Page 25

“They put up a gate?” I ask as Fitz slows, pulling over to the side of the road. “A wall ?”

“Looks like it.” Fitz turns off the engine. “My mom sold her place not long after I left for college.”

My mouth falls into a pout. There was so much charm to the front of the house, to the quaint yard lined with shrubs. It was a joy to just drive past. With this cinderblock border, it’s unapproachable.

Unrelatable , I think to myself. I guess it’s more Montgomery now than ever.

I open the car door and walk up to the iron gate, peeking through. The pebbles of the driveway are gone. The dark pavement flows seamlessly into the street the driveway intersects. From what I can see, flower boxes no longer flank the front windows. But this view isn’t enough.

Eyeing the gate, I sidestep, reaching out to touch the concrete wall that stands higher than me. Fitz sighs. He probably knows where this is going.

That’s confirmed when he comes behind me, gripping my waist.

“Ready?” His breath tickles my ear. For a second, I matter more than enough. Because even though he’s got a firm hold on me, there’s a delicate lace to his touch, to the way he stands around me. Maybe I don’t need to see the house. After all, I’ll never have it. In my mind, I’ve already given it up.

“Parker?”

But I’m no chicken.

I nod and Fitz lifts me so I can grab the top of the wall. This one is easier than the fence at school. But maybe that’s because Fitz doesn’t stop supporting me until I’m sitting on the top.

I hold out a hand for him.

“I’ll pull you over if I grab onto you. Just give me a second.”

“Aren’t you a professional athlete?”

“Do you know how much climbing is involved in football? Zippo.”

“Ma’am.”

My eyes sweep from Fitz, who now hangs from the wall, to the SUV, where Agent Samuels. “This is private property.”

“Call the police then,” I say as if I care before turning my attention back to Fitz. In another time and another place, he might mumble my name under his breath, a quiet, boy scout’s warning to not challenge authority. But now? He surprises me again. I don’t have to tell Fitz Let’s go because he’s already on his way up. When he reaches the top, I drop down.

And the moment my feet touch the ground, regret inches up my body as if poison was planted in the soil I’ve now rooted myself on.

With the house in full view, I can’t help but choke over the urge to flee.

From the house.

From my family.

“Come on.” Fitz lands beside me.

From the relationship I drew up.

There’s a mischievous look on his face, one I haven’t seen in a long time, not since we were young before Honey died, before he drifted away—before everything went to shit. The wave of nostalgia he carries is soothing to my burning throat that stings from the scream it holds. It’s calming to my heart that’s sounding the alarm through my veins no one else hears.

“Kind of looks the same,” Fitz says.

Apart from the now-paved driveway and the missing window decor, the outside of the house is the same—still gray shingled with white trim and somewhat uneven stone steps that should lead up to the iconic robin’s-egg blue door.

But now that door is red.

I stuff my still-fidgety hands into the pocket of my navy slacks. As we round the house, I catch sight of the dock and the water and the tree that used to hold the weight of our clubhouse as kids, which my mother promptly had disassembled when my parents inherited the house.

“Enough with that eyesore,” she said the day I came home, finding workers tearing it down.

I grow dizzy at the memory and fling my hand out of my pocket to grab onto the railing that lines the path leading to the steps up to the back porch. And while the driveway has lost its pebbles, the path hasn’t. I’m wearing a pair of camel-colored flats, but the moment I step on the path, I might as well be barefoot, just as I was that night when I flung myself from the grasp of the man who carried me kicking and screaming, begging and pleading.

I ran then. And now? I run too.

Fitz jogs after me. “Where are you going?”

“I came, I saw. I’m leaving,” I spit out as I prepare to heave myself over the wall.

Lifting my hand, I go to grab the top but am stopped. And though I’m aware it’s Fitz who places his hands on my arm, the gentle touch is still too much. I rip my arm from his grasp.

The wound of my rejection mixed with confusion is written all over his face. “Parker?—”

“I’m allowed to change my mind. I want to leave.” My words are rushed, evicted from my mouth by pants.

I look away from Fitz because his hurt is an added piece to this puzzle, one that doesn’t fit, one I can’t make fit. That’s because I don’t fit here. Not anymore. I probably never did.

He comes into view slowly, and I don’t know if it’s because we’re face-to-face, but breath by breath—mine and his—I find myself a little more grounded, a little less overwhelmed when I have him to focus on. And yet, it’s still not enough.

“I…” I hang my head, grabbing his hand and placing it to my chest. “Please, I can’t breathe. Please,” I cry. “Please, take me home. I need to go home.”

I don’t blame Fitz for not understanding my sharp turnaround. But he does what he said he’d always do. He believes me.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

“Let me get up first and help you.”

And that’s what Fitz does. From the top of the wall, he give me his hand, a gentle lift.

But I climb over the wall myself.

* * *

I pick up a saturated cotton pad, bringing it to my eyes to melt what I haven’t cried off of my mascara.

“You already checked.”

The only times I’ve left my room since we returned to Boston late this afternoon was to check the door after I heard Fitz go upstairs a little after ten. Before I heard the padding of his feet on the stairs, he left another gentle knock. There had been many over the few hours we had been home, along with several questions asked through the shut door.

Was I okay.

Did I feel like eating.

I just feel… nothing beyond shame and stupidity.

I’m ashamed that I thought I could rewrite the narrative by taking control of it. Because what does exposing my parents, and bringing an end to the reign of the Montgomerys in America’s government, get me ? I’ll probably still be trying to convince myself I don’t need to check the door again. It will just be a different door, a different lock.

I eye the shower where Fitz’s shampoo sits on the shelf.

What does any of this get Fitz?

It’s only now I selfishly realize the impact it might have on him.

