strangers.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, exactly like I’d practiced. “I bet you’ll be president one day. Just like your dad.”
Caleb’s face lit up in relief. He would never admit it, he’d spent half his life running away from it, but this was the only thing he’d ever truly wanted: to be just like dear old Dad.
“Now,” I said, “let’s pray on it.”
We kneeled together at the foot of the couch. I pressed my forehead into my clasped hands and tried to breathe the anger out of me, but I couldn’t. It was like a germ. It just kept replicating in my stomach. Usually my husband’s failures were easy to forgive, but tonight I wanted to kill him. I could practically see his insipid prayers float past me, in little Comic Sans thought bubbles.Please keep my kids safe, Lord, along with the chickens. Help my wife continue to love me. A blow job would be nice, Lord, and if it’s not too much, I’dlike the strength to become something memorable. I’dlike to become a legend.
All men wanted to become legends. It was so embarrassing.
And what did I want? An easy answer. I wanted more of what I already had. I wanted the whole entire world to see itself through my eyes. A new level of influence. That’s not the kind of thing you ask for directly, though, so I settled for something simpler.
Please let this plan work, Lord. Please don’t let her win. And please give my husband a spine. I’m tired of him needing to borrow mine.
Amen.
