Page 6 of Revisions (By Design #17)

Chapter Four

Candace

Typically, being on the campaign trail energizes me. Today, I feel exhausted. Ryan was in my hotel room at five this morning to give me an updated threat assessment. No matter how many years I’ve spent in politics, I still struggle to understand why anyone believes violence is a viable solution to problems. I now have Luke and Ryan standing in front of me, warning me to exercise caution. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see Cassidy walk into a room.

“I’ve listened to everything you’ve said. I’ll agree to avoid interaction with the crowd outside the barriers. I’m not stepping off the platform to be herded like cattle into a car.”

“Madam President, please,” Luke says. “Be?—”

“Do not say reasonable,” I warn him, turning my attention to Ryan. “Ryan?”

“I understand, Ma’am. I’d prefer it if we added an extra layer of security close to the platform.”

“Go on,” I say.

“I know you prefer these events to be authentic—first come, best access. Given the presence today, I think it might be wise to know whom you’ll be shaking hands with,” Ryan says.

I groan. I could press this issue. The Secret Service’s job is difficult enough without me adding another layer of resistance or insistence. “Okay.”

Ryan nods, and Luke exhales.

“On one condition,” I say.

“Ma’am?” Ryan asks.

“You should have someone screen a few people at the front of the line—respectfully. Inquire if they are willing to undergo a more thorough screening. I want at least a few of those people to shake hands with both the congressman and me.”

“It won’t change the optics,” Luke says. “It might?—”

I hold up my hand. “Optics matter,” I conceded. “But not more than access. You are only thinking about the short term. I am making a long-term investment. People need to know and believe that they matter to their leaders. Do you know what it’s like to wait in line for hours to attend a rally?”

“Well—”

“Well? I remember,” I tell Luke. “Do you know what it’s like to get up early, stand in a line for hours to see someone you support, only to get seated at the back when people far behind you have access ?”

Luke is ready to pounce. Cassidy clears her throat from behind him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Cassidy says.

I smile.

“It sounds like an interesting conversation,” Cassidy says as she walks over to the sofa and sits beside me.

“Maybe you can talk some sense into the president,” Luke says.

“Sense?” Cassidy asks. She looks at Ryan. “What did I miss?”

“The American Brethren plan to protest at today’s rally,” Ryan explains.

“Mm. So I heard on the news,” Cassidy says. “And?”

“Given their role in the New York bombing,” Luke begins. Cassidy cuts him off.

“Members of the group were implicated,” Cassidy reminds him. “There are plenty of groups like ABL,” she offers, looking back at Ryan. “Do you have some reason to believe they’ll attack anyone?”

“Not specifically,” Ryan admits. “My greater concern is what their presence might spawn.”

Cassidy looks at me, and I shrug. She takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly.

“I’m not sure what I walked in on,” Cassidy admits. “There are still a couple of weeks in this election cycle. The president can’t hide in a corner.”

“No one is suggesting that,” Luke says.

“No?” Cassidy questions.

“Cassidy,” Luke says.

“You embolden these groups every time you change the president’s schedule. That’s a fact. If you think for a moment that there is any organization in government without leaks, you’re deluded. Our government is the leakiest ship in the world. No one knows that better than the president. I’ve never known her to be unreasonable,” Cassidy says, turning to me. “What did you propose?”

“Some adjustments,” I reply.

Ryan rolls his eyes but chuckles. “We’ll make it happen, President Reid.”

“Thank you, Ryan.

Luke groans.

“Something else you’d like to offer?” I ask him.

“I don’t enjoy pressing you,” he replies.

“Then know when you’ve lost the advantage and stop,” I say.

He nods, looks at Cassidy, sighs, and leaves the room.

“Busy morning?” Cassidy asks.

“I know they’re both doing their jobs.”

“Are you worried?”

I shrug. “No. No more than any day.”

“You look tired,” Cassidy observes.

“Tell you the truth?”

Cassidy nods.

“I’m considering cutting this trip short and heading back to Washington tonight.”

