Page 24

“I’ve always been full of surprises. Maybe you just didn’t notice.”

Apparently, something else I didn’t notice today was that kiss coming at me in the parking lot until it was already over. Fitz managed to sneak it in between the space of our breaths and the beat of my heart, which hasn’t fully come down since his lips left mine.

Trying to be as discreet as I can, I drag the pads of my fingers along the rim of my mouth as if I might still find traces of him there. I’m shocked by how strongly I need to reminisce about a moment that only just happened.

I jump when my phone vibrates, but I ignore the unknown number, which means I just sent my mother to voicemail. She can go there and proceed straight to hell.

There’s a low ring, and COACH flashes on the screen of Fitz’s car.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak a peek, taking in the boldness of Fitz’s jaw, the stubble that buries the treasures that are the cleft in his chin and the dimple carved in only his right cheek. I wonder if the world has noticed, and I find myself hoping it hasn’t, letting them remain my small secrets of Fitz to keep.

My gaze falls to my ring.

But I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to share. Not when I’m about to be his wife.

For a second, as we drive down the highway with the windows and sunroof open on a warm Spring day, I allow myself to be just that. I let Fitz take my hand back and rest it on his thigh. I don’t try to pull away when his thumb sweeps over the back of my hand. All I do is pray he doesn’t realize that the smallest touch makes the rest of my body bloom with goosebumps.

My phone goes off again , I press down on the side button to stop the vibration. I won’t let her ruin this moment.

When I feel…happy.

I know she’s in a tizzy for many reasons. One being that we threw her off schedule, and the other being that, for just a few minutes, we stole the spotlight. Or at least, Fitz did. Clearly, the only person students cared about visiting their school today was him.

“She’s fuming.”

Fitz shakes his head. “Isn’t this the kind of stuff she wants ?”

“If she were smarter,” I begin, “she would’ve kicked off her heels and gone long to catch a pass. People loved to see Obama playing basketball. That would’ve helped separate the human from the politician a bit more.”

After all, how could you not stop and smile over an adult taking time out of their day to mess around with kids? Up until now, I’ve seen the glitz of Fitz’s reputation at the gala, and a sliver of the gritty side of his career when he comes home from a tough workout. But now—after watching those kids look at him with nothing but wonder in their eyes—I’ve seen the heart of it too.

“But no,” I continue. “If I were doing this the way they wanted me to, I’d be following Congressman Cam around. Somehow, I doubt he’d get down and dirty with a bunch of kids.”

“Definitely not. I mean, the guy rowed .” Fitz scoffs. “Total pansy.”

I’m tossed back to high school, where I have images of Cam and his crew friends walking around in their unitards before heading down to the boathouse that flanks the river after classes ended. I shake the vision from my mind, but that becomes more difficult when I catch sight of the sign for where Fitz is heading.

Manhasset .

Immediately, I straighten in my seat. “Where are we?—”

“Chowder sounds about right. And a few dozen oysters.”

Clam chowder sounds good, sure. But what it doesn’t sound is louder than my heartbeat now thumping in my ears.

I wish I could banish Manhasset’s tranquil scenery from my mind—along with the final memories of my hometown—but that would be impossible. Some things are too beautiful to forget, no matter how haunting they might be.

“How mad would your mom be if we had a beer when it’s not even two in the afternoon?”

Turning away from the window, I find Fitz staring at the rearview mirror and peek over my shoulder, finding the black SUV. Of course our babysitters are in tow. But I don’t have space in my head to give them. All my thoughts are focused on what’s ahead of us, which I’ve kept behind me for so, so long.

I return my gaze to the front of the car.

“Let’s find out.”

* * *

Fitz points at the table, swallowing down the rest of his food. “You can’t beat this.”

I’m scraping down the sides of the cup of clam chowder, and regret not following Fitz’s lead and ordering a bowl of it. I pick up one of the three dozen oysters he ordered and slide it into my mouth. Fitz favors the grilled, which I get, they’re fantastic. But I prefer the fresh with a squeeze of lemon and a hefty dollop of Tabasco.

Wiping my chin with a napkin, I pick up my glass of wine. The crisp chardonnay and food have done wonders to calm my nerves.

“You definitely can’t,” I tell him. “But I’m sure you can get close to this in Boston.”

Fitz lifts his shoulder in a half shrug and points at the water. “No place like home though.”

I put my glass down, bringing my shoulders—already covered in Fitz’s blazer—up to my ears.

“You cold? Should we finish up inside?”

I shake my head. It is a little chilly for the end of May since it’s so cloudy, but the reason I snuggle down isn’t to get warmer. I’m drawn to the scent that laces the jacket Fitz draped over me when we sat down an hour ago. Even though he’s sitting across from me, between his taste lingering on my lips—which I swear, cuts through even the wine and seafood—and his smell rising from his jacket, Fitz feels impossibly close.

And somehow, not close enough.

