Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The sunny sands and foaming blue waves of San Diego call to me from my phone's lock screen as I check the time—half past noon. My curly-haired cubicle mate Hughie is singing "Hey, Soul Sister" under his breath, as I text Bryce with a smile on my face.

Tia

Almost time for our Wednesday lunch date! Where do you want to meet?

Bryce

Ah, sorry, I can't. Slammed right now.

Tia

Oh…we missed last week too.

Bryce

So sorry, babe. Next week for sure.

I do my best to stifle my disappointment. It's not personal, it's just work. Sometimes it's busier and that's okay. We'll get back into our routine soon.

Tia

Aren't we going to meet your parents in the Outer Banks next week?

Bryce

Oh, right. Well, we'll definitely be getting lunch together then!

It'll be nice to have him all to myself for our road trip from Washington, D.C. to North Carolina. His boss definitely overworks him, but Bryce keeps impressing everyone with his ambition. He's making a name for himself.

Tia

Do you want me to bring you some food?

Bryce

That'd be nice, but you don't have to.

Tia

Salad or burger?

Bryce

Burger, but not from the place nearby, from Shake Shack.

That's nearly an hour round trip, walking and taking the metro. But it could be worth it for a strawberry milkshake.

Tia

Okay!

Bryce

Cool. Thanks, Tia.

I reach under my desk for my tote bag, swap my court heels for flats, and log out of my computer. I turn to Hughie, who should be tracking voting methods by constituency, but instead is researching an up-and-coming congressman everyone's taken to calling X, like he's a secret government lab project. The guy is nothing more than a fast-talking go-getter from Florida, but his persona has been heightened by this "Congressman X" moniker.

"Hughie, I'm going to Shake Shack, want anything?"

"Oh, for real? Yeah!" He rattles off his order and promises to send me money for it. "Hey, do you know if Sutton is going to try to hop on the bandwagon and work for X?" He points back to his computer screen.

"Why would she?"

"She's doing PR for the national committee, right? I'm sure she thinks she's a rising star, and her star will rise further with this guy."

"We may share an apartment, but I have no idea what she's thinking career-wise. She's pretty tight-lipped about her work."

Sutton and I found each other via a Facebook apartment-hunting group for young professionals. We started at a polite level of acquaintance, both of us being clean and respectful, then gradually moved towards the exchanging of facts (the oven takes forever to heat up, the bathroom tile is so crooked and it drives me crazy, you can use my curling iron if you want), then information and gossip about who works where, who was talking to whom, which events we were both invited to. She's not exactly a warm personality, but she's a cool apartment-mate.

About a year and a half ago, she told me about her guy friend from college who had seen me around and was asking about me. The next week, she introduced me to Bryce, and the rest is history.

"You'd tell me, right?" Hughie says with a furrowed brow, bringing me back to the present. "If you get wind she's going to throw her hat in the ring, let me know. I have a few strings I could try to pull."

It grates to hear people say things like "strings I could pull." But this is D.C., people are constantly trying to get ahead by any means possible. Not everyone does it that way, but it seems the increasing competitiveness of Capitol Hill has made my particular circle of friends more jealous and insecure. It makes me sad.

"I'll bring your food up after I drop off Bryce's."

"Oh, shoot, do you think Bryce will try to switch to working for X?"

I shake my head. "He's in a really good spot. You know his boss is on all the magazine covers and Bryce has played a big role in making that happen. Talk about a rising star." I leave with a little smile of pride in my boyfriend.

I tap in a mobile order as I walk down the long, imposing corridor of the Longworth House Office building. Humidity hits me square in the face the second I pop out the south exit and I grimace as I make my way to the Capitol South metro station. I've immediately started sweating, even in a sleeveless blouse and pencil skirt.

One glance at my lock screen makes me sigh again. I would give anything to be back home feeling a California coastal breeze right now, not the damp heat and mild air conditioning of congressional offices. I'm dreading another sticky Washington, D.C. summer, and it's barely even started.

A notification comes through that my order has been accepted—at the wrong Shake Shack location. Dang it, I'll have to go to Dupont Circle instead of F Street. Oh well.

"Is that the ‘Queen of the Field'?" A voice booms from behind me as I get on the long escalator down to the metro platforms. I turn to see Tim and Eliza, teammates from my recreational soccer team.

"Hey!" I say with a grin. "How are you? I miss seeing you guys every Saturday."

"Same," says Eliza, coming down a few steps to catch up to me. "Hey, what happened with the championship game last month? We needed you."

