The List (26 page)

It was the end of spring, which meant Congress was constantly in session, the White
House was buzzing and Olivia was almost never in the office. She passed through our
building only for reporters’ meetings. When she came in, I tried to read her; but
as far as I could tell, I was invisible to her.

I had started writing some drafts of what I’d seen that night in Middleburg and the
other times I’d spotted Olivia and Stanton together, but I still couldn’t fit the
pieces of the puzzle together—and now I didn’t think I could without Sandro. I’d been
avoiding this for the last month—I didn’t want to further fuel my obsession. But it
was time for the cyber-stalk to begin. I entered his name into Google, took a deep
breath, and smacked the return key.

I found a mug shot, which luckily wasn’t his. I found a few genealogy trees and decided
he was definitely Mexican. And then, after a few days of searching and being thankful
to have a LexisNexis account and a telephone with a blocked number function, I saw
his name and picture on a committee website for the Organization of American States,
a group promoting security, democracy, and human rights with representatives from
each of the countries in the Americas. On the site, there was no bio, and there were
very few details, but it did disclose that Sandro’s next committee meeting was at
a Chinatown restaurant called Oyamel on May 30.

I typed the date into my phone and counted down the days.

I had been going to Chinatown with my family since I was old enough to walk. When
we were younger and the area had
not yet been gentrified, we used to eat at a restaurant called Jun Chen’s. It had
ducks hanging from the ceiling and smelled like spices and grease. When I was very
young and Payton already seemed quite old and was able to command the attention of
a whole room, I used to hide under the red and white checkered tablecloths and lean
against my father’s legs. Everything was different now. I had lived in New York, I
had Meryl Streep’s cell-phone number in my phone, and I had made it back home with
my liver intact. In the meantime, Jun Chen’s had been replaced by Ann Taylor Loft.

I walked past groups of teenagers shopping along the strip of chain stores and headed
to Seventh Street and Oyamel. The hostess told me that the OAS group was currently
meeting in the Butterfly Room and that she would be delighted to escort me there.
I said I was just going to the bar for a drink, not to worry, and headed alone to
the back corner of the restaurant.

I sat there for an hour and a half waiting for the meeting to end, watching people
eat and laugh with their significant others. An hour and a half at a bar by yourself
translates into becoming rather drunk and distracted. I filed a story sourced entirely
from Twitter about a country singer obsessed with Newt Gingrich. She even wrote a
song about his full head of hair. I called Elsa and apologized for being a ghost of
a friend. She told me she hated me, but was in Miami anyway and forgave my vanishing
act. I emailed my mother and suggested our family consume more raw fish. And I texted
Payton nothing but a smiley face and didn’t bother waiting for a reply.

I was on my third glass of wine and my second order of ceviche when Sandro finally
walked out of the restaurant’s private room with his OAS colleagues. He looked flawless.
Confident and handsome and happy and wearing a suit cut perfectly for his tall frame.
I wondered if there was a way I could casually steal
his jacket and keep it as a memento of our love. He said a few words to the two men
he was with, waved in my direction, and walked over to me.

“It’s you. From the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. It’s good to see you survived
the party,” he said.

“It’s nice to see you again,” I replied, trying not to froth at the mouth with sexual
energy. Upon closer inspection, his clothes were very classic, very Washington. Creased
beige pants, a white shirt tucked in, no tie, and the heavy linen sport jacket that
would soon be mine. He wore loafers and had a thin gold wedding band right where it
belonged.

“We also met at the skating rink,” I said, trying to jog his memory. “You were watching
your friend play hockey. You were heading to dinner.”

“I remember,” he said, smiling. “You looked very wintry, very pretty standing by the
rink.”

He did? He remembered! And he called me pretty. We were one step closer to engaged.

“Are you having dinner here?” I asked. What I really wanted to ask was “Do you know
that your wife is having an affair? With a man twice her age? No? Well she is. And
he’s a senator. But lucky for you, I’m available.” Instead I just looked at him and
smiled like a lovestruck idiot.

“No, no, just killing some time before I head home,” he said. “I was here for a meeting.”

After asking politely if he could join me, he motioned to the bartender to bring him
a beer and took the empty seat next to mine.

