“Now about that rainy day fund,” Tom continued from the dais. “I’ve heard a lot of talk about that. Everyone’s concerned, myself included. And I have a lot of colleagues who would like to take a bite here and there. But I say no! I say we jeopardize our future and the future of our children by messing with our savings account. As residents of Texas, we need to make sure that the rainy day fund goes untouched so that all needs are met, and if we should hit a rough patch—God forbid—services are not cut!”
That was met with strong applause. Rebecca turned a beaming smile to Matt at the very same moment Tom said, “And oh, by the way, today I pushed a fun little bill through that I think you’ll enjoy.”
Pat instantly threw her head back and closed her eyes. “No, no, no,” she groaned. “Please tell me he is not going to say it.”
“My bill designates chips and salsa as the official state snack of Texas!” Tom said, raising his arm into the air in some sort of half-cocked victory pump.
“Wow,” Angie said, shaking her head.
“Maybe they will think it’s cute,” Rebecca said hopefully.
“Political suicide is not cute,” Pat snorted.
Pat was right. Rebecca peeked around him; the crowd noise had definitely fallen to a low pitch. Dozens of wizened faces— voting faces—were upturned to Tom, waiting for the punch line that was, apparently, not going to come.
“So! Wander on into the dining room and get some chips and salsa!”
“Who’s going to tell him there are no chips and salsa on the buffet?” Pat asked of no one in particular.
There was another smattering of applause; Grandpa shuffled on stage and took the microphone from Tom, beaming from ear to ear. “Thank you, Senator! Okay, ready for the last session of bingo?”
Tom came striding off the stage, grinning. “Well done, Senator,” Angie said as he jogged down the steps and paused for another photo.
“Ah, Re-be—caaaa!” Tom said, stretching his arms wide for a hug, into which Rebecca reluctantly walked. “Thanks again,” he said, squeezing tight. “Thanks a million for putting all this together.”
Honestly, sometimes she thought Tom would gush if she stood up and belched. “No problem, Tom,” she said, wiggling out of his embrace.
“We could all take a page out of your book,” Tom continued, and Rebecca couldn’t help notice that Pat and Angie, standing to one side, looked as if they might barf all over his shoes. “You and Matt be safe getting home, now. Come on, girls,” he said to Pat and Angie. “I’m going to treat you to a beer on the way home.” He moved to the exit with Angie, Pat, Gunter, and his photographer trailing behind.
“I have to agree,” Matt said, shoving his hands into his pockets as they watched Tom glad-hand his way to the door. “Pretty amazing job you did here.”
Rebecca smiled in spite of herself. “Thank you, I think.”
“But you know he hasn’t even begun to ramp up, don’t you?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, we aren’t going to have the time or luxury of this sort of setup again. You might want to adjust your expectations for the long haul.”
“You know what you are?” she asked. “A rationalist.”
“A what?”
“A rationalist,” she repeated, casually picking at a nonexistent piece of lint on her jacket. “You know, the kind of person who likes to be in command, likes lots of rules and boxes to put people into and doesn’t like people stepping out of their cages.”
“You have no idea what you are talking about. I fight against rules all the time.”
“You sure stick to them like glue when it comes to the campaign.”
“Where do you get this stuff from? I’m not trying to keep you in a box, I am trying to help.”
“It’s not a bad thing.”
“Well, it doesn’t exactly sound like a good thing, either,” he said gruffly.
“I was merely making a friendly observation,” she said, enjoying seeing him on the defensive. “I only mention it because the more you know about someone’s personality type, the easier it is to work with them. Here’s another observation . . .” she said, and clasping her hands behind her back, she went up on her tiptoes to almost look him in the eye, and said, “You can dish it out but you can’t take it.”
Matt’s whole body seemed to light up when he grinned down at her. “Wanna bet?”
A surge of heat raced up her spine; Rebecca eased back down.
“So tell me,” he said, still grinning, “What personality type can’t play bingo? The perfect type?”
“Compared to you, at least,” she said buoyantly. “But if you really want to know, I’m a traditionalist, and there’s a huge difference between a traditionalist and a rationalist. We might as well be on different planets—”
“Oh, I think we are,” Matt said, nodding emphatically.
“Okay, folks! Fifteen minutes to the next game, so get your snacks!” Grandpa called. “By the way, the kitchen has asked me to inform you that there are no chips and salsa. I’ll say that again—no chips and salsa tonight.”
“You know what your problem is?” Matt said. “You think too much. Just let yourself go. You know, run with your gut and not your head . . . with or without panties.”