Five

CORA

My Uber turns onto K Street, bringing us close to the Waterfront where the green expanse of the park and the Potomac River greet me. The sight is a familiar fixture in my DC summers, and while it’s comforting, it’s not enough to make me forget what I did last night—or what I’m doing now.

Do you want me to beg?

I’m going for closure, I tell myself. Maybe seeing Everett with his head in his hands will give me what I need to move on from this unprecedented lapse in judgment.

…Or maybe it won’t, and I can dangle the tie in front of his pretty face and make him pay me five thousand dollars for it (because like I said, I really do want a new laptop).

The driver gets close to 37th Street before we encounter barricades, leaving me to finish the trip on foot. The walk ends up being longer than I budgeted, but I eventually reach Healy Hall where Everett’s father is speaking.

There are hundreds of people here.

Painted card stock flaps in the evening breeze over the disorderly mass, whose chanting sounds like a dull cacophony until I’m close enough to read the signs:

Fund the Future Now

Affordable Childcare for All

Governor Logan, are YOU going to watch my child while I’m at work?

That last one makes me snicker. I mean, considering how Everett turned out, it’s a pretty horrendous idea, but I’m all for freedom of speech.

But then I keep scanning the crowd, and the gravity of the situation dawns on me. By definition, it’s a peaceful protest, but peaceful and angry aren’t mutually exclusive. The faces in the crowd are contorted with fury, reciting chants laced with resentment. The late spring humidity feels thicker near the mass, like the waves of visceral anger are radiating into heat. My dress sticks to my skin, and my ears ring with the trills of a megaphone somewhere in the cluster. I attempt to weave through, but there’s no way I can get closer to the hall.

I text Everett: Here. Stuck in the mob…

My phone rings, and Everett’s name lights up the screen for the second time tonight.

“Around the corner,” he instructs as soon as I answer. “Go to the right when you’re facing the building head-on. There’s a garden there. I’ll meet you.”

The crowd is denser close to the building, but once I break through, I’m on a paved path skirting the eastern side. I’m still in the proximity of the protestors, but the dense shrubs lining the pathway dim the chanting. It’s quieter here.

A cherrywood pergola covered in collegiate ivy vines extends over the garden where Everett is seated on a small stone bench by a fountain. His eyes are on his phone, tight and narrowed, and his leg is shaking restlessly. The realization rises slowly: Everett Logan is panicking.

And the thing is, Everett doesn’t panic. One time, Valeria and Lander hosted a dinner party, and Dalton accidentally swung his arm against an open bottle of red wine while doing an impression of a kelp plant (no, I didn’t ask why). Essie screamed as the projectile flew past her face, and Lander somehow managed to say four entire words ( tittyfuckingballsack ) in a split second, but Everett reached out and caught the bottle less than an inch from my nose without spilling a drop. He didn’t even look surprised . He just placed the bottle on the table and reclined in his chair, barely sparing me another glance.

“Hey,” I call out.

His gaze rises and locks on me. “Princess.” He practically breathes his derisive nickname for me, rolling the letters off his tongue. He moves forward in this bizarrely relieved way, which can’t be right. Everett has never been relieved to see me. A month ago, we crossed paths in the lobby of the Halcyon, and all I got was a chin tilt. Not even a full nod—a tilt . And yet he rushes over to me tonight like he’s been waiting for decades and not a mere twenty minutes.

Everett stands in front of me, tall and statuesque as usual, but he’s not quite…Everett. He’s back in one of his impressively tailored suits, a far cry from the jeans and t-shirt from last night. His hair is styled to perfection, not tousled and easy like yesterday. His big gold watch sits on his wrist as usual. Through and through, he looks like the guy who has avoided me for months, but there’s something different about him—something I can’t place.

I hold out the tie, reminding him—maybe reminding myself—why I’m here.

“My pen broke,” he mumbles while tugging off his old tie, which bears an obvious black stain against the burgundy. He places both ends of the new tie over the planes of his chest, flattening them.