Cassidy isn’t surprised. There’s something special about finding a best friend. Cassidy would agree that the closest friendship we have outside of family and work is with each other. There are days when I wonder if I should have left Cass out of the administration. She was the best choice to stand before the press, but that isn’t why I asked her to be my press secretary. I needed someone nearby at work who sees Candace. Too many people dismiss Candace from the president as if we are separate individuals. There are aspects of President Reid’s work and public life that do not thrill Candy. But Candace Stratton Fletcher Reid is behind every decision the president makes. Cassidy understands that. She respects the authority of my position and trusts my professional judgment. When she looks at me, she sees me . That isn’t easy for most people.

The presidency is more than just a title or a job; it represents the American people and embodies a nation’s values and intentions. While the president is only a person, the presidency encompasses much more. This distinction can be challenging for many people close to my administration. It’s different for Cassidy. She lives in a surreal world, one that often seems as if it has been pulled from the pages of a novel. No novel, movie, or show could capture the surreal atmosphere surrounding the presidency. Fiction is held to the standard of plausibility. Reality is not.

“I realize this was a long flight for you,” I say.

“Don’t worry about me,” Cassidy says. “I was happy to escape, even if it was just for the day. It’s loud at home. Feel like telling me why you want to cut this trip short?”

“Truthfully?” I ask.

“I hope so.”

“I miss Jameson, Cass.”

Cassidy smiles.

“But I also know I need to be here,” I confess.

“Candace, I hate to state the obvious, but why don’t you have Jameson meet you here?”

“Because that requires planning,” I reply. “Everything requires a plan. I can think of a million reasons to return to DC. None would raise any eyebrows.”

“True.”

“It’s not about protests or boring congressional candidates.”

Cassidy giggles. She has spent enough time campaigning with her ex-husband to know that the company of some people who run for office can be as dull as watching paint dry. I’ve seen far more colorful paint than some of the people I’m set to travel with this week. They’re nice enough. Capable. I can’t help but wonder if they’re the best we have to offer. Two are former prosecutors, and one is a former mayor. On paper, they are highly qualified for the offices they seek. But they’re also largely out of touch with the people they serve. That’s the hardest part of living in the White House for me. Even when I was the governor, I saw everyday people—the ones who elected me. How can I serve their needs when I don’t interact with them? I’m frustrated. Jameson has always been able to bring me back to myself and center me.

“Denver Minor is boring,” Cassidy says.

We’re scheduled to campaign with Denver Minor in—wait for it—Denver tomorrow. It’s sad to admit I think that’s why the party pushed him to run. What a terrific campaign slogan! Denver is Denver. I’m not making that up.

“He’s capable,” I say.

“That’s a ringing endorsement,” Cassidy says lightly.

“Denver is Denver might grab attention, but we need better candidates in two years if I hope to get reelected.”

Cassidy sighs. She has never envisioned herself working in politics, but that doesn’t change the fact that she possesses a keen understanding of how politics works and what types of candidates can excite voters.

“You agree,” I say.

“You know, I agree. Finding candidates who are both capable and able to spark excitement is never easy. Discovering those who also share your values and vision? That will encounter resistance.”

Here’s a truth that politicians rarely acknowledge: they are perpetually campaigning. Once you reach this level, everyone is either sprinting to be close to you or fleeing as fast as they can from you. Finding people who share my values may not be as challenging as discovering those who align with my vision. I understand that, and so does Cassidy. I hesitate to resort to a clichéd chess metaphor, but the presidency resembles a massive strategy game. There aren’t many actions I initiate today that will bear fruit in my first term. The consequences of many, if not most, of my policies and decisions won’t be felt in earnest until I’m back living in Schoharie.

Achieving lasting change is not easy. Much of what I believe we should invest in, both at home and abroad, is exactly that: an investment. People want immediate solutions to their problems—and to the world’s. It isn’t that simple.

“Candace,” Cassidy calls out to me. “You need a team that understands your goals, and you need support from people who aren’t afraid to get in the mud with Lawson Klein on your behalf. The moment this election is over, the next cycle begins. We both know that. That’s why you’re missing JD.”

“It’s a big part of the reason,” I admit. “I’ve seen ugly, Cassidy. So have you. Klein’s people don’t have a bottom.”

“There’s something you aren’t saying.”

“Jess called me last night.”

Cassidy nods. Her ex-husband was a New York attorney turned congressman. She has known Jessica since before she met me. Cassidy was also one of the first people to offer her support when I came out as a lesbian. She was extremely popular in New York, and many believed she should have run for the seat her husband held.