He took a long sip of Bohemia beer and let out a satisfied sigh. “I needed this,”
he said with a smile.

We talked about the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. We talked about his horrible
wife.

“Is she joining you?” I asked innocently. I looked into his handsome face and tried
not to lose my cool. He had more stubble than he had had at the dinner. He looked
a little tired and extremely sexy. I moved my arm past his and let his shirtsleeve
glide across my skin. It felt perfect.

“Oh, no, not Olivia,” he said, letting his arm linger next to mine. “She’s away for
work. She travels a lot. But, sorry, you must know that already.”

I nodded and explained that we all got the president’s and VP’s schedules emailed
to us. The article alerts on my BlackBerry had let me know that as the traveling White
House pool reporter, she was currently in Ulaanbaatar with the vice president.

“Yes, she does love that about her job,” he replied. “I like to travel, too, we just—or
I—just have different taste in traveling. I’m from Texas—”

“Are you?” I interrupted him. “I love Texas.” This was a lie. I had never been to
Texas and knew it only through
Friday Night Lights
reruns and stereotypes. But looking at Sandro, I decided I suddenly loved Texas.

“I’m from the southern part,” he explained, “and I’ve never become much of a city
person. But Olivia really wanted to move here. When the
Capitolist
launched, she became obsessed with getting a job there. She always wanted to come
work in Washington, ever since we met, but when the
Capitolist
came on the scene, she said it was the only place she would work. I guess she just
knew it would be a success; she has a sense about these things. She’s really taken
to living here, but I still can’t get into it. Cities tend to suffocate me a little.”

I nodded my head in agreement, though I had actually cried over how much I missed
New York at least three times since I’d come home.

“So, what do you do, besides reporting?” Sandro asked me, making easy small talk.
“Olivia doesn’t do anything but work, so if that’s your answer, too, that’s okay.”

I lust after you. I look at a video I took of you at White House Correspondents’ over
and over again on my computer. I pause it on your face and try to imagine what you’re
thinking. What life would be like with you. And then I chase your wife around with
a camera. I work on drafts of an eye-opening article starring your naked, cheating
spouse. And then I look at your face some more.

“I spend a lot of time with horses,” I replied.

“Do you?” he said with laid-back enthusiasm. “I miss animals. I wanted a dog up here,
but Olivia nixed that idea. Where do you ride horses?” He took a long sip of beer.

“I ride just outside Washington, in Middleburg, Virginia.” I watched his face for
any sign of recognition, any knowledge of my hometown and his wife’s affair there,
but his expression didn’t change. “It’s a beautiful spot,” I continued. “It’s like
living in the pages of a magazine. I always feel like I’m going to run into Slim Aarons
or some descendant of the Kennedys.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know Mr. Aarons,” said Sandro, putting down his nearly empty beer.

“It’s okay,” I replied. “He’s dead anyway.”

He laughed at his mistake. “Well, then I guess I’ll never get to know him.”

Timing my question between well-rehearsed bursts of laughter, I asked him if he worked
for the Organization of American States. When he seemed slightly taken aback, I mentioned
that there was a sign for the meeting at the front of the restaurant. This was of
course another lie. It was a restaurant, not a conference center, but he seemed to
believe me.

“I do work for OAS,” he said, still looking caught off guard.
“I’m actually from Mexico. I only came to the U.S. for school. With a lot of luck,
I ended up in College Station, Texas. Has Olivia mentioned she’s from Texas?” he asked.

“I think she has, yes,” I said, pretending that Olivia and I had an intimate friendship
full of chatter about our girlhood days.

“Olivia and I met down there, in college, and she wasn’t much of a city person then,
either. But that’s all changed now. She’s found her calling, and it requires a densely
populated area and several telephones. But,” he said, wiping his stubbly upper lip,
“that woman is amazing. Has been amazing me since day one. She can get anything done.
She really can. I just have to show her that doesn’t necessarily mean running around
chasing the president of the United States.”

He was wrong about that. Olivia Campo could not get it all done without chasing the
president—and the man many predicted would be the next president.