“Couldn’t you have gone tie-less?” I ask, watching the movements of his hands.

He shoots me a look like I just suggested we go on a duck hunt together. Jesus. Apparently tie-less isn’t an option.

He hands me the ink-stained tie. “My father would lose his shit,” he explains while he adjusts the ends of the new tie, tugging until they’re parallel. “One time, I wore a sweater vest over a button-down instead of a jacket to a campaign event.” He passes the thicker side over the thinner one. “This was back when he was running for his first term and wasn’t sure he would win. That year, every facet of our lives was micro-managed.” Now, he drapes the first end over his shoulder, forming a knot. He glances up before saying, “I wore a sweater vest, and he confiscated my bicycle the same night.”

At first, I don’t register what Everett said because, if I’m being honest (and I always am), I can’t stop looking at him.

When I arrived, Everett didn’t look like himself, but with each practiced tug and pull, he transforms. It’s like I’m watching someone put on battle armor, turning himself into a trained foot soldier.

He tugs on the skinnier end of the tie and works the knot upwards until it meets the top button of his shirt. Done. Immediately, his spine straightens as if the tie were a key starting an engine. He’s on. He’s the Governor of Virginia’s son—a congressional candidate—once again.

“When I was in the seventh grade, my mom cried because I got an A minus.”

My confession slips out, brief and unremarkable on the surface, but it speaks volumes. Everett’s eyebrows rise slowly, microscopically. His eyes move over me, curious behind their visage of steeliness.

“She made me ask my teacher if I could take the test again,” I go on, easing into the memory now. “Then my teacher realized the answer key was wrong, so she changed my grade to an A. Still didn’t stop my mom from citing the A minus when she kept me from going out with my friends.”

“You didn’t have fun when you were a kid?” he asks, sliding his hands into his pockets and taking on one of his composed power stances.

“I was a hellion, actually.”

“But your parents—”

“I lied to them. They didn’t know they had a hellion.”

Everett releases a faint whistle. “And now they have a camgirl,” he murmurs.

The comment should be dangerous, but it’s not. If anything, it’s…

…it’s sweet.

I’m so surprised that it takes me a beat to register the truth: For the first time in the seven months I’ve known him, we’re just…talking. There’s even a hint of admiration in his gaze, and I wonder what it’s about—what I said to earn the approval of the esteemed Everett Logan.

“They don’t have anything,” I remind him. “Not anymore.” Not for three years now.

“Their fucking loss,” he replies without hesitation.

“Your father’s loss too,” I add, acutely aware of the goosebumps rising on my arms. “You look better without a tie.”

We’re both quiet for too long, and the silence is curious and prolific all at once like static in the atmosphere before a tornado.

“I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have—”

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it,” I interrupt, crossing my arms over my chest. “It was my stipulation for coming.”

“I know.”

“So leave it.”

He blinks before he releases yet another strained exhale and looks away.

The subsequent silence grows awkward quickly and only gets worse when we make eye contact again. Everett is so ridiculously handsome, and to top it all off, neither of us is speaking, so the water from the fountain is the only sound in the vicinity. It sounds exactly like someone pissing, and the gentle furrow in Everett’s brow tells me he hears it too—the pissing.

He parts his lips like he wants to say something but stops himself.

I inhale through my nostrils until my lungs are full and release the breath slowly. I’m angry at Everett, but I don’t want this. More importantly, I don’t want Valeria and Lander to have to deal with this.

Being angry is fine. It’s how I felt before. The avoidance. The barbs. The banter. Our relationship (or lack thereof) was weird, but it worked.

I mean…it was even fun sometimes: saying whatever the hell I wanted and hearing the clever fuckery he came up with (which I would never admit to Everett). We could go back to that.

I swallow before I say, “I would tell you to suck a big dick, but nobody with a big, fat dick would ever offer you the privilege of blowing it.”

