Page 70 of Married in Michigan
I gape, amazed. “What the hell did you do? I’ve spent hours trying to get it to look like this, and you did it in minutes.”
She just grins. “Magic, honey.” She winks, tweaking a curl here and there. “I’ll show you next time, assuming Paxton gives me more of a heads-up.” She says this with a glare in the mirror at Paxton, who is leaning against the doorframe, half watching and half scrolling on his phone.
Paxton just grins. “Too easy. You needed a challenge.”
Amanda blows a raspberry. “This is a touch-up. Your girl here is motherfuckin’ gorgeous, and all-natural. Now, asking me to get her ready for the Met Gala on this time frame, nowthatwould be a challenge.”
She’s in front of me, now, blocking my view of myself in the mirror as she works her wizardry with brushes and pencils and sponges, each movement as precise and intentional as a painter’s. Another few minutes, and Amanda steps away with a dramatic flourish.
I gasp. “Wow. I mean, just…holy shit!” I stare at myself in the mirror.
When I apply makeup to myself, I usually end up looking like me, just with makeup on, and obviously so. This is…art. It’s seamless, and subtle. Emphasizing some features and downplaying others—making my already prominent cheekbones look sharper and more dramatic, my somewhat hard, square jaw look softer, my eyes look wider, deeper, more pronounced. My skin glows, almost as if lit from within.
I meet her gaze, and it’s obvious she knows she’s a miracle worker. “Seriously. You have to show me how to do this.”
She laughs. “Oh hell no. If I did that, I’d be out of a job. It ain’t magic if you can do it yourself, honey.”
A few minutes later, Amanda is gone, with a hefty roll of cash tucked into her purse—I don’t know how much, and I don’t ask. Paxton spritzes a little more cologne on himself, tucks his dress shirt in, adds a black leather belt and a yellow tie to match my outfit, and then holds out his hand for me. To my own surprise, I take it and hold his hand on the way down to the garage. He opens the passenger door of the Porsche—this one is new, gleaming white with red leather interior. The engine purrs like a giant lion, and then snarls as we zip out of the garage and onto the street.
The top is up, because of my hair, but it’s still an exhilarating ride, even with the slog through rush hour traffic. We reach the restaurant, an upscale, hush-hush, reservations a year in advance sort of place. A valet takes the car; Paxton steps out, takes my hand, and walks with me to the front doors, spiriting me inside before anyone has a chance to see us.
He pauses before he goes in, however, glancing at me. “You ready for this?”
I laugh, a little breathlessly. “Not even a little.”
“You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”
His smile is dazzling, breathtaking, and somehow reassuring. His hand in mine is reassuring, and familiar. His huge, towering, sheltering presence beside me is…right.
It shouldn’t be this way.
I swallow hard, suck in a deep breath, hold it, let it out, and nod firmly. “Let’s go.”
16
The dinner date goes surprisingly smoothly. I discover I’m somewhat better at idle small talk than I thought I was—it turns out all you really need to do is smile and nod while the other person talks, make some sort of inane response, ask a leading question now and then, and so on in circles. Talk about clothing, exercising, movies—fortunately, my one pastime in my very limited free time has always been going to the movies. I save my change, stuff a bag of SkinnyPop in my purse, and go see movies. It’s my big splurge. So, I can talk movies all day long.
I know nothing of politics and care even less, but I discover over the course of the next few weeks as I accompany Paxton on more dinner dates and lunches and cocktail mixers, that most of the women I’m expected to mingle with know about as much, and care about as much, as I do. They’re perfectly content to talk about makeup and purses and which car their husband recently bought them, and their most recent jewelry acquisition. I do a lot of listening, because talking about things someone else bought me just seems stupid and shallow and vain and materialistic—and my penchant for listening more than I talk quickly gains me a reputation in Paxton’s circle of friends and acquaintances as being a good listener.
So, even better, I don’t even have to talk. Just listen, act like I care about what they’re saying, and I’m good. Don’t have to pretend like I know as much as them, or that I’m as cultured or educated. I keep my mouth shut and let them make their own assumptions.
Most of the events Paxton brings me to are fairly small, casual things. Dinners with a couple or two, meet some folks for drinks at a local bar and let the men talk politics and make backroom deals over high-priced whiskey while the women compare ten-thousand-dollar purses—lots of standing around in expensive heels, nursing the same glass of red wine for an hour, nodding until my neck is sore.
Drive home.
Hold hands with Paxton.
Think about the kiss.
Pretend I’m not attracted to him.
Pretend I don’t like him.
Pretend I’m not wondering what it would be like to sleep with him.
I want to—a lot. But I refuse. I can’t. If I sleep with him, I’ll start thinking this is real. I can’t sleep with him precisely because I’m starting to actually LIKE him. I stand at his side sipping wine and listening, and I discover that he’s very, very, very smart. He’s passionate about his job—his headline issues are gun control, climate change, homelessness, social equality, and education reform. Which, honestly, is unexpected. I suppose, as in so many other ways, I went into getting to know him with certain assumptions in my mind. That he was just a shallow, vain, arrogant, entitled brat.
He’s so much more. He’s not in politics for the power or the fame or the influence, and certainly not for the money. It’s clear he’s in it to make changes. Because he cares.