The Wrong Side of Right

It’s amazing how much one person can change the world, even if they don’t know they’re doing it.

Not because of you. You were perfect. Are perfect. You’re considerate, moral, brave. But you reminded me…”He couldn’t finish. I swallowed through a dry throat. “Of her.” “No.” He blinked. “Of me. Who I used to be. Somebody who would stick up for his friends, even if it was risky. Somebody who put other people first. Somebody who…” He let out a helpless laugh. “Somebody who screwed up a lot.

You’ll never have the chance to work this stuff out unless you give yourself the chance.

But it occurred to me suddenly that trust wasn't an object, not something that arrived on your doorstep, solid and absolute. It was a decision, a leap.

Next time,' I promised, knowing as I said it that it was a terrible, terrible, wonderful idea.

I’ve gotta go,” Andy said, turning to me with a frown. “But listen. Fuck this campaign. Do not let them tell you who you are. You’re not an idiot. You’re amazing, Kate Quinn. I see you.” He nodded at my confused expression. “I saw you right away. That stupid press conference, grabbing that stupid microphone. The real you. You’re better than all of them. Jesus . . .” He let out a desperate laugh. “You’re even nice to vending machines!

It's amazing how much one person can change the world, even if they don't know they're doing it.

There’s no shame in being born. I don’t have to apologize for that.

The senator cleared his throat, uncomfortable. This was probably new to him—the sensation of being ignored. I could’ve taught him a thing or two about it.

Out in the living room, the strategists were watching Fox News, and sure enough, there was the video of Andy, saying, “Um . . . yeah. My dad’s the president.” And sure enough, he did sound like an asshole. I burst out laughing and Nancy turned from the news to nod at me. “Thank God we’ve got you and not him,” she said, to resounding agreement from all the gathered staff.

I was about to admit to the twins how much braver they were than me, when Gabe cut in quietly. “You never talk about your mom.” The twins watched me try to form a response. “It’s because I miss her. So every time I talk about her, I get sad.” As Gabe took my hand, Gracie stood, sending the last bits of funnel cake scattering onto the ground. “We’re your family now.

I sat with my back to the door, muffling my tears, wishing my dead liberal mother were here, to tell them all to leave me alone, pack my bags for me, and take me home to our little stucco house a few short blocks from Penny, my best friend, who didn’t deserve to be a “major policy issue,” who I swore, I swore, I would never, ever apologize for.

The Lawrence campaign keeps dropping by. They want us to endorse the president.” “You should,” I muttered. “Kate!” She made a sound like she was punching me through the phone. “Shut up, you know we’re not doing that. Mom and Papi love your dad, especially now. It’s not like he did anything to hurt us.” “He didn’t do anything to help either.” “Yeah, he did,” she said. “That day at our house. He listened.

Before I reached the top of the steps, I reconsidered. I hurried back down, and Meg’s arms were open, ready, and then she held me tight, smoothing my hair over and over. I closed my eyes, trying to soak up her warmth, the smell of her moisturizer, the sharp line of her glasses against my head. “Good night, sweetheart,” she said.

He’s a hard person to get to know,” she said, making me think of Lou, how he’d defended the senator that day in HQ, said he was worth it. I wondered if he still felt that way. Meg winced, knowing it was the wrong thing to say, not the way she’d meant to start. “I want you to come home. And so do Gabe and Grace.” I raised my eyebrows. “Gracie too?” “She won’t stop crying. Practically clawed her way into the car with me.” That chastened me. “Oh God, I don’t want them to be upset. You guys mean a lot to me. It’s just really hard . . .” I sucked in a dry breath, struggling to finish the thought. “I can’t live with someone who doesn’t want me.

If I were voting in this election . . .” I shook my head. Then I turned to her. “And honestly, Meg? If you weren’t married to him, I don’t think you’d vote Cooper either.” She let out a little laugh. An admission. And after a moment, she sighed. “He’s a good man. That’s what I know.” “But I don’t know that. I don’t know him. After three months, I don’t know him at all. And . . . I’m not even sure I want to.

Quinn.” The voice on the other end of the line let out a melodramatic groan. “You are one tough person to track down.” My body went from hot to cold in a blink. Andy. He’d found me. He’d called. A month too late. I scowled into the flowery wallpaper. “And how did you get this number?” “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that my dad is the president?” Funny. “Why are you calling me?” “Because I’m finally allowed to.

But in between all the facts and dates . . . there are lives. I feel like that’s what history really is, a collection of decisions, things people did because of . . . I don’t know. What they were afraid of or what they hoped for. I like the human side of it. It’s amazing how much one person can change the world, even if they don’t know they’re doing it.

Of course it wasn’t easy. She’d put up a good front this weekend, but I could see the effort behind it. Every smile was strained, like she was sick and pretending to be healthy. Except she wasn’t sick. Just sad. Embarrassed. Her name was on the news now too. She was being called a victim all across America. Something told me that was not a role this woman relished.

Munson on Fox News is with us on this—the word heroic is out there.” She looked over her shoulder, gauging the senator’s reaction. “But that’s Fox.” “That’s Fox,” she repeated, riffling through the pages of a legal pad.

Nancy herself noted that the fact that Mom had run a food bank and soup kitchen for ten years and that I’d volunteered at the Cocina almost every day after school made for a “great backstory.” There was something so hollow about hearing Mom described as a backstory that my breath caught cold in my throat.

In front of me, Gabe’s hands trembled. His face was drained of blood, mouth set in a grim line. “Hey Gabe, hold my hand,” I said. He squinted, hesitating, then glanced up at his mom. The makeup girl was dabbing her nose with powder and she didn’t look down. I nudged my hand into his balled-up fist and leaned closer. “I’m scared too.” He peered up, blinked, and decided to believe me. Why shouldn’t he? It was true. My hand was disgustingly clammy, but I think that was comforting to him, proof that I was as terrified as he was. He squeezed it tight.

She’s a good kid,” the senator said. No matter how many times I replayed it in my head that night—as the plane descended and touched down, as we drove away, as my body welcomed my bed but my brain refused to yield—it still sounded like he was talking about somebody else. An intern, maybe, or a friend’s child. Not his own. “She’s a good kid” was the beginning and the end of that thought. It was the sentiment of somebody who wasn’t curious to learn any more.