"Not if it isn't your dream."
"It is my dream," I sigh. "I'm just stressed. I need a drink or something." I stand and walk to my dry bar and pour myself some Scotch.
I hear my mom stand and feel her walk towards me. She places a hand on my shoulder, and I look at her sideways.
"If this is your dream, I will help you achieve it. I will push you, pull you, put on events of every kind to get you to where you want to be. But if it isn't—" She shakes her head as I start to interrupt. "If this is your dad's dream or Nolan's dream or some crazy idea in your head that you have to do this, don't do it, honey. There's so much more to life than campaigns and legislature and politics."
"Is there? For a guy like me, is there?"
"Of course there is," she huffs. "There's happiness and vacations. There's falling in love with a lady, note I said lady, and having beautiful grandbabies that I can shop obsessively for." She winks, but I know she's not totally kidding. "You can have a tremendous life, Barrett, and not live in this world. And there's nothing wrong with that. I would be just as proud of you, and your father would deal. Trust me."
My mind starts to go down that path—of weddings and babies and strolls down tiki torch-lit paths, and I shake my head.
“What if I was already in love?” I ask, watching her for a reaction.
Her eyes light up and she places a hand on her hip. “That would make me very happy if it makes you happy.”
I can’t contain my grin, which makes hers grow wider.
“I’m not going to push. I’ll just say that Camilla has met her and told me she’s a delightful girl.” She looks me over from head to toe before laughing. “This explains a lot.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugs, a grin still tugging at her lips. “You’re rounding out, as a man. Thinking things through, considering ramifications for things on a broader scale than you would’ve before. It’s nice to see. Now if we can only get Lincoln there . . .”
I laugh and let her pull me in for a quick hug. "You're making me feel like a little kid."
She squeezes my cheek for effect. "You are my little kid. And that's why I'm here at," she glances at her watch, "eight o'clock in the evening."
"Have you had dinner?" I ask.
"No. Your father is working late tonight with Graham, so I'm on my own. I'll probably just heat up some leftovers from last night."
I glance at the pile of papers on my desk and the four hundred requests in my email. I look back at my mother. "Let's order in. Me and you."
"Really?" she asks, her eyes lighting up.
“Really, Mom. I’d love to have dinner with you.”
“I’d like that too.”
Barrett
The antique grandfather clock ticks, reminding me of every second that passes. It feels like a million seconds have ticked by since I made the deal with Monroe yesterday, but, in reality, it’s only been a little over twenty-four hours.
I've hated that walnut clock since I was a kid. My mother always said it was her prized possession, an heirloom from her own grandmother. She'd warn us not to toss balls or wrestle in the dining room because of that damn clock. There's a crack in the back of it that she doesn't know about thanks to Lincoln's handiwork.
"You listening to me, son?"
Dad nudges me in the arm and I snap back to the present. We've been going at this for hours. It feels like we're beating a dead horse. We go over every angle of the election frontwards and backwards, and every time, it winds up in the same spot: too close for comfort. On paper, I did the right thing by selling my soul to the devil himself. In reality, I feel less than stellar about it.
"Yeah, I'm listening, Dad."
"Good. So when Monroe endorses you, we'll watch the poll numbers. He should really clinch the north for you. They listen to that son of a bitch for whatever reason."
I nod, swishing the rest of my coffee in my mug. "It's going to be fine. I think it would've been fine anyway."
"I get doing what you need to do in order to win," Lincoln says, his eyes narrowed, "but I think this was a fuck-up."
"Linc, stay out of this," Dad warns.
"You push him and push him to do what you think is right. Has it ever occurred to you for one second that maybe he can make his own decisions?"
“He made the choice,” Graham says, looking at Lincoln across the table.
Lincoln laughs. “Him ‘making that decision’ would be like a coach telling me to swing at the first three pitches without letting me get up there and get a good look at it first. It’s asinine.”
“We don’t have time for baseball metaphors,” Graham says, rolling his eyes. “This had to be done. It’s not something we can explain to you in a matter of hours. This is not balls and strikes.”