#newsflash

Even the few friends you still had after your breakup couldn’t stop gushing all over their love story.

Until three months ago, you’d believed you were going to become Mrs. Matthew Walsh one day.

He’d told you to wait, to be patient for his family to finally accept you.

You remained the dirty little secret he hid from the public eye for years. Matt didn’t hold your hand or invite you for dinner at one of those fancy restaurants his sister bragged about.

Hiding your love wasn’t ideal, but you adapted and hoped for him to stand up against his family one day. Newsflash: he didn’t.

He chose your anniversary three months ago to announce his engagement to some other woman. The same woman who had dropped him the moment some richer and hotter guy showed up.

Serene, a vision of a woman. A typical girl who was born into wealth. She never lifted a finger to earn money. Her parents spoiled her rotten. So, she went from letting her parents pay for everything to having a wealthy fiancé.

“You zoned out again, Y/N,” your new boss of three months said. He took you in after you lost your job because you couldn’t bring yourself to even get out of bed after Matthew threw you away like trash. “What’s bothering you?”

You glanced at your boss, wondering once again how he always seems to sense your distress. Sergei knew what happened. He saw the social media posts your ex-boyfriend made this morning. Matthew called Serene the love of his life. Not so long ago, he called you that, too.

“I hate seeing you sad; let me take you out for dinner.” A question was not in his words. “Come.”

He took the papers out of your hands and grabbed your wrist. You felt a little dizzy when his hands moved to your waist to bring you closer to his chest. “You make it very hard to think.”

Kraven smirked as he said, “Good. I’m going to make you forget all about that bastard…”

Part 2

As soon as you step foot into the Channel 9 studio, an intern herds you into a dressing room for hair and makeup. For the next hour, hands tug on your strands and tilt your head every which way to apply various powders and creams. The chaotic flurry, although intimidating, keeps your mind off what’s about to happen. 

But now that it’s over and all that’s left to do is wait, everything comes flooding back. You’re here, about to be on DC’s most well-known morning news show, professing your love for Claire in front of a live studio audience. What could go wrong?

Everything, your traitorous mind supplies. 

The pent up energy flows out through your fingers, tapping an unrecognizable rhythm into your other arm. You could trip on your way to the stage. You might clam up in front of questions like you did during the Daily Bugle interview. What if you can't find words to say or your throat closes up or—or—you get itchy with hives, or even faint?

Your stomach twists itself into knots and the skin of your lower back flares with heat.

Claire, charming and suave senator-extraordinaire, deserves to be with someone whose anxiety doesn't keep them from supporting her. Especially a fake girlfriend. You should leave, now, before Claire inexplicably ties herself to you in front of the entire nation.

A warm hand covers your own, stopping the thoughts in their tracks. For a moment, your mind is blissfully silent and your fingers settle.  

“I have half a mind to keep this for myself,” Claire says, her voice soft and melodic in the early morning. She dangles an iced coffee in front of you and smiles warmly. “You’re freezing. I don’t know how your fingers haven't fallen off yet."

“Thank you,” you mumble distractedly, carefully avoiding your friend’s eyes as you reach out for the drink. You miss the twinkle in icy blue eyes that reveal Claire’s mischievous mood.

“Anything for my darling girlfriend, the one and only youngest-ever EPA head scientist,” she drawls, her eyes following the line of your neck where you feel the heat of a blush creeping up. 

When you fail to react in your usual sheepish manner, Claire’s demeanor instantly changes. Her smile drops and her forehead crinkles. “Oh no, what’s wrong?”

You barely notice the tug on your arm, dragging you into the nearest dressing room. The make-up artists and hair stylists lounge about still, chatting as they await for the next guests to arrive. Claire gives them a hard stare and they—smartly—make themselves scarce. That’s one thing you’ve never understood about Claire—how she can go from the most caring and attentive human you’ve ever met to someone who effortlessly commands attention and obedience with a single glare. It’s honestly kind of scary. 

Not too scary, apparently. You swear one of the artists winks before strolling away and closing the door behind him, but your thoughts are too scattered—mind working too slowly—to determine whether it was your imagination or not. 

You're gently nudged into a chair. The warmth of Claire's touch settles on your knees. Her face appears in your line of sight as she squats down, expression full of concern. 