“You asked Grant to come back, didn’t you?”

“I did. I thought that was the reason for her call. It turns out Jameson called her .”

Cassidy laughs.

“You’re not surprised,” I observe.

“No. JD knows you, Candace. I realize she isn’t overly fond of politics.”

I groan.

“She loves being part of your world,” Cassidy reminds me.

“I know.”

“She also knows Jessica. Jess isn’t afraid of a little mudslinging—or mud wrestling.”

I raise a brow at Cassidy.

“Stop,” Cassidy says, chuckling. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I suppose I do.”

“I realize you need to take the high ground.”

“We can’t afford to lose the next election, Cass. There’s too much at stake. The fact that anyone would consider Lawson as my opponent tells me more than I want to know. They aim to dismantle everything my administration has initiated. And I think we both know they won’t stop there.”

I feel a headache coming on. My differences with former opponents have always been apparent. Until the Republicans nominated Bradley Wolfe, I never worried about continuity—not when it came to foreign policy and essential services. Even Wolfe’s rhetoric and social policies troubled me. Bradley Wolfe has business interests across continents. I don’t like or agree with what he stands for, but he would not have been easily led to conclusions—not when dealing with foreign policy or the country's economic health. The legacy he envisioned for himself is monumentally different from my vision. Wolfe would not be easily manipulated—by people in his orbit or beyond. I suspect he would have sought to roll back civil rights, and his policies would have added to the economic strain on working-class families. He would have countered anything too extremist. Knowing that he removed Lawson Klein from his inner circle is all the proof I need to believe Wolfe would have remained closer to the center than many of his allies would have preferred. Klein won’t.

Lawson isn’t guided by logic—not even by a logic I find abhorrent. He’s driven by anger and a warped sense of entitlement. Worse, he doesn’t realize that he’s someone’s puppet. He believes he’s in control. Maintaining independence at this level of politics is no easy task. There are both direct and indirect “allies” with constant expectations. Unless you are clear—I mean with crystal transparency—that you will not be beholden to donors or advocates, you quickly find yourself at their beck and call. Whoever is behind Lawson Klein’s political ascension expects nothing less than his adherence to their goals. The amount of foreign money filtering to his cause is more than worrisome—it’s alarming.

“Candace?” Cassidy asks.

“I’ve seen this once,” I tell Cassidy. “When John was running for president. There was so much foreign money filtering into the campaigns?—”

“I know,” Cassidy says.

“They play a long game,” I say.

“The Republicans?”

“No. It isn’t partisan—not really. The people who want me out and Lawson in are the same people who wanted John Merrow removed from office to install Larry Strickland.”

“God, Strickland was slimy.”

I laugh. “John never wanted him as a running mate. He compromised for money. Choosing Larry brought his campaign a much-needed surge of funds. God only knows what would have happened if Don hadn’t won the primaries. A full term with Lawrence Strickland as president? I don’t want to imagine the damage.”

“I get it.”

“The truth is, Cassidy, I was fortunate to be elected. Don’t say anything. Wolfe wasn’t the best candidate—he lacked political instincts. He was too dry, frankly. And, like it or not, politics is like a wrestling match. People are drawn in by colorful personalities. Most of the time, there isn’t a hero and a villain; it’s the donkey versus the elephant. Klein will turn it into a blood sport. I know he will portray me as the devil, and there will be no line too far to cross.”

“It seems like it would be easier sometimes, doesn’t it?” Cassidy asks. “Being the villain.”

“You have no idea how many times I’ve envied him. Not for who he is, but for how who he is becomes permission for his behavior. I’d love to retaliate,” I admit. “With a string of colorful expletives.”

Cassidy laughs. “I know you’re reluctant to let Jess use her oppositional research on Klein.”

“It’s a slippery slope. There’s a risk to everything.”

“True. Jessica Stearns is the best at what she does, Candace. You know that. She understands the court of public opinion better than almost anyone I know. She knows how to mold a jury. You can’t keep her at bay. You need her. And we both know she will do anything for you.”

I nod.

“She doesn’t need your protection,” Cassidy says.