“She was incredible at A&M. We were very involved in school. Did a lot of international
stuff. She helped me navigate that huge place, and we got married during our senior
year. That was, let’s see . . . that was seven years ago.” He smiled like an old man
drinking to the memories of youth. “I still think it’s funny that she’s covering the
president,” he said. “She always wanted to cover Congress, especially the Senate,
but I guess the White House beat is the most prestigious, so she took it. I think
her heart is still on the Hill, though. She always said there’s far more personality
up there by Capitol South than on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

I looked up at his square jaw while he motioned for another round of drinks. “Please,
let me,” he said to the bartender, who added my fourth glass of wine to his tab.

After a long pause, he said, “I like your clothes,” looking at my short red sundress,
motorcycle boots, and long silk scarf.
“You don’t look like you’re trying hard to blend in. And why should you.” His biceps
moved while he spoke. His hair was thick, and I wondered if it felt soft to the touch
or just like wires held down by heavy products and gravity.

I wanted to lean over and put my hand on his arms, his legs, everywhere. Maybe it
was because my world had shrunk so drastically since I left New York, but I was conscious
that I had never been so naturally attracted to someone. Sandro was so uncalculated,
so easygoing and charming without knowing he was charming. It was nothing like the
lip you got in New York or the careful talk most men delivered here. It was refreshing
and I wanted his casual confidence around me all the time. Since I started working
at the
List,
most people I met were either pompous or guarded, throwing an “off the record” at
the end of every sentence. Hell, even my father said it over breakfast when he called
my mother “paranoid and high-strung.” But Sandro somehow seemed above all that.

“I like sitting here, talking to you,” he said after we were both quiet for a minute.
“Olivia is always traveling. I feel like I haven’t talked to someone in a while.”

In a rush of excitement from his compliment, I moved my leg and ran it slowly against
his.

He let it linger for a few seconds and then said, “I’m sorry. I must be in your way.”
He scooted his stool back, pretending not to notice my blatant come-on, but didn’t
move his leg off of mine for a few seconds more. God that felt good.

What was I doing? He was married. I was working on ruining his wife’s career. I couldn’t
act like a salivating tween. I moved my legs back under the stool and smiled coolly.

“No problem at all,” I said, cutting off his apology. “I like talking to you, too.
We should do it again.”

“Yes, we should,” he replied. He was polite but not overly
flirtatious. But then he leaned forward and ran his right hand through my hair. From
my hairline, all the way back, he let his fingers comb slowly through it.

“You had something there,” he said, smiling.

Oh my God. How embarrassing. I probably had an entire squid from my ceviche sitting
on my head during our whole conversation.

“I did?” I asked, feeling myself turn the color of a ripe tomato. This was clearly
punishment for sins in a past life.

He stepped down from the bar stool and left some money on the bar as a tip. “No. Not
really. I just felt like doing that. You have very nice hair.” While I pinched my
thigh to make sure I was alive and not in
The Matrix,
he put his hand on my shoulder like the night we met.

“It was very nice to run into you like this. For the third time,” he added with a
smile. “Are you staying? Or can I walk you to your car?”

My car. Oh God. Why had I driven my actual car here? Why hadn’t I used my monthly
salary to rent a Bentley for a few hours, or at least borrowed one of my parents’
much nicer cars? Maybe I could just stand next to a fancy parked car with Virginia
plates and pretend it was mine. Something built in the latter half of the past decade.
But Sandro seemed like the kind of man who tapped the roof after you got in and made
sure you made it off safely. I loved him despite his horrible wife; maybe he could
love me despite my ancient car?

We left Oyamel and headed down Seventh Street toward my clunker. My scalp, where Sandro
had run his hand through my hair, was tingling. I walked close to him. Though my boots
had a slight heel, he was still a few inches taller than me and I looked up at him
as he talked about his plans to visit his parents the next time Olivia was out of
town. I was about to recommend he
visit the Goodstone Inn with a large shotgun in hand instead, when we got to my embarrassing
car. It was parked right in front of a cute white Mini Cooper and I slowed down in
front of it, hoping Sandro would just give me a good-night French kiss, a little butt
grope, and run off. But instead, after I admitted to owning the oldest car in the
world, he took my keys, opened the door, helped me in, and didn’t mention one word
about it being built during the early days of Bush 43’s administration.