I press my hands into the marble, leaning all my weight into them, hoping it might distract them enough. But that’s the thing—it’s not my hands that are the issue. It’s my head. And the feelings are so intense that I can’t think of anything else but making sure the door is locked.

“Screw it.” I flee from the bathroom, slipping the lip of the secondary lock so I can open the one on the handle of my bedroom door.

“I thought you went to bed.”

I jump, pressing my hand to my chest.

Fitz stands from where he sits on the floor between the couch and coffee table. “Did I wake you?”

I take a calming breath. “No, I… I just wanted some water.” I decide to lie, walking into the kitchen and filling a glass that I down in one swallow.

For a second, I contemplate refilling it and bringing it to my room but decide I might need a reason to leave it again in an hour. Or another three minutes.

Abandoning the glass in the sink, I open the cabinet, taking a handful of yellow Starburst, even though I’ll have to brush my teeth again.

I walk back out to the living room. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? Don’t you have an early workout?”

“Can’t sleep,” Fitz mumbles.

Now, I don’t feel like just an idiot. I feel like a guilty idiot.

I sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

I hold out my arms and let them fall to my side. “I’m probably the thing that’s keeping you up.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Fitz gives me a soft smile before slinking back to the floor.

I’m thankful that the only light on in the apartment is the lamp sitting on the side table at the far end of the couch, so the warmth of my cheeks isn’t so highlighted.

And that’s when I remember…

“You kissed me before.”

“That’s what engaged couples do,” he says, picking up something small before finally turning his head to me and winking. “Among other things.”

My arms loosen from across my chest and fall to my sides. “Fake engaged couples only do that when absolutely necessary.”

“Who says it wasn’t?”

I roll my brain back, trying to remember the placement of the media convoy.

“Are you upset I kissed you?”

I don’t need to think about that. “No.”

“Good.” Fitz rubs his chin as he refolds his legs covered in navy joggers. “You would’ve been waiting forever for that apology.”

His eyes find mine like pairs of magnets. For a second, I wonder if Fitz would be upset if I kissed him without apology, without having a good enough reason apart from there’s something about the way he stares at me with this soft, lopsided grin that’s as hypnotizing as the swirls of green in his hazel eyes.

Releasing a deep breath, I turn toward my bedroom, but stop, realizing I forgot about the reason I came out here in the first place. I’m not sure that’s ever happened.

Slowly, I turn back around, playing with the hem of my tank top. “Is that a puzzle?”

Fitz’s head remains slanted down, but he raises his eyes to mine, tapping the small piece against the table. “I’m hoping to do the border before I go to bed.”

I look at the door one more time and decide there are better things to think about, like our earlier kiss—or the safer option—a puzzle. “Do you need help?”

Fitz’s eyes abandon the coffee table and fly to mine. “Only an idiot would ever say no to a little help.”

I pad across the living room and sit across from Fitz on the floor, folding my legs and looking at the pieces he grouped together. I can feel his energy and attention focused on the puzzle, but the quiet in the room bothers me. I place the Starburst on the table, smiling when Fitz grimaces.

“Pink or nothing,” he tells me, going quiet again.

“Did you call Mr. Foller back?”

Fitz shakes his head.

“Why?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“He doesn’t matter as much as you .”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he tells me.

I pick up a pale orange piece that belongs on the border, looking for its place. “Are things okay with you two?”

Fitz laughs. “Is this a game of twenty-one questions?”

“It can be,” I think for a minute. “Are you going to tell me why you kissed me?”

“Are you going to tell me what made you so upset this afternoon?”

My shoulders drop, and I sift through more pieces. I don’t even know what the final product will reveal. A sunset maybe.

Fitz sighs. “There’s no expiration date on my question. You can talk to me anytime.”

But if we proceed as we initially agreed, there technically is an expiration date for us, sometime early next year after the Super Bowl. I have to wonder if we’d make it that far—if Fitz would if he knew everything.

“I just want to be a safe space for you,” he continues, “I have a feeling you haven’t had one for a long time.”

He’s right and his words? They slice me open. It’s his honest reassurance that lets me talk.

“They call it a therapeutic boarding school,” I say after taking several deep breaths. My eyes remain focused on the table and I watch the puzzle piece Fitz holds still between his fingertips. “They sent me there when my dad was first running for president. Because of how I was acting. Because of my behavior.”

The puzzle piece Fitz holds between his fingertips stills.

“It’s nothing like school,” I whisper.

Fitz folds the piece into his palm, bringing his hand down to rest on the table.

I take a deep breath. I wish I could spill everything that eats away at me—everything that happened to me, but I only manage one thing. “I hate them,” I whisper, reaching out for another puzzle piece. “And I want the country to know that the man they elected to take care of them couldn’t take care of his daughter. I was thinking I’d do that the night of the convention in August. They’re planning for me to give the introductory speech.”

Drumming my fingers, I lean back from the table, bringing my gaze to Fitz. “I don’t want you to hate me. I didn’t think about how that might impact you until now. I don’t know if I’ll fit the mold for a football wife after I see this through.”

Closer to Fitz lies a sharp corner. I go to grab it, but Fitz intercepts my hand.

“You have an out, Fitz.” I slip my fingers from his. “I feel like we jumped into it all too fast, and I know I haven’t told you everything, but?—”

“Parker.” His voice is clear and steady. “I’m with you.”

My lips begin to tremble. “You don’t even know…”

You don’t know what they did to me, I want to cry. But no more words come out of me. Only tears.

Fitz’s eyes break their hold on mine and sweep around the apartment toward the door. “I think I know enough,” he says, taking a deep breath and returning his gaze to me. “And I trust you with the rest. But if we’re going to get under your parents’ skin before that speech, I think we have to do better than we did today.”