No one says anything for a long moment, not until a quiet determination takes over Claire's body. "Why don't I take you home and make breakfast? We can skip out on all this and do something better. No one watches Channel 9 anymore anyway," she says, eyes soft. It's a lie. You both know it. Phyllis and Fred have the number one most-watched morning show in the nation. 

Your breath catches in your throat. Kneeling at your feet is a woman who offers to commit career suicide because your breathing is uneven. Not one thousand years of living like Mother Theresa could make you worthy of Claire Debella.

The dressing room door bursts open. You only notice because it's the first time Claire takes her eyes off you, glaring at the entrance with a force usually reserved for talking across the aisle. Once she realizes it's only Jen, Claire raises her eyes towards the ceiling---whether to ask for strength or forgiveness, you aren't sure.

"Jen," Claire greets with false cheer, "what can I do for ya?"

Jen, as it seems, is not having it. Clearly unamused, the campaign manager crosses her arms and taps her toe against the ground, almost like she wants to stomp but stops herself. She makes a show of uncovering her watch and sighing at the time. "Call time's in five. Let's go."

Claire's shoulders square and her eyes grow steely. Preparing for battle. "Actually, I need you to cancel."

"Cancel?" Jen scoffs. "Are you out of your mind? Do you know the kind of chaos you'd—"

"Yes, I do. And I don't care." Claire's grip on your thigh tightens almost painfully. "Do I need to remind you that—"

You clear your throat, loudly, then interrupt. "Would you mind grabbing me a bottle of water?" you ask, giving Claire the best wide-eyed gaze you can muster.

And just as you predicted, Claire leaps to her feet. "Yeah, of course. Be right back." She makes it halfway to the door before doubling back. A hurried kiss is bestowed upon your forehead and a glare over your shoulder to Jen, then your friend disappears. 

"I don't know what the hell you did to have her wrapped around your pretty little finger like that, but I know damn well if you're the reason my perfect election percentage is ruined Claire won't be able to do anything to save you. I thought you cared about Claire—"

In the end, your decision is easy and it has nothing to do with Jen's rant. You close your eyes and allow yourself a steadying breath. "Can you get me on stage, please? Before I lose my nerve?"

Jen must see something on your face because her lips part and a soft "oh" escapes. 

You take little pleasure in her shock before she's leading you to the evicted beauty team near the door to the set. In a flurry of movement, they reapply their products as you get the worst pep talk of your life.

Jen keeps one hand wrapped around your bicep, either to make sure you don't run away or to keep you grounded. Maybe a mixture of both, because she's clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing. You're somewhat charmed by it, actually. Jen is clearly out of her element yet makes the effort, however clunky it may be.

"Remember, law of averages," she starts, "someone, somewhere, is going to do worse than you are."

The person reapplying your setting powder stops to stare at her and you let out an indignant huff. Was that supposed to be motivating?

Jen shifts her weight between feet. "What? You're a scientist, right? It's science. Or math, maybe. I didn't want to say 'break a leg' because knowing you, you'd actually do it and Claire would try to sue me. And she would win. I'm sure you'll be perfectly adequate. Wax on, wax off. All that jazz. Now shoo, I hear stilettos."

It's something like an apology, you think as you use all the confidence you're capable of to make a beeline to the plush chartreuse armchairs in the middle of the stage. It's accepted.

You straighten your clothes as you sit. Claire's voice carries across the room with a worried edge. "Hey Jen, I can't find—have you seen—"

A head of dark hair tilts in your direction. 

Claire stills. Her eyes find yours. There's a pause, then she shakes her head with amusement. The bottle of water is tossed at Jen before your friend joins you on stage, taking the seat between you and the hosts. 

A producer checks that everyone is ready, then uses his fingers to count down from three. On zero, he points to the cameraman and the show is live. The lights are bright and in your face, but any queasiness you might feel evaporates as Claire settles her arm in a way that the entire thing is in contact with your own. 

After the intro is completed, Phyllis turns to you. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re so smitten with you two. Tell us, how did you know you were smitten with Senator Debella?”

Claire spares a quick glance in your direction. Her hand shoots out to grip yours as she turns her attention to the hosts. “I hope you can understand, there’s some things we want to keep to ourselves to—”

Phyllis and Fred’s hopeful expressions turn slightly sour as she speaks and you can see Claire’s election campaign crumbling in front of your eyes, all because of your nerves. “It’s alright, Claire.” You shoot her a reassuring smile and pat her hand. This is something you can do. 