Everett doesn’t react at first. In fact, he stands stock-still before the concerned look on his face fades. The corners of his mouth unfold into a gentle smirk, and he murmurs, “Are you serious?”

“I’m more serious than your powder blue button-down addiction.”

“But not as serious as your falling out with the coven, I see. Nobody would lend you their broomstick tonight? Surely you could have gotten here in five, maybe ten minutes if you had taken to the skies.” And he’s still smirking when he mutters, “God, you’re funny.”

My inhale is involuntary. Everett has never said anything complimentary to me before, and the effect is unprecedented. My stomach flutters, and the galaxy of goosebumps on my arms, lingering from Their fucking loss , takes on new life.

The insults were different—fun. But praise is…weirdly nice .

Before I can force myself to squash down all that fluttery shit rising in my stomach, he exhales and scuffs the sole of his shoe on the stone pavers. “I don’t want to go in there,” he mutters, cocking his head toward the building. “I told my father to take my campaign out of his speech like you suggested. He didn’t react well, which was predictable. He’s…difficult.”

“Actually, it’s sounds like he’s a little bitch, but we both knew that already.”

Everett lets out a puff of breath, almost like a laugh, but he doesn’t confirm or deny what I’ve said.

“Is he pissed about this protest?”

“Livid. My request didn’t help.” He clears his throat. “Hey, thank you. I hope I didn’t...”

I shrug. “My tacos are getting cold at my door, and I may have to start streaming from the backseat of the Uber, but no, you didn’t ruin my evening.”

His smirk fades, and he swallows before he says, “But I did ruin last night. You and—”

“Don’t,” I warn, taking a step back from him. “Let it go.”

His gaze is unblinking. “I don’t really let things go,” he admits.

“Well, you better start because I’m not talking about this.”

“Why not? If we could talk about it—”

“Talk about what? About how you led me on, embarrassed me, or—” I sigh, closing my eyes. I definitely need to take a beat. I pinch my index finger and thumb around the bridge of my nose and exhale.

“Do you want me, Cora?”

My eyes blink open immediately. The question is jarring in and of itself, but my name at the end digs under my skin. Cora . Somehow, with Everett calling me “princess” for the last day, I had forgotten how my name sounded on his lips. The motion of the two syllables is inexplicably disorienting.

He’s watching me carefully.

You could turn me into a fucking mess, couldn’t you?

I could. I could easily and handily ruin this guy if I felt like it—but he could ruin me too. And after the humiliation I’ve endured over the last few hours, the thought shouldn’t be exhilarating, but it is.

I live for it: the ruination that comes from giving absolutely no fucks.

“I don’t know,” I admit, and the words come out soft.

“Do you want to find out?” he asks, measured but crackly as if hot coals burn beneath his words. He takes a step closer, and I can see his eyes up-close. They’re so pretty—enough to keep me from reacting to the sound of crunching leaves and shoes treading the path behind me.

“Are you Governor Logan’s son?” someone calls out before I can respond.

I turn around, and there’s a man standing in the middle of the pathway leading into the garden. His blazer is clean, and he’s wearing a white button-down shirt—the business-casual uniform for most people in the District.

“I am,” Everett confirms, curt and bureaucratic once more, devoid of the simmering heat from moments ago.

The man takes a step closer to us and stands in the glow of the muted white lights from Healy Hall’s wall sconces. Now that I can see him clearly, I know something is…off.

His pants are faded black with worn hems, like they’ve dragged on the floor under his heels. His shoes look well- loved but professional, like he wears them to work and on the weekends. The dirt on the soles tells me he might be in construction or gardening, and those shoes don’t match his belt, which sits on his hips, rather than his waist.

This isn’t a man who regularly dresses this way; this is a man who wants to pass as someone else.

The man doesn’t say anything when he takes another step along the path. Another step.

That next step ignites every warning signal I’ve developed over my twenty-four years.

“Can I help you?” Everett asks.