“No. But she deserves my caution. People haven’t been fair to Jess. Their loyalty to me blinded them. Don’t misunderstand me. It hurt. Knowing she was cheating on me hurt — confronting it day after day in the press was brutal. Maybe, on some level, she wanted to hurt me. Deep down, I think she just wanted me to pay attention.”

Cassidy grasps my hand. “I see the ghosts in your eyes,” she says. “You’re worried about JD and the kids—about what all the ugliness will bring. You need to let people fight for you once in a while, not just with you. And as much as you might want to fly home and curl up with JD, I think you need to be here —boring candidates and all. You’ll see her tomorrow.”

Cassidy is right. I’m about to reply when Luke enters the room again. He’s flushed.

“I don’t want to know,” I tell Luke.

“You’re not going to the rally.”

“Luke.”

“Candace, you can’t go because it’s been postponed.”

“Why?” I ask.

Luke huffs. “Do you want me to tell you, or should I turn on the television?”

I sigh. “Put it on.”

“Jesus,” Cassidy mutters.

The first image that greets us is a young teenager with a bloody face; behind her, a police officer in riot gear is on the ground.

“How did this happen?” I ask Luke.

“I don’t know all the details,” he replies. Todd and Ryan are working on it. “Initial reports suggest it started with a pushing match between one of the ABL members and a counter-protestor. It spilled over to some rallygoers who were lining up.”

“Why on earth would that protest that close to the event line?” I demand.

“I don’t know,” Luke says. “I promise I will find out.”

Ryan walks in, sporting a grimace.

“Ryan?” I ask.

“Madam President.” Ryan takes a deep breath.

“Just tell me,” I say.

“A twelve-year-old girl is on her way to the hospital,” Ryan tells me.

I wait.

“Agent Standish believes she was shit with a projectile. There were no firearms at play. We won’t know anything until she’s treated.”

“How serious?” I ask.

“It went into her shoulder. It’s not life-threatening,” Ryan replies.

“But?”

“There are six more people who require medical intervention. Two protestors, a counter-protester, and three rallygoers.”

I need to take a few deep breaths before I respond. “Ryan,” I begin calmly. “I want to know everything there is to know about the security plans for that event. Everything . I want you to call Alex. Now.”

“Madam President?”

“Call Alex.”

“Shouldn’t I call Director Brennan?”

“Alex, Ryan. I’ll deal with the director.”

“Ma’am.”

I look at Luke. “Get me the director on the phone.”

“Madam President.”

“Stop it,” I say. “I don’t need to be reminded of my title.”

I hear Cassidy snigger despite the situation. I’m furious. They should know by now to follow my instructions and stop addressing me like a toddler. I often wonder if male presidents suffer the same preemptive scolding when they give an order.

“I’ll get the Director Brennan on the line,” Luke says. “The Secret Service doesn’t handle permits.”

Is he trying to piss me off?

I steady my voice. “Luke.” Another deep breath. “I’m aware of how permitting for events works. I’m also well-versed in how the Secret Service works with local law enforcement. I don’t need a picture or a lesson.”

“I didn’t?—”

“Don’t,” I warn him. “ You were here advocating for why I should reconsider attending this event. Is there something you haven't told me?”

“What? No.”

“No? Because this debacle doesn’t instill confidence in the Secret Service’s ability to secure an event,” I say.

“I’m sure the arena was secure.”

My voice raises. “The arena?”

“You would not have traveled this route?—”

I feel Cassidy tense beside me.

“Earlier today, I reflected on how selecting you as my chief of staff was one of my best decisions. Please don’t make me second-guess that.”

“I’m only saying?—”

“I know where this is heading. The entire event should be secure—not just for my safety—not only for a candidate’s safety. If it’s unsafe for anyone, it poses a danger to everyone. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Luke says.

“Get me the director.”

Luke nods, exhales, and jogs out of the room.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Candace?”

“This didn’t happen without a little nudge, Cassidy. We both know it.”

“I agree.”

Since the bombing in New York a few months ago, my National Security team suspects there is an issue within the Secret Service- someone willing to compromise my security. No one can convince me that a known hate group got close enough to an event where I am set to speak without someone allowing it. It wasn’t an oversight. And it wasn’t negligence. It was deliberate. No question.

“What are you thinking?” Cassidy asks me.

“I’m betting my appearances for the weekend will be canceled.”

“Safe bet. What are you thinking?”

