As my parents talked with the president and Matthew, I fiddled with my braid, placing it on the side of my shoulder, then behind my back. Matthew’s attention returned to me, and when his eyes sparkled with more quiet laughter, the pit in my stomach returned.

The waiter brought us both new plates full of stuffed quail and quinoa. My parents were still looking at me as though it was too bold of me to ask for seconds in front of the president.

Matthew leaned over the table and said, “Never let anyone tell you you’re too young to ask for what you want.”

“Oh, don’t worry, sometimes I don’t ask.”

This earned me a very nice laugh from Matthew. The president frowned at him, then winked at me. As Matthew turned his attention back to the group, I noticed his eyes appeared a shade lighter than black, like chocolate.

I sat there, trying to absorb everything, knowing that that moment, that night, would be the most exciting experience of my life.

But like everything in life … it wouldn’t last forever.

I watched with disappointment as the president rose from his seat and began to thank my parents for dinner.

I got up as well, my eyes fixed on Matthew. The way he stood, the way he walked, the way he looked. I started to wonder what he smelled like, too. I followed the group quietly toward the foyer. The president turned and tapped his presidential cheek. “A kiss, young lady?”

Smiling, I rose up on my toes and kissed his cheek. When I dropped back down, my gaze caught Matthew’s.

As if on automatic, my toes rose again. It seemed only natural that I give him a farewell kiss too. When my lips grazed his jaw, it was hard and it tickled with a little bit of stubble. It was like kissing a movie star. He turned his head and kissed my cheek in return, and I almost gasped out loud from the surprise of feeling his lips on my cheek.

Before I could compose myself, he and the president walked out the door, and all the hustle and bustle of the day turned to dead quiet.

Hurrying upstairs, I watched them leave from my bedroom window. The president was ushered into the back of his shiny black chauffeured car.

Before he got in, the president slapped Matthew on the back and squeezed the back of his neck in a friendly gesture.

The pit in my stomach grew into a ball as they disappeared into the car.

The car started and drove down our quiet neighborhood street, little American flags flapping in the front. A trail of cars followed them, one after the other.

I shut my window, closed my drapes, then took off my dress and hung it carefully. I then slipped into my flannel pajamas and eased into bed as my mother walked in.

“That was a lovely evening,” my mother said. “Did you have fun?”

She smiled as though she was laughing to herself about something. I nodded honestly. “I liked listening to the conversations. I liked everyone.”

She kept smiling. “Matthew is handsome. You noticed, of course. He’s also smart as a whip.”

I nodded in silence.

“Your father and I are writing a letter to the president to thank him for spending his evening with us. Do you want to write him too?”

“No, thank you,” I said primly.

She raised her brows and laughed. “Okay. You sure? If you change your mind, leave it in the foyer tomorrow.”

Mother left my room and I just lay in bed, thinking about the visit, about what the president had said about Matthew.

I decided I’d write Matthew a letter, just because I couldn’t stop feeling awestruck and amazed by the visit. What if I not only ended up meeting one president tonight, but two? That had to take the cake of meetings, for sure.

I used the first page of the stationery my grandmother sent me for my birthday, and in my best handwriting, I wrote, “I want to thank you and the president for coming. If you decide to run for president, you have my vote. I’d even be willing to join your campaign.”

I licked the seal and closed it firmly, and set the letter on my nightstand. Then I flipped off the light switch and got under my covers.

I lay in bed and in the dark. He was everywhere. On the ceiling and in the shadows and on the duvet.

And I wondered if I’d ever see him again and suddenly the thought of him never seeing me grown up felt like an ache in my chest.

I’m so lost in my thoughts I had not realized Alan was studying my profile.

“A crush that’s been crushed, right?” he asks again.

I turn to him, startled to realize we’ve already pulled over in front of my building. I laugh and get out of the cab, peering inside. “Absolutely.” I nod more firmly this time. “I’m focused on my career now.” And I shut the door behind me, waving him off.

3

ANNOUNCEMENT

Matt

I was never the sort of kid tempted to try on my father’s shoes. Too clean, too classic, too big.

But, oddly, his shoes are what I remember most clearly about him—pacing a perfect circle around his desk during a tense phone call. Me, at his feet, building a puzzle.

My father strived for perfection in all things, including his appearance. From his impeccably tailored suit, to his smoothly shaved face and his tightly cropped hair.

While I, young and clueless, dreamed of freedom. Freedom from the privileged life my father’s success gave my mother and me.

A thousand times, my father said I would be president. He told his friends, his friend’s friends, and he often told me. I’d laugh and shake it off.

The seven years I spent growing up in the White House were seven years I spent praying to get out of the White House.

Politics interested me, yes.

But I knew my father rarely slept. Most choices he made were wrong for a certain percentage of the population, even when they were right for the majority. My mother lost her husband the day he entered the White House.

I lost my father the day he decided that being president would be his legacy.

He tried juggling it all, but no human in the world could run the country and still have energy for his wife and teenage son.

I focused on my grades and succeeded in school, but forming friendships was hard. I couldn’t casually invite anyone over to the White House.

My life, as I imagined it after the White House, would be focused on work, perhaps on Wall Street. I’d have the freedom to do all the things I never could under America’s watchful eye.