“I thought about buying this place one time,” Fitz says. “Jim and Peggy were looking for a partner, but seems things turned around.”

The Landing is as much a landmark in Manhasset as Captain’s Cottage. The deck wood has grown more worn in the time I’ve been away, from the sea, the weather, or a little bit of both. I sit and take it in, realizing I’m happy in this restaurant Honey used to take me and Madeline to once a week. We’d sit at the bar, eating oysters, crab legs, and hot, crisp french fries while she had a martini.

“Honey used to take me and Madeline down here every Tuesday when my parents were in DC.”

Fitz finishes the last of the grilled oysters. “Guess I picked the right day to take you then.”

I’d call it a happy coincidence, but I let him have this one.

He tips his head to the side for a beat. “What would she think of all this?”

“Of us?” I laugh, not daring to tell him how Honey used to tease that Fitz and I would marry one day. “Oh, she’d love it. She’d tell me to take my mother to the bank.” I twirl the stem of my glass for a minute before bringing it to my lips.

We both lean back when the waiter comes to remove the now-empty plates.

Fitz thanks him before addressing me. “I mean… I can’t really remember Honey hating your mother, but I guess I never really had a reason to see them go toe-to-toe.”

“Hate is an understatement,” I say.

“But she loved you. A lot,” Fitz tells me before dropping his voice to whisper. “Probably more than Madeline.”

I laugh because this is true. Honey loved us differently and loved me more.

“There’s something different in you, honey.” I’d curl up against her on the couch in the salon as she listened to Frank Sinatra. “You don’t belong in this family. Just like me. But you should be better than me. Do something with your life.”

“She probably was onto something though,” Fitz says, pulling me from the memory. “About your mom.”

“You think?” I ask sarcastically.

It’s only now, after stepping away from the family and returning, that I understand it. Honey, in some ways, was jealous of my mother, who quickly became an important part of my father’s political career. Mom wasn’t the kind of congressman’s wife who made appearances only during campaign events, like I’m doing now. She was the wife who pounded the pavement, who shook hands with my father’s constituents, who knew his district better than he did. She carried all his campaigns. She still does. Honey never had that chance with my grandfather, and the truth is, in another place and time, I’d admire my mother’s work ethic and commitment if she wasn’t such a ruthless, evil bitch.

But a work ethic and determination do not a mother make. What makes a mom is someone who is around, who tries to understand you, who lets you be yourself. My grandmother might’ve been outlandish and often inappropriate. But she was what my mother wasn’t—genuine and loving despite it all.

“When Honey died, it’s not that I just felt like I had no one,” I begin softly. “It’s that no one cared I felt that way.”

“Enough sulking.”

“She was old. You need to get over it.”

But as I tried to get over it, I got stuck in the quicksand of trying to get through it on my own. And then, as my parents normally do, they expected me to somehow pick myself up by my bootstraps and behave like an adult when I was still a kid. A very hurting kid.

“I know I didn’t handle it well. I just didn’t really know any other way.”

Across from me, Fitz’s eyes soften.

“What’s with that face?” I ask.

“I’m just really sorry,” he says quietly. “I feel like I abandoned you.”

I shake my head. Was I hurt at the time? Of course. Does it still sting remembering how devastating it was to lose not one of the most important people in my life but both ? Of course. But that was so long ago. And who we are now couldn’t be further from who we were then.

“We were kids, Fitz. I wasn’t your responsibility. But I liked seeing you that way today.”

“Like what?” he asks.

“Looking out for others.” I smile softly. “I bet you made a lot of core memories for those students. It’s nice to see how much of a role model you are.”

Fitz flinches awkwardly. “I’m not much of a role model. I?—”

He’s interrupted by his phone, which he silences. It’s Mr. Foller.

“Answer it,” I tell him.

Fitz slides his phone into his pocket. “No, he doesn’t matter as much as you.”

For a second, right on the dock, the world stops. It must be my brain taking a snapshot. Fitz has given me a core memory too, one I’ll want to hold onto when I’m on my own again.

I look down at my lap.

“What’s wrong?” Fitz asks.

I let out a trembling breath. “I just don’t think anyone’s ever said that before”—I lift my eyes to his before I finish my thought—“about me.”

“Said what about you?”

“That I matter.”

The admission, I realize, sours the mood. It scratches the surface of the truth that I’m too shattered, too embarrassed to ever even speak out loud. That I only matter to people when I serve a purpose to them, when I fit their mold. It’s sad. It’s exhausting. Conditional love is like strangulation you want terribly to break out of but can’t because something has to be better than nothing. Someone, no matter how they treat you, has to be better than no one. But I know now that’s not true. Because if people only love you at your best, they don’t really love you at all.

Tilting my head forward, I let my hair curtain my face so I can clear the tears that have gathered.

“You matter to me,” Fitz whispers. “You always have.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Hey.” Fitz’s warm, thick finger tips my face up. “Can I remind you where you always mattered?”