“We need a plan to get back out here,” I tell Cassidy. “And I’m about to give Ryan and Luke a migraine.”

Cassidy laughs. “Let me guess. You want to meet the girl who was hurt.”

“Good guess. I doubt that will happen this weekend. I need to ask you to do something a bit unorthodox.”

“Is that new?”

I chuckle. “Fair. Would you call Tom Brigg’s campaign manager?”

Cassidy smiles. “On it. Do you mind if I step into the bedroom?”

“Nope. I doubt I’ll see it any time soon,” I reply just as Luke appears in the doorway.

“Director Brennan is expecting your call,” Luke says.

“Thank you. Give me the room for a few moments.”

Luke nods and closes the door. Can’t anything go according to plan?

I’m relieved when I have a minute to call Jameson. “Hi.”

“Rough day, huh,” Jameson says.

“Not the worst. Certainly not the best.”

“Any more information?”

“We have people on the ground assessing what happened. The advance team should have nixed those permits. There’s no way the ABL should have been that close to the arena. Things happen, Jameson. I know that. This was preventable.”

“Is it going to fall on you?”

“No. Not this time. The blowback seems to be directed at local law enforcement. That doesn’t mean it should be directed at them, at least not solely,” I reply.

“Are you worried about being out there?”

“No. This wasn’t an accident, though. I have my suspicions. I’ll wait for the team’s assessment to make a final judgment.”

“Suspicions?” Jameson asks.

“This wasn’t about me —not in a physical sense. It is about this election—and the next one. Too many things in this circumstance don’t add up for me. There is something I need to ask you.”

“What do you need?”

“Cassidy and Luke have been working with Tom Briggs’s team all afternoon. The rally will be rescheduled for Thursday. I’d hoped you would join me.”

“I’ll have Master Jinx check my schedule,” Jameson teases me.

I chuckle. Jameson has started bringing Jinx into her office a few days a week, so he won’t be lonely. He seems to rule the East Wing these days. I’m still unsure who gave Jinx a lift to the West Wing last week. He spent two hours sleeping under my desk in the Oval Office. I could lie and say it annoyed me. It felt like a touch of much-needed normalcy in an otherwise hectic and sometimes surreal existence.

“Thank you for consulting Jinx.”

Jameson laughs. “So, you’re headed home tomorrow?

“It looks that way,” I reply. “Jameson?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Reaching out to Jess.”

“You’re welcome,” Jameson says. “Are you okay?”

“I’m frustrated by what happened today,” I confess. It’s not much of a confession. Anyone who knows me could guess the day’s events would trouble and frustrate me.

“How’s the girl who got injured?”

“Home. That’s part of the reason I want you to make the trip with me.”

“Oh?”

“It seems Ava Porter wants to be an architect,” I explain. “Her mother told me she’s developed a fascination with the First Lady.”

Jameson chuckles.

“I think Ava hoped you might make an appearance at today’s event,” I tell Jameson.

“Should I bring some of my plans?”

“I think she might prefer to show you hers.”

“Maybe Mel or Jonah should come to conduct an interview,” Jameson quips.

“Actually, that might not be a bad idea.”

“You want Mel to hire a twelve-year-old? Candace, I thought you supported child labor laws.”

I laugh. “Lunatic.”

“Me? You’re the one who suggested hiring a pre-teen.”

“Maybe we should consider having Ava visit DC,” Candace said. “Mel could show her around the office, and you could show her around the White House.”

Jameson chuckles, and then she sighs. “It isn’t your fault she got hurt.”

“I know”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” I reply. “She’s a kid, Jameson—a kid who was excited to attend a political rally for one of the driest people in public life I’ve ever met.”

I hear Jameson snigger. She’s met Tomm Briggs.

“It doesn’t matter what excited her about attending. She asked her mother to bring her. Maybe your absence would have been a disappointment, but?—”

“Candace.”

“I’m serious. She was excited enough to take time out on a Saturday, willing to wait in line for a few hours to go to that rally. She left with a lasting memory—a traumatic one. I don’t want her lifelong impression of political involvement to be traumatic.”

“I love you.”

“What?”

“What do you mean—what?” Jameson returns. “I think it’s great idea. Maybe you should expand it a little.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there might not be a lot of twelve-year-olds fascinated by me . I’m sure some are interested in architecture.”

