“Oh, I was aware, but to think that I might know someone who will be president . . .”

“So, I mean, you can think about what I’m suggesting . . . but back in high school, you were one of the smartest people I knew,” Cleo said. And she wasn’t being conciliatory, because it was true. It was the two of them, best friends and sidekicks and established intellectuals, and one of them was now running for president, and Cleo thought that what she was about to propose was the least she could do to make up for all the ways she’d stepped on MaryAnne to get a leg up. “What if you and Esme came for a visit? Sat down with my team, figured out how we could put you to work?” She hesitated, realized she was being presumptuous. “Um, if you’d want to support me. I can see now why this sounded extremely arrogant. I offered it only with the best of intentions. But I was thinking—maybe you could work for the Seattle field office or the West Coast division. I don’t know. I don’t mean to imply that you have to launch your career by working for me. Uh, if you prefer one of my opponents, maybe I can make some calls too.”

Cleo stopped talking because she worried she was only making her proposal worse. She hadn’t meant to make it sound like a handout. She was only trying to give MaryAnne whatever power back she could.

“I don’t have any experience,” MaryAnne said.

“You are so smart, MaryAnne, and you work hard, and maybe it could have been you, not me. I don’t know. There’s no way to know any of that now. And you’re ruthless; that’s probably the quality you need most.”

MaryAnne laughed. “Well, I mean, Cleo, I’ve been pissed for twenty years.”

“Will you think about it?”

MaryAnne nodded. “I will.”

“I’d love to have you. I’d be honored. That was the only reason I asked. No motive other than it would be nice to be a team again.”

“Madam President,” MaryAnne said, shaking her head. “To think I can say I knew you fucking when.”

“MaryAnne!” Cleo mock gasped.

“Oh, I watch all those political shows on HBO,” she said. “If I come on board, I’m going to need to learn how to swear and not apologize for it.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

In the end, the plan had been a compromise among Georgie, Cleo, and Lucas. Cleo didn’t think it was prudent to fly all the way to Seattle and risk Doug Smith being out of town or unreachable, so Friday, just before Arianna bought their plane tickets, she had asked Matty to track down Doug’s email, and she wrote four drafts, none of which was her best work, and then sent off the one she found most acceptable and prayed. (And Cleo never prayed. Plenty of her detractors were happy to point this out.)

Dear Doug—

I don’t know if you remember me, but we were acquainted at Northwestern our senior year. I am planning to be in Seattle for the weekend, where I have heard you now live. I was hoping to find some time to sit down. Perhaps I could take you to coffee?

Sincerely,

Cleo McDougal

Cleo hadn’t mentioned the intention of the visit. She knew it was selfish and probably not fair to blindside Doug completely, but she at least wanted to fulfill her promise to Lucas and give him a fighting chance of meeting his father.

Doug wrote her back within the hour.

Dear Cleo—

What a surprise! I, of course, remember you and have watched your career ascend with pride, even though I didn’t really know you well. I’m hoping, perhaps, this is about cybersecurity, which you must know is my specialty, since you tracked me down at work. (Damn you, government!) (Ha ha.) (I’m only partially joking. My whole purpose here is devoted to firewalls, so I must admit I’m surprised you got my email . . .) Anyway, yes, I am in town this weekend and happy to meet. I live in Queen Anne. Will you be nearby? Or I can come to you.

All best,

Doug Smith

Cleo didn’t know why he signed his first and last name, since she clearly knew who he was by emailing him in the first place, but she didn’t want to be nitpicky. She also didn’t want to correct his assumption about why she was reaching out. She was intent on being truthful, but she was still a politician and knew that sometimes obscuring the full facts led to the better end result, even if it made you feel a little dirty while you were doing it.

Cleo had proposed the vegan restaurant where she and Gaby and Lucas had eaten just weeks before—it was at least one less surprise, familiar ground, and besides, now that Cleo was dabbling in new things, she thought maybe she’d like a vegan omelet after all. Cleo sat in the back of the Uber with Lucas, who was fidgety and nervous but trying not to act like it by ignoring his mom and otherwise being snappish, and she marveled that it had been only a few weeks since their prior visit. She’d read that it took several weeks of consistently drilling down a habit to ensure real change, and she wondered if this couldn’t also be true for her: if by practicing being more open and asking for help and welcoming support when she genuinely needed it (and eating a healthy breakfast), it wouldn’t just become second nature by the time her campaign was in full swing this summer. She hoped so. Even with all the recent upheaval, she felt more settled than any time since her parents had died. And twenty years was a long time to be unconsciously spiraling.

Her leg jittered in the back of the car, and her underarms were clammy, and her eyes felt like they were sinking into the back of her head. She hadn’t slept well for obvious reasons, and she rehearsed her script in her mind because what she was about to say mattered. She didn’t care if Doug Smith hated her forever, but she cared for Lucas, and for that reason, this speech felt more critical than anything she’d ever delivered on the Senate floor or on her reelection trail.

Too soon, they were there.

She’d discussed the plan with Lucas—let her go in first, explain the situation, as if she could possibly explain the situation over a cup of coffee. She wasn’t sure if she’d even recognize Doug Smith. That’s how vague that night was for her; that’s how poorly she knew him. But then she saw him through the vegan restaurant window, and she didn’t know if she recognized him from back then or if she recognized him because he was so familiar—he was honestly a snapshot of who her son would be in two decades—but there he was, hunched over his table, scrolling through his phone.

“Hey, Doug.”

He peered up and stood, a grin on his face. Cleo went to shake his hand, and he went in for a hug, so she tried to act casual and laughed and accepted his arms folding around her. He was still athletic; Cleo now remembered that—his broad back, the way he could absolutely kill it at beer pong, which was of course not a sport but gave you an indication of hand-eye coordination—and he had Lucas’s eyes and jawline and brown-black hair. Now that she was staring at him, it was hard to believe that she’d ever thought Lucas looked like her at all.

“I didn’t know what to get you,” he said. “The choices for lattes are almond milk, oat milk, cashew milk, or soy milk.” He shrugged. “I went with cashew. I don’t know why. I think I was intimidated by the choices.”

Cleo’s gut roiled, and she couldn’t imagine drinking a cashew milk latte, so she asked the waitress if they could just bring her a plain drip coffee, which they could not—they did not offer plain drip coffee—so she agreeably opted for cashew milk because her brain was racing too quickly and she just wanted this to be over, one more disaster behind her. “Only Forward!” she thought, though she also realized that they were going to have to change this campaign slogan in light of the past few weeks.

“It’s great to hear from you!” Doug said. “I can’t believe that all these years later, you even remembered me!”

Cleo thought that it was best to probably just rip the Band-Aid off. She didn’t know how you showed up and told someone that he had a kid who had been living on this planet for fourteen years and the conversation didn’t turn out terribly. MaryAnne was right in many respects—she could see this now. She was a bad person. Or had been. Good people didn’t unilaterally make the decision to conceal their pregnancy under their graduation gown and then flee like hell to law school. And then indignantly tell the media during her first congressional run that the father was not involved by choice and perpetuate that lie to her son until he discovered otherwise.

Doug wore a wedding ring, and Cleo didn’t know if this made it better or worse—that he likely had a family and a wife who had to make this adjustment too. And she and Lucas had discussed it last night—that it was Doug’s prerogative not to be as gracious as they hoped. These were the ramifications of making bad decisions, Cleo knew. As a lawmaker, she had established a well-earned reputation of making people bend to her will. In her personal life, she was now seeing that the same wasn’t true, nor should it be.