Chapter 93

The campaign event is being held in the hockey arena downtown. The ice has been covered and the space redesigned as it often is for concerts, with a stage on one side and seats in lines down on the floor.

The space for reporters is right up front near the stage, but when I first arrive, I hover near the back. I’m eager to hear some of the chatter of the attendees, the ones who don’t have to be here but want to be.

The mood is electric. People of all ages are excited to see Miles in person and hear him talk.

I give a couple of interviews. One of them is with an older couple who have been married 45 years today. As Miles’s core supporters are of a younger demographic, I really want to talk more with them.

“What made you decide to spend your anniversary at this campaign rally?” I ask.

“He’s an exciting candidate,” the woman says. “Over and over, every year it seems, we’re given the same options. Usually it’s two men from our generation pitted against each other. It’s exciting to see someone so different.”

“He’s inspiring,” the man adds. “It’s so easy for us to become complacent with how things are. Then here comes this young man with big ideas and seemingly impossible aspirations. For him to be so capable while so young makes me feel like I should be able to fly to the moon at my age, you know?”

I enjoy talking with the pair and thank them for their input.

A few more interviews go much the same way. People praising Miles’s forward thinking and his ambition.

One young lady I speak to even says, “He’s cute. Of course I want to see him in person.”

I can’t argue with that.

As more and more people file into the arena, I start to wander, looking for backstage. If I could get a word or two from Miles himself, my article would certainly benefit from it.

I get a little lost before I finally find the area fenced off with a security checkpoint. As I walk toward the opening, a beefy security guard steps in my way.

“Going somewhere, ma’am?” he asks. He’s totally blocking the entrance.

I hold up my press pass. “I should be allowed back here.”

“Sorry, ma’am. The press area is in front of the stage. No one but authorized personnel are allowed back here.”

“I know Miles personally,” I said. “I’m sure if he knew I was here –”

“Sorry, ma’am. Rules are rules. If you are a friend of Representative Hamilton’s, then you will understand our goal of maintaining his safety.”

When he puts it that way, I can’t very well argue. If security let anyone back there who claimed to be Miles’s friends, they could potentially let in someone with ill intent.

“I understand,” I say, and start to back away.

“Esther Owens?” says a man from behind the barricade. Looking at him, I recognize him as one of Miles’s assistance.

“That’s right,” I say.

The assistant goes to the security guard. “It’s alright. Representative Hamilton has special allowances for Ms. Owens.”

The security guard looks me over in a new light. “Very well.” He steps aside, allowing me through.

“Ms. Owens,” the assistant says. “I’ll lead you to where Miles is, though I ask you to wait until he has finished practicing. We don’t want to interrupt him.”

“Of course,” I say. “I understand.”

I follow the assistant through a series of winding narrow makeshift hallways until we reach one specific dressing room. The door is open a crack. Within, I can hear Miles talking.

“I’ll leave you here,” the assistant says, nods, and then disappears back up the hallway.

“Now is the time for change,” Miles says, his voice full of pride. “And of hope.”

Peeking around the crack in the door, I catch sight of Miles’s reflection in the mirror. With his fitted suit, flag pin on his lapel, and his hair slicked back, he stands tall, his head held high. Like this, he looks very respectable. Very presidential.

A zip of my own pride fills me. Maybe we’re friends, maybe we’re just acquaintances who sleep together. Either way, this man is something to me. Whatever that something is, I’m so proud of who he is and how great of a leader he will one day be.

Yet at the same time, a tiny sadness drizzles like a little raincloud over my heart.

With all his ambition, Miles will likely be an incredibly successful politician, more so even than he already was. He might even win this election and be president. After speaking to the excited crowd, that’s easier to believe than ever before.

Yet, once he’s president, he won’t have need or time for a clinger-on like me. Whatever the nature of our relationship, it will likely end when he wins the election.

I don’t know why this makes me upset. Our situation has never been one that’s meant to last. We’re strictly physical. That’s not sustainable. I wouldn’t want it to be. Miles deserves something more than I can give right now.

But it still hurts, thinking of the end. As proud as I will be of him standing at that podium as president, I will also mourn what once was. And what could have been.

How silly of me, I think, to consider any kind of future with Miles at all.

Shaking my head, I push the thoughts – and the worries – to the back of my mind.

At a break in his speech, Miles glances up and catches me watching him through the mirror. Immediately, he relaxes somewhat and a big smile covers his face.

“Esther. You’re here. Come in.” He walks to the door and opens it more fully. Once I slip inside of the room, he closes the door behind me. “When did you get here?”

“Just now,” I say. “Your assistant showed me the way, but we didn’t want to interrupt your practice.”

Miles toss the script he’d been holding off to the side. It lands on the vanity, atop a few newspapers. “I’ve practiced so much that I know it by heart. I’d much rather talk to you now.”

“Well… I’m here,” I say, returning his smile. It’s easier to push back the worries when I am standing in his brightness.

“Yes, you are,” he says, stepping closer to me. He grins down at me, boyish and mischievous, so unlike the demeanor of elected politician he presented before. With him looking like that, I know he’s up to something. I’m both nervous and thrilled to find out what.

As ever, he makes me wait.

“Do you know how beautiful you look today, Esther?” he asks.

I’m wearing a simple pantsuit, but I’m sure I look like an outright slob standing next to the brilliance that is Miles Hamilton in that fitted suit.

Lifting his hand, he traces his fingers along the column of my throat from my ear down to my collarbone. There he lightly undoes one of the buttons on my blouse. His fingers linger, brushing lightly against the very edge of the swell of my breast.

“Miles…” I say with warning. This really isn’t the time or place for this. Miles’s speech is set to start at any moment.

“What?” he says, grin widening. “Are they going to start without me?”