“Go on.”

“Why not have a small group of kids in that age range visit the White House? I can take them on a tour and explain the building from an architectural standpoint—maybe I can help them sketch a plan. If you just have Ava visit, it will look like you’re capitalizing on her misfortune. We could even have the kids stay for dinner with their parents—something informal like a pizza party,” Jameson suggests.

Jameson will tell anyone who cares to listen that politics have never interested her—not beyond her duties in the voting booth. She possesses some of the best political instincts I’ve ever encountered. It reminds me that there is a deep well of untapped political talent that we seldom seek to tap. She’s insightful. I always say politics is about people. Jameson is outgoing but doesn’t enjoy being on stage; she prefers to observe what’s happening around her. I couldn’t have chosen a better partner for this journey into the White House. It’s funny. She’d much rather be tinkering on a project in the old barn back in Schoharie than attending State Dinners or making public speeches. She has a unique way of bringing politics home . Her idea is brilliant. It’s heartfelt.

“Bad idea?” Jameson asks.

“No. I think it’s a brilliant idea. I’m wondering why you don’t run for office—or run my next campaign.”

“No thanks.”

“I’m serious,” I say.

“No, you aren’t,” she returns. “But you are sincere. No way. I am more than happy to play tour guide for an afternoon.”

“And get pizza as a reward.”

“It’s a bonus. Can we partner with Rossi’s?” Jameson asks.

I giggle at the whimsical tone in Jameson’s voice. Rossi’s is a popular Italian restaurant near our townhome in Arlington. One thing I know frustrates Jameson is the act of Congress required to order a pizza at the White House. Everything must be planned, checked, and approved. Scheduling a pizza party gives her an excuse to order her favorite food.

“Come on, Candace. It’ll be great! You can tout your support of small business at the same time!”

That does it; I burst out laughing.

“Why is that funny?” Jameson asks.

“You really are a lunatic, honey.”

“Maybe I’m just hungry.”

This is why I love Jameson so much. She is authentic to her core. No one has made me laugh as earnestly or as often as Jameson. It’s been a stressful day. She knows this without me uttering a word, and she also knows how to replace the strain with humor—if only for a few moments.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“No thanks necessary. Rossi’s will do.”

I chuckle. “Tell you a secret?”

“Is it classified?”

“Not this one. I’m glad I’ll be home early,” I confess. “Maybe I can make lasagna.”

“Maybe you should just come home and let me and Coop handle dinner.”

“You mean I should let you call the kitchen.”

“No. We can cook for you,” Jameson says. “Scared?”

I’m not scared at all. I know what will happen: either I will be served mac and cheese and hot dogs, or Pearl will rescue them with lasagna or a casserole. I’m confident Jameson could master the kitchen beyond designing or building one. She prefers to fix the sink, install the cabinets, or create a new table and let me handle the baking and cooking. I don’t mind. It’s one thing I miss about being home. I appreciate the fact that my family wants me to take time off. Cooking doesn’t feel like work for me. It gives me a sense of being at home .

“I appreciate the offer. Let me handle dinner tomorrow,” I request.

“Far be it from me to turn down lasagna. Sundaes and Monopoly after dinner?”

“Hoping to send me to the cleaners again?” I ask.

“Well, you were a lawyer. You should’ve posted bail.”

The last time we spent an evening playing Monopoly, I was sent to jail every other turn. Cooper ended up owning almost every property and bankrupting both Jameson and me in record time.

“Maybe we should skip Monopoly and head to a galaxy far, far away with our sundaes.”

“Oh, I get it. You want to be the president who reaches Mars.”

“Well, it might be a nice vacation spot.”

“Mm. You need money for that, Candace. I think you should practice your economic policy first.”

I laugh. “We’ll negotiate over dinner,” I promise. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here. Candace?”

“Yes?”

“Just remember one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Every election is about economics .”

“Goodnight, Jameson.”

“Economics, Candace.”

I shake my head and chuckle. I’ve barely disconnected the call when my phone rings. “Yes?” I ask.

“I love you,” Jameson says.

I close my eyes. “I love you, too.”

“What if I promise to slip you a Get out of Jail free card?”

I laugh. “Goodnight, Jameson.”