She left for Europe after Election Day. I know because I went to see her when the voting results became official. I kissed her. She kissed me. I told her I wanted her in the White House. She told me she was leaving for a few months in Europe with her best friend, Kayla. “It’s better this way,” she said. “I’m not going to keep my cell number. I think—we need to do this.”
It cost me everything not to go after her. To stay away. She changed her number. I found it. Tried not to call. Barely succeeded. I couldn’t keep from having my staff check up on when she’d be returning to the States.
She wants to be done with you, Hamilton. Do the good thing here.
I know that, but I can’t give her up. Two months without her is two months too long.
And I’ve had enough.
“What did you find out?”
“She’s back from her trip and she RSVPed to one of the balls tonight, Mr. President-Elect.”
She’s back from Europe just in time for my inauguration.
My chest tightens. I’ve stayed away and every inch of me wants to see her. I’ll have the keys to the world, but turned my back on the key to the woman I love’s heart. How can I be proud of that? She shed one tear that day. Just one. And it was for me.
“Good. You’ll be taking me there tonight.”
I climb into the back of the car, the Secret Service hot on our tail, and I drum my fingers restlessly on my thigh—my blood simmering at the prospect of seeing her tonight, already envisioning the red hair and blue eyes of my woman as she greets her new president.
Charlotte
It’s a historic day.
Matthew Hamilton, the youngest president of the United States of America.
I’m amidst a crowd of hundreds of thousands gathered at the U.S. Capitol. I was sent a seated invitation, along with a plus-one. So I brought Kayla. I sit tightly in my seat. One where Matt will be so much closer than he will be to the crowd below.
They opened up the National Mall to the citizen spectators, something that had never been done until his father won—and now. The country is simply too invested in this outcome, too eager to celebrate him, to stay away.
A chorus of children have been singing “America the Beautiful,” and I sit on a bag of nerves, excitement, and feelings as the song ends and the U.S. Marine Band picks up with a wildly happy, patriotic tune.
Trumpets start blaring.
Through the speakers, we hear the presenter introduce the departing president, along with his wife and other members of our political engine. Claps erupt across the crowd as people file into place, taking their seats. And then, to the crowd’s mounting excitement, after a trail of high-profile names are announced, the presenter finally announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President-elect of the United States, MATTHEW HAMILTON!”
Okay, breathe.
BREATHE, CHARLOTTE!
But it feels like some invisible rope is wound tightly around my windpipe as Matt walks down a blue carpet to the platform, the people chanting at the top of their lungs: “HAMILTON! HAMILTON! HAMILTON!”
He’s greeting all the cabinet members as well as his mother, shaking their hands. His mother is seated to the left of the microphone, and after greeting the crowd with a huge smile and a sweep of his hand, Matt settles his big body next to hers.
I’m wringing my cold fingers, my eyes so starved for him they hurt.
He looks imposing in his seat as Vice-President-elect Louis Frederickson from New York takes his oath.
He looks just like I remember. His hair a little longer, maybe. His expression calm and sober. I watch him duck his head to listen to something his mother tells him—and a frown creases his forehead, but then a smile tips his lips and he nods.
Butterflies.
Mean, evil little butterflies are flapping in the very core of me.
I inhale and stare at my lap, at my reddened, freezing fingers.
It’s bone-chillingly cold outside, but when Matt is called up, and his baritone voice comes on suddenly over the microphone, it warms me like a bowl of my favorite soup. Like liquid fire in my veins. Like a blanket around my heart.
I lift my head. He’s standing on the platform. Calm and towering in a black gabardine and a perfect suit and red tie, his sable hair blowing in the wind, his expression somber as he places his hand on the Bible, the other hand raised.
“I, Matthew Hamilton, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” the presenter says.
My head spins.
Holy.
FUCK.
Matt is now president of the United States.
The cheers erupt like a wave crashing upon us. People stand. Everyone claps and revels in the euphoria, the country welcoming their new commander in chief.
My body jerks from the sound of the twenty-one guns exploding—one after the other.
Trumpets blare.
The crowd waves small U.S. flags side to side.
People are crying.
The music of the orchestra plays, louder and louder across the U.S. Capitol and National Mall.