Free The First Affair by Emma McLaughlin

weren’t. Then I thought of his mother making stuffing with Kathie Lee and Hoda. She seemed like someone who had picnics—I was surprised to hear otherwise. And in this tenuous space between us, it felt weirdly inappropriate for me to follow up.
    “Are you close to them?” he asked—because he could follow up.
    “Um . . . well, they’re coming for the Fourth, so . . .”
    “You didn’t answer the question, says the man who knows how not to answer a question.”
    I mustered a small laugh.
    “They’ll be proud of you, I’m sure,” he said gently.
    “I hope so. They haven’t visited me since freshman year, so . . . yeah.”
    “Back to this dog,” he swiftly offered, seemingly sensing my discomfort. “Sounds like a candidate for a watch list.”
    “Or to be unloaded on unsuspecting cousins,” I countered.
    “Ah, smart.”
    “See, impossible decision made.”
    “Yes, Afghanistan is just like that.”
    “That’s really why I brought it up.” Tumbling downhill in the rhythm of our banter, I fully flirted. “Aren’t you taking notes?”
    “I want to call you again.” My breath caught.
    “Okay,” I said into the dark.
    “I’ve laughed more in a few minutes with you than I have since the correspondents’ dinner. I want to think of you sleeping peacefully while I sit here and sort through this shit-mess.”
    “Then think of it,” I said, wanting peace for him, too. Not knowing how to say that without sounding ridiculous. Not wanting him to go. Afraid he’d want to call me again but never would. Afraid I hadn’t said enough—or too much—to get him to reach out.
    “Good night, Jamie.”
    “Good night, Greg.”
    It had begun.

Chapter Four
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    July 3
    I spent the next week or so hovering in this new idea of myself, like a downtrodden, oh, I don’t know, intern, who had just discovered her superhero alter ego but couldn’t tell anyone. I walked the streets in my new suit, looking like any other office drone, and the people I passed on the concrete had no idea I was the balm craved by the man in charge of it all. Eager for confirmation that I hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing, I bought an extension cord and slept with the phone by my head.
    I tried to focus on work, on submitting my résumé, on my parents’ pending visit and not letting ludicrous daydreams like being the next Carla Bruni creep in. I actually tuned in on myself having a heated debate about whether I would stick with American designers or dare to go foreign like Jackie.
    The Friday of my family’s arrival we were slammed. With the campaign at full throttle, everyone was trying to figure out how to compete with Partridge, who had nothing better to do than cross and recross swing states, eating corn dogs and telling factory workers who his leveraged buyouts had put out of business that he was the only man who could find them new jobs. Meanwhile, Rutland was hampered by this little country he had to run, so it was our department’s job to coordinate with the campaign to make his routine public appearances double as election opportunities. Of course July Fourth weekend was identified as the prime occasion to score patriotic points, and I think the DNC would have shot him out of a cannon if they thought he could stick the landing.
    Between the logistical details of essentially staging a giant pep rally on the grounds and all the President’s extra travel, the atmosphere in our office had the tension of a timed chess match. In the midst of this, Margaret’s secretary got a summer flu and I was pulled in to assist (read: hold binders and hand over Post-its) at a meeting among her; Abigail Stroud, the First Lady’s Chief of Staff; and Max Fishman, the head of the campaign to maximize—
    “Love.” Which, believe it or not, was the Secret Service’s code name for FLOTUS. “Susan needs to be on the ground every day from now until November sixth,” Max said insistently, bordering on angrily.
    Abigail, who was six