The man takes yet another step, and a wave of unease starts in my stomach and fans out to my chest and limbs.

“Everett,” I warn, willing him to stop being such a guy and realize something isn’t right, but he doesn’t look for warnings. He expects them to jump out with the grace of a jack in the box. He’ll readily call a man like Tyler a threat, but he’s fooled by things like a clean jacket and a recognizable shirt.

A woman knows. A woman is a seismometer detecting tremors before they quake. A woman knows when a situation is fundamentally wrong .

“Can you help me?” the man parrots, and his tone is jagged. He takes another step closer, compelling me to take two steps back toward Everett—toward the dead-end of Healy Hall’s stone walls behind us. “Tell your father what he did.”

Everett’s brow knots. “My father—”

“Tell him I’m going to lose my kids now,” the man spits, and with his next step forward, I see the rim of red around his irises from tears or exhaustion or drugs or…I don’t know… demon possession . No clue. Doesn’t matter. Regardless, we’re not safe here.

“Everett,” I urge, pulling on his arm. “ Move .”

“Your father’s budget cuts are going to force me to choose between working and taking care of my goddamn family. Did he think about that?”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Everett replies, eyes on the man while he weaves his arm around my stomach and pulls me toward him.

I go. I go willingly.

The man takes yet another step, and he’s ten feet away, give or take. “Sorry?” His laugh is more like an abrupt bark. “Your apology doesn’t do shit for me. Fix it. That’s what I need.”

“I would,” Everett offers, furtively moving both of our bodies backwards. “There are resources to help families. Agencies—”

“What do you know about resources?” the man hisses. “Look at your suit. Your watch. The diamonds your mother wears in her ears. The anniversary party your parents held last summer with the fireworks. You don’t know shit about resources.”

And the man digs his hand into the pocket of his jacket.

On the two previous occasions when I’ve seen a gun in real life, I’ve been surprised by how small they are. This one is no exception. Guns come in all shapes and sizes, I know, but this particular gun is the size of a cell phone. It’s concealable and unassuming, much like the man standing in front of Everett and me.

And yet it could kill either of us.

Immediately, Everett shoves me behind him. Maybe he does it because of some latent chivalrous instinct, but maybe it’s because he’s still in denial about what I know: He’s the target.

“You’re all fucking oblivious,” the man goes on, emphasizing his words by jolting the gun with his outstretched arm. “But one day, someone is going to take what you love. When it happens, I hope I get to watch. I hope it breaks you.” He cocks the gun. “It’s the governor’s turn.”

The next few seconds feel longer than any I’ve ever lived. Everett faces me, expression urgent, and he pushes me away while hissing a single word I’ll never forget:

“ Run .”

When I was seventeen and a freshman at Harvard, I took my first psychology class on adrenaline. The adrenal glands emit the hormone in an intrinsic, biological process without any prompting from logic, rationality, or conscious intent. More often than not, the body processes the reaction before awareness sinks in.

Tonight, I feel the gravity of this moment before I understand it.

The quickening of my heartbeat. The racing throb of my lungs forcing me to breathe faster. The sense of vigilance tingling in the goosebumps on my skin.

I don’t listen. I don’t run.

I throw myself in front of Everett while wrenching myself from his firm grip, covering his body with mine and sending both of us careening in the other direction. His alarmed shout fills my ears like a hurricane wind, swallowing me whole until a crack rings out.

The unprecedented sensation is a bolt of heat penetrating my arm—scorching, stinging, burning .

My vision blurs. My hand is sticky. Something aches. Something else pulses. I’m not standing, but I’m not falling—not even sure if I’m sitting. There’s shouting—so much shouting.

And then Everett is in my line of sight, mouth agape, and he’s handsome—so annoyingly handsome—until he loses definition.

I stop seeing. I stop hearing. All I can do is feel. I feel everything.

And the last thing I see before everything fades is red—so much red—and the static-tinged, waning sight of Everett Logan’s green eyes looking down at me in horror.