“He’s probably just sleeping,” Gaby had said as they got into the town car, when Cleo wondered aloud if she should cancel. “Don’t teen boys do that all day? Besides, I know you’re avoiding Bowen, and honestly, Cleo, your hashtag has been trending for twenty-four hours, and you need to put your face out there as the woman behind the movement.”

Neither of them mentioned that the hallway outside of her office was now teeming with protesters, angry men and also some angry (Cleo thought confused) women, carrying signs that screamed NOT ALL MEN and MEN HAVE RIGHTS TOO! and MEN DON’T RAPE—WOMEN DO! Cleo had to read that one twice to be sure she had seen it correctly, but Gaby yanked her by the arm before she could point out the (mostly) failed logic in this poor woman’s argument. Cleo even had statistics to raise on-air, though she knew it would be a lost cause. In her experience, once people were so entrenched that they picketed outside your office building and took the time to write insane signs, they weren’t open to being swayed.

“I’m putting my face out there,” Cleo said. “Stop telling me that. I get it. I know that I need to address this. I just . . .” She stared out the window as they rolled to a stop at a red light by an Au Bon Pain. This made Cleo wish she were eating a croissant and reminded her that, in fact, she hadn’t eaten since the PB and J last night, unless you counted this morning’s latte. “Look, Bowen rejected me, and granted, I had had too much bourbon—”

“Oh my God, you can’t drink bourbon.”

Cleo nodded. “It was on my list. I couldn’t remember why.”

Gaby’s eyes grew three sizes at least. “You didn’t start dancing in front of him, did you?”

“What? No, why?”

“You really don’t remember? The night at the end of our second year? The bourbon and . . . the bar . . . on which you danced? And subsequently fell off?” Gaby had an air of such astonishment that you’d think Cleo had told her she decided to retire and teach yoga.

Cleo squinted and tried to recall it. She could not for the life of her piece together the evening, but the timing checked out. Of course, back then, Gaby didn’t know about Nobells, but Cleo remembered giving herself one night—one night—to be furious and to drown her sorrows and to wash away her shock at his disloyalty and her contempt at that disloyalty and then to put it behind her, inasmuch as a young woman can do that. Perhaps she did end up dancing on a bar. That certainly would be something for her list; she could see that now.

“And you’re still pushing me to dance in public?” Cleo asked. “You can’t get why that might be a terrible idea?”

“I think the bourbon more than the dancing was the problem,” Gaby said, and Cleo took her point.

The town car started moving again, but her eyes lingered on the Au Bon Pain. Why was it so difficult for her to take care of herself? Was this why people had partners? Was this why they made room in their lives for someone else? Cleo knew, because she was not an idiot, that she could feed herself. But there was something in the underlying notion of it all: that she was constantly fraying at one end. By God, Emily Godwin had to show up with a chicken from Costco. She thought of Emily just then and how she really still very much wanted to cross jab Jonathan square on the nose.

Her phone buzzed alive in her lap. She didn’t recognize the local number, and she’d normally never accept an unknown caller, but Lucas was ghosting her, and maybe he was stuck at a pay phone, in a store, a friend’s, and trying her? Cleo didn’t even know if they had pay phones anymore, but regardless, she picked up her cell. Beside her, Gaby folded a piece of gum on her tongue and offered her one too. Cleo shook her head, then reconsidered. This would have to be breakfast and lunch combined.

“Hello?”

“Cleo McDougal?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“Hi, ma’am. Are you Lucas’s mother?”

Cleo’s heart jumped, and she reached to her side and clutched Gaby’s arm so tightly that Gaby said, “Shit, ow!”

“Yes,” Cleo managed.

“He’s OK, ma’am,” the woman said. “But we had to bring him in to Inova Alexandria—”

“The hospital?” Cleo dug harder into Gaby’s arm.

“Yes, ma’am. He called 911 himself.” She paused. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m a single mom myself. I know how it goes.”

