The Thorne at My Side

PROLOGUE

@MenInSuitsDC

MAGGIE

“Damnit, what now?” I mutter to myself as my phone starts ringing.

I never understood the expression “dead on your feet” until this moment right here. And, can I just ask the universe; why is it that your phone falls to the absolute bottom of your bag anytime it rings? Oh, and why does it ring exactly when you’re trying to open your door after a grueling five day, eight state, campaign swing? When all you want to do is curl up in your chair, eat your frozen dinner, and watch Jake Gyllenhaal do something combative on your laptop.

“Yeah?” I answer after seeing my little sister’s name on the caller ID. If it had been a colleague, I would have masked my annoyance and tried to pull an ounce of professionalism out of the depths of my reserves. But it’s a Monday night, and it’s Liz, so I know she’s having girls night with her friends and if I don’t answer now she’ll just call back in a few hours and be more buzzed than she might already be.

“Whoa, you talk to your mother with that tone?” She jokes. “Actually, strike that, I know you do!” She laughs.

“What do you need, Liz?”

“Can’t a girl just call her sister?” Liz asks innocently. She’s anything but. When I don’t respond she fills in the blank for me. “Okay, fine, I’m calling because I want to know if you follow this account MenInSuitsDC?”

“You know I’m not on social media. So, no I don’t.” I huff as I drop my bag on the floor and slide out of my heels. I shouldn’t have answered this call, I don’t have the energy for this.

“Phew! You should! The girls and I are drooling over some of these guys.”

“Aren’t the three of you in committed relationships?” Liz is engaged to be married on New Year’s Eve later this year. Her best friend Nora got married last month. Their other friend, Angie just started dating her older brother’s best friend. I only know these things because Liz shares. Mom too for that matter.

“Yeah, what does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re looking at an account that creates content with the purpose of objectifying men.”

“So you have seen it?” She accuses.

“No, I’m guessing.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. But we’re just looking. Since when is it a crime to appreciate the male form in finely tailored three piece suits?”

“Jimmy owned one dress shirt when I met him, I need a hit of the financial district every so often,” Nora chimes in from the background.

“Kyle doesn’t dress in suits anymore either and I kind of miss it.” Liz says and I can hear her mind drift off to the summer she and her fiancé met at work in the city.

“Holden still does,” Angie says with a lit of a smirk to her voice.

“Okay, as much fun as this is, I had a good but long day and I need to veg out,” I say and kind of let the sentence fade away hoping Liz will pick up the hint and hang up.

“Have you hired a second in command yet?” She asks instead. In February, I got the job as head speech writer for Senator Melissa Quinn’s presidential campaign. I spent the year before that submitting samples to her team and doing everything I could to get on her radar. I knew I’d be able to grow her campaign and take things to the next level.

And I have, but I’ve been doing the work of two, if not three people, for months and it’s wearing me down.

“Not yet, but I’ve been reviewing resumes.” It’s not a lie, but no one has inspired me to call them. It just feels easier to do it myself instead of explaining my vision to someone else.

“Is Senator Quinn as cool in person as she seems on social media?” Angie asks.

“Believe it or not, she’s even cooler. Especially if you’re into women-centered domestic policy like I am.” I look up at my whiteboard and see the post-its I used to pitch myself as her next speech writer. Colorful squares of notes about maternal health, paid leave, childcare, abortion rights, Title IX, and digital safety of minors.

“How does she deal with the comments about her being a single woman?”

“Honestly, she ignores it or makes a joke about it behind the scenes. But you can’t tell anyone I told you that.” The long day is clearly getting to me if I’m sharing behind-the-scenes insights on the record. And yes, I know my sister and her friends aren’t reporters but these days citizen accounts are everywhere. But the number of times Senator Quinn’s single-childless status has come up and has been used against her in this campaign drives me even further towards wanting a relationship before I seek office.

It’ll just be easier.

“Meet any cuties out on the road?” Liz asks like she’s reading my mind.

“No, I was working.”

“You know, wild idea here, but you could meet someone at work.”

“I could, but I honestly don’t have time for dating. I’m working constantly.” Even when I’m sleeping I hear Senator Quinn delivering her stump speech.

“It’s not healthy to work all the time, you need something else in your life.” Liz says.

“Are you a therapist now or something?” I challenge.

“No, but I have lived experience and years of inspirational quotes from social media wisdom to share with the people.”

The girls continue talking on their end like I”m not here as I undo the button at the top of my pants and feel my body take up a little more space with the freedom.

“Oo, look at this one,” Liz gasps and I hear the phone muffle as she passes it to one of the other girls in the room.

“Holy shit!”

“That can’t be real.”

I’ll never admit it but my interest is piqued and I am tempted to ask Liz to send it to me.

“Maybe you should just camp out near the hockey arena? Athletes in suits? It’s unfair.”

“I’d never date an athlete.” I say, a professional athlete doesn’t fit the Ideal Partner profile I’ve created.

“Wait, that guy isn’t an athlete, but you can’t tell by looking at him, it says down here in the caption.” Liz starts reading, “DC Renegades Captain Felix Fournier pictured leaving opening night at The Ned with long time off-ice buddy, Au–”

“Liz, I don’t really care, I’m not going to use a random social media account to find a date.”

“Feels like a missed opportunity.” She mutters.

“Be that as it may, I’m going to make dinner and go to bed. I’ll talk to you later.”

“The account is MenInSuitsDC if you need something to look at in bed later!” The girls start giggling and I roll my eyes.

“Bye Lizzard,” I say quietly.

“Bye Maybe.” She says gently and the call ends.

I hang up and sink into my chair. My studio apartment is maybe 400 square feet total but the distance from this side of the room to my kitchen where a microwavable dinner waits in the freezer feels like an impossible journey. Every bone in my body is tired. Traveling is always exhausting because of the extra planning I have to put in before I leave. I close my eyes and mentally replay the last week.

The thousands of people at the rallies to see her speaking, endless small towns like the one I grew up in, the motorcade of cars that snakes down country highways, the campaign team who make sure that everything is set up and ready to go. And then when she starts speaking, everything fades away and I can only focus on the words I crafted.

At this point she has the stump speech memorized, but with only a few months until the election I’ll need to revise it and create new versions that go deeper into detail. There will be debates and in depth interviews as I get America to believe in her. I’ll get up in a minute, microwave dinner, and start working on outlining the variations I’ll need to draft.

But I don’t get up, instead I fall asleep in my work clothes in the oversized chair in the corner of my apartment.