My face falls. I glance up at Tim, whose expression mirrors Eliza's question.

"Food poisoning," I reply with a grimace.

"Right," says Tim. "From what?"

"A bad oyster," I lie.

"Bummer," says Eliza in a flat tone. She doesn't believe me for a second. "I mean, of course we had a few subs, but no one plays with your hustle and enthusiasm. There's a reason you're our Queen."

She's really heaping the burning coals on my head.

"Well, here's to next season and having our best mid-fielder back with us," says Tim.

"Yeah, definitely."

The guilt about missing the last game of the season comes and goes, even though it wasn't my fault. The night before the championship, Bryce had texted to say he was going out with a few of his college buddies for a guys' night, so I went to bed early, ready to be well-rested to play my heart out.

Except I got a call at three in the morning that he was drunk and belligerent, bleeding from a fight.

I took an Uber to Georgetown, brought him back to his townhouse, and got him in the shower, clothes and all. He started sobbing about how he wasn't good enough, how he didn't know how to be good enough. He kept saying, "Is anyone good enough for life?"

After a lot of gentle parenting, I got him changed into dry clothes, bandaged the scrapes on his face, and tucked him into bed around five a.m. He made me swear I wouldn't leave him alone.

"You're a good girlfriend, you're so good to me, you won't leave, right?"

How could I, when he asked all sad and vulnerable? He didn't wake up until well after noon, and I missed the championship game.

I don't know why I'm lying to save face for Bryce. Somehow, it feels like the truth is too intimate to share with people who don't know him, who haven't learned to understand his nuance. His walls of bravado and bluster are hard to get over, but I'm sure he has a soft heart behind them.

After a few more bits of small talk, I wave goodbye to Tim and Eliza, and we part ways to head to our respective platforms. The air down here is damp but cool, trapped underground by the arches of concrete overhead. Across the tracks, between an ad for the Smithsonian and another for the Kennedy Center, is a giant banner of the U.S. women's national soccer team.

The goalie stands in the middle of the collage of player photos, holding a soccer ball between her gloved palms and glaring down at me. It feels eerily personal. I can almost hear her saying, "Come on, Tia, protect what you love." I look away.

As the metro takes me northwest, I think about the two constants in my life—soccer and art. Since I was a kid, they have been an essential part of what makes me Tia Lopez. I love soccer, I love my team, and next season will end on a better note. I love art, but I've neglected my painting for a while, partly due to time constraints, partly due to feeling like I've lost the magic a bit. I'll pick it back up after next week's road trip. I know I shouldn't allow my passions to fall by the wayside, but it's…complicated.

I'm a block away from Shake Shack when I spy one of my favorite things and one of D.C.'s redeeming features—random art. At the confluence of two busy streets is a statue in a sliver of a green park. I'm a sucker for a good statue. The crosswalk is open, and I take a quick detour to go see who this memorial is for.I turn the corner, pause to take it in, and find myself smiling.

Set in solid bronze, a man is seated wearing flowing academic robes, his bearded chin resting on one hand, and his other hand holding a book. One finger keeps his place in the pages, a delightful little detail. I wonder if he felt the sculptor was interrupting his precious reading time. The reddish marble base of the statue says "Longfellow."

My phone vibrates with a notification that my order is ready to pick up. I'll have to google "Longfellow" later. I take a quick photo of the statue to study on the metro ride back, zooming in on his face, then go grab the bag of food. On the walk back to the metro, Sutton texts me.

Sutton

Have you heard of anyone else applying to work for X?

Tia

Are you thinking of quitting your job?

Sutton

Just wondering if you've heard from Bryce or Hughie if they're thinking of trying to get in with X.

I roll my eyes, flick the notification away, and google "Longfellow." Oh, of course, the poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I go to pull up a few of his shorter poems to read but get interrupted by Bryce texting.

Bryce

Are you almost back with the food?

Tia

Yeah, heading back now, be about 30 minutes or so.

Bryce

Sweet, I'm starving.

I hustle down the escalator, and as the train car takes me back to Capitol South I go back to studying the picture of Longfellow's face. The soft hint of curls in his beard blends upwards towards his ears, then waves of his hair come down and meet them. I wonder if I could paint that. I wonder what it would look like at night, what kind of shadows form when the light catches on those bronze curlicues of hair.

The noon heat is turning oppressive as I pop back out of Capitol South and head back to the Longworth building. Just as I get to the second floor and am about to turn the last corner towards Bryce's office, I hear my least favorite laugh: Bryce's high, condescending chuckle of disbelief.