For Mandy the day was frenzied. She’d expected that the initial maelstrom, fueled by footage of Bryce’s heroics, would ease off by noon. Quite the opposite happened. She tried to keep her congressman on schedule but it was entirely hopeless. Congress was in session, meaning everyone was in town, and there wasn’t a congressman, lobbyist, or staffer on the Hill who didn’t want a picture with the hero of the day—no doubt for instant posting to their social media pages.
To his credit, Bryce held up well. He gave sound bites Mandy couldn’t have scripted better herself. Patriotic, humble, strong. The arm sling was gone, implying a man who either healed quickly or endured pain well. Either way, a win. In seemingly every hall of the Rayburn building, Bryce was buttonholed for photos and sound bites. Without fail, he looked good and sounded good. Mandy couldn’t keep up with the messages on her phone, and by three that afternoon she was ignoring any contact below cabinet level. It was four thirty when they finally reached his office, closed the door, and instructed Janet, his receptionist, to pull up the drawbridge.
If Bryce’s office had any charm, it came from the stately writing desk along the back wall. The desk had been gifted him by his retiring predecessor, and from a hidden cabinet Bryce extracted a bottle of Barrel bourbon and two tumblers. He set them both up—a steward had supplied a bucket of ice—and handed Mandy a bracer.
“To the Unsub of the Watergate Hotel,” he said, lifting his glass with mock ceremony. “May all terrorists be such amateurs.”
Mandy clinked her tumbler to his but didn’t reply.
Bryce sank into a year-old chair behind his desk, its freshman leather crinkling like bubble wrap. He loosened his tie, leaned back, and crossed his legs indifferently on the desk. His sleeves were already rolled up, as they’d been all afternoon. Put a Budweiser and a remote in his hands, Mandy thought, and he could be settling in for a playoff game.
“How are you holding up?” she asked.
“Just great.”
“You and I have been through a lot, but never anything like this.”
“No politician in town has gone through anything like this.”
Her campaign manager lobe took over. “We can still get mileage out of it. I was thinking you could introduce a bill, maybe something about combating terrorism. You’d get a lot of cosponsors right now.”
“I could make it the price of a photo op,” he said flippantly, swiveling his chair toward the terrible view.
“Bryce, this is an opportunity to make some headway.”
“Headway?” he shot back. “You mean I should capitalize on some poor Muslim kid blowing himself up in the name of Allah?”
“That’s not what I meant. And how do you even know he was Muslim?”
“He looked like a raghead.”
She double-checked the door—thankfully it was closed tight. “I’ll thank you to keep such observations to yourself, congressman.”
He turned back to face her, his expression oddly distant. It was a look she’d never seen before. Mandy knew Dad Bryce and Photo Op Bryce and Town Hall Bryce. Right then it was … Stone Cold Bryce.
“Do you know how many men like that I’ve killed?” he asked in a dead tone.
Mandy set her drink silently on the desk. She was rarely speechless but had no idea how to respond. An uncomfortable silence settled. Bryce suddenly broke into a grin and began laughing.
“Had you going, didn’t I?”
She smiled back thinly.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going all PTSD on you.”
He got up and came around the desk, eased toward her. For the second time in a minute she was put off—this time not by his stare, but by his closeness. She looked up at his expressionless face, caught traces of a musky scent—this morning’s cologne on top of a hectic workday.
After a long moment, he snapped back the last of his drink and set the tumbler on the writing desk. “I gotta get home, Mandy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She stared at the door after he was gone. They’d been working together for two years now, and in all that time she’d never felt uncomfortable around Bryce. She wasn’t sure if she felt that way now.
“Well…” she murmured, tipping back the last of her own drink, “that was awkward.”
Sarah heard the front door open at the usual time, Alyssa arriving home from school after clubs. Two months ago, she’d been picking her up at the parent loop, but now friends were driving her home. Soon all bets would be off—she’d gotten her learner’s permit three months ago. Her daughter was growing up fast.
“Hi, Mom,” she called out, her voice cracked and brittle. On the verge of … something.
Sarah was ready with an apple and some leftover mac and cheese—Alyssa was always famished when she got home from school. “I’m in the kitchen.”
Her daughter came in and dropped her backpack on a chair as if punishing it.
“How was your day?” Sarah asked, sliding the snack warily across the counter.
Alyssa settled behind it with a glowering expression. “Okay.”
Sarah was familiar with her daughter’s moods—they’d been on clear display in recent years—yet this seemed beyond hormones. She moved to the opposite side of the counter.
“Want to talk about it?”
A heavy sigh. “The kids at school were insane today. Everywhere I went people were huddled around phones watching the videos of Dad. I even saw Mr. Guerlich doing it during our chemistry quiz.”
“I take it you’ve seen these videos?”
“Some of them. There are like five different ones now.”
“Are the kids teasing you about it?”
“No, it’s not that. I’ve gotten really popular all the sudden. It’s just that … they act like they’re watching trailers from some Hollywood movie. They laugh and joke about it. But to me…” her voice broke, “it’s my dad, and he almost died!”
Sarah walked around the counter and gave her daughter a hug. Tears began to flow.
She waited as a day’s worth of pent-up emotions subsided. The food helped, and they talked all the way to an empty plate. That was followed by a cup of half-caf. By the time Alyssa went upstairs to do homework, she was back on level ground.
Sarah felt herself tipping the other way.
She was cleaning up afterward, trying to predict what might arise at school tomorrow, when her phone buzzed. She saw a text from Bryce: Home late tonight. Sorry. Work is crazy. Love, B.
Sarah typed out the only viable reply: No problem. Will wait up for you. Love, S.