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Cleo released her grip on Gaby and felt tears behind her eyes, then down her cheeks. Why was she so fucking bad at feeling his forehead? Why wasn’t she better organized and knew where the thermometer was? She was a goddamn United States senator and a future candidate for president. How hard was it to see that her son was sick? “Is he OK? Jesus, what is going on? I didn’t think he was that—”

“It’s his appendix.” The woman cut her off. “It came on suddenly, so don’t feel too bad. I think most moms would have mistaken it for a tummy ache. He’s a responsible boy, ma’am. That’s why he knew what to do. They’re taking him into surgery now—it was quite emergent—but of course, Mom, he was asking for you.”

“I’m on my way.” Cleo hiccupped, barely managing the words, weighed down by the recognition that she couldn’t even do right by the one person she was responsible for.

She had thought he might even be faking it! That’s how awful her instincts were.

No wonder she was always alone. Maybe this was just how it was meant to be. Maybe when you compiled a list of 233 regrets (and she hadn’t even updated it recently), this was the life you deserved.

NINETEEN

Gaby had the driver drop them at the entrance of the hospital, then let Cleo rush in while she lingered behind to deal with her own type of triage: explaining to Bowen’s producers why Cleo wouldn’t be available for the taping that was set for less than an hour from now. As the car slowed, Gaby had offered herself up instead, which Cleo considered a kindness. Gaby hated doing live TV. She saw other strong, insightful black women too often portrayed instead as hysterical angry black women, and she found the tap dance around this stereotype so irksome that she often didn’t even want to bother. But Cleo trusted her so implicitly, believed in her so empirically, and Gaby, equally hell-bent on putting a positive spin on the entire hashtag situation, agreed (somewhat begrudgingly) to be her messenger on Bowen’s show.

Cleo ran through the halls toward Emergency as Gaby negotiated the situation on the sidewalk, much like she had rushed through the Senate halls toward Senator Parsons, only now with the recognition of the importance of one and not the other. She threw herself at the nurses’ desk and reconsidered this notion. She wasn’t going to be one of those women who suddenly deemed her life’s work unimportant. She literally shook her head while ringing the desk bell—she slammed her hand down three times and spun around looking for someone on duty—and reminded herself that other than Lucas, her work was the only thing that mattered in her life, and she didn’t have to disparage one to embrace the other. This wasn’t going to be that type of story.

A young nurse appeared from the filing room, and her eyes widened in recognition.

“You must be Lucas’s mom.” She smiled a little shyly. She had long, sparkly purple nails and luminescent dark skin and a tiny diamond in her nostril and whiter, straighter teeth than Cleo had ever seen. In fact, Cleo thought she looked a bit like an angel. “I’m a huge fan, ma’am. I mean, I’m considering ‘pulling a Cleo’ tomorrow with a girlfriend.” She shook her head. “Man, fuck that asshole. Screw the patriarchy.” She held her fist out, and Cleo, feeling a bit like she was having an out-of-body experience, held her own fist out, and they bumped them together.

“Is he . . . ?” Cleo said.

“Oh my God!” The nurse thumped her hand to her chest, her purple nails shining under the bright lights. “I’m so sorry!” The nurse looked genuinely mortified, so Cleo did not tell her to recant her apology. “Your boy, I should have told you about your boy! He’s going to be OK. He’s in surgery now.”

Cleo leaned against the nurses’ station and thought it might be the only thing keeping her from complete collapse.

“You’re not looking so great yourself, and I don’t mean that disrespectfully, ma’am,” the nurse said. She reached out and pressed the back of her hand against Cleo’s forehead.

“No, I’m fine. I’m just . . . I haven’t had time to eat all day. And obviously, I mean, this news, while I was at work.” Cleo started quietly crying. She didn’t even have to ask what was wrong with her—crying in public! She would normally be eviscerated for such a thing, but she found that she couldn’t care. She knew what was wrong with her: her son was in emergency surgery and her blood sugar was dropping by the second and whoever the fuck said anything was weak about tears? “Do you . . . I mean . . . do you need my insurance or whatever?”

“Oh, ma’am.” The nurse’s name was Mariann. Cleo stared at her ID and wondered if maybe there actually were signals from the universe. Mariann opened the little swinging door to the back of the nurses’ station and ushered her inside. “Come on, let me feed you. We have cookies. A lot of them.”