Turning your attention back to the hosts, you prepare to answer. “I knew I was falling for her when I was speaking with another senator, actually. I won’t name any names, but she asked how I dealt with a certain male senator on the committee who couldn’t keep his comments or hands to himself.” You pause for a breath. Claire’s eyes feel hot on your skin, but you keep your attention on Phyllis. You’re not sure you can do this if you say it directly to your friend, lest she see the truth in your words. 

You swallow around a dry throat. “I had no idea what she was talking about. No one ever made any untoward comments while in the upper house.” When you pause the second time, Claire’s hand squeezes your own, reassurance gifted through touch. “I thought back to all my interactions with the male senator. That’s when I realized Claire was there. Every. Single. Time. She had put herself between us since my very first day.”

When Claire’s grip fails to loosen, you chance a peak in her direction. Her wide-eyed baby blues stare back at you in disbelief and her lips part ever so slightly. 

“She’s always looking out for me, since before we were even friends.” You avert your eyes, unable to say the next part without letting Claire see the true depths of your emotions. “I don’t know how I couldn’t fall for her after that.”

Claire’s free hand covers her mouth in shock. Barely audible, she whispers, “You knew about that?” 

“Yeah,” you squeeze her hand back with a small smile, “I knew about that.”

Claire opens her mouth to say something but she’s cut off by a choked sob. Both of you, stunned, turn to your hosts. You almost forgot they were there. 

Phyllis rubs Fred’s back in soothing circles. “There, there,” she consoles.

Fred, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, cries softly. “It—it—it’s such a sweet story.” He finally looks up, tears staining his dark cheeks. “That’s true love right there,” he says, nodding between you and Claire. 

Phyllis watches him adoringly, running her fingers through his cropped salt-and-pepper curls. She only stops when a producer rushes on stage to hand her a box of tissues. Phyllis pushes one into her husband's hands and loops an arm into his before looking up at you. 

“While Fred calms down, why doesn’t Senator Debella tell us her own story?” Phyllis nods encouragingly in Claire’s direction. 

The Senator laughs. “Well, look at her, she’s gorgeous. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her.” She softens, watching you with watery eyes. Claire blinks them away and your heart clenches in sympathy. “It was the first session of the year and Senate Majority Leader Pelosi began her welcome speech.”

Claire releases a breathy chuckle, barely audible. "I remember, I was in a particularly foul mood. Some intern decided it was a good idea to take my designated parking space and I had to walk like eight blocks to make it on time. I guess word got around, because no one dared to sit within three seats of me.

"That didn't stop her though." The fingers of her free hand do nothing to cover Claire's wry smile, although she tries. "She comes barging in through the door a few minutes late---half her blouse untucked, hair disheveled, and sunglasses all askew."

You're so enthralled by the way she speaks with her hands, mimicking the sunglasses placement, you don't even remember to be embarrassed. Claire is so enchanting, you wouldn't be surprised to learn you forgot to breathe for the remainder of the story. Her next words certainly take your breath away.

"I've never seen anything more attractive in my life," she says. She does so simply, like it doesn't tilt your entire world on its axis, gravity giving away, contributing to a weightless feeling in the bottom of your stomach. Without realizing, you squeeze Claire's hand in yours, tethering yourself to the present. 

"She falls into the seat directly next to me, almost spilling her coffee on me in the process. I recognized her as the new EPA director from her confirmation hearing," Claire continues. "I guess the bad mood got the best of me and I said to her, 'I thought single-use plastic was like kryptonite to environmentalists.'

"Instead of getting annoyed, she started ranting about how turtles are more affected by plastic bags, and if we're going to ban anything, it should be those, and people with disabilities rely on accommodations such as straws and it would be unfair to take them away when there are other, more useful steps to take against plastic pollution. 

"Then, she turns to me all sheepish, and says, 'Paper straws make everything taste like cardboard and metal straws make coffee even more bitter. I do a lot for the environment and plastic straws are one concession I refuse to make.'

"Before I have the chance to respond, she tilts her head toward the front of the room and asks if it's like that every time." Claire tears her eyes from you and turns to look directly in the camera, breaking the moment. “Sorry, Nancy. I love you, but you’re a little long-winded on the floor.”

The audience chuckles as do the hosts. You're grateful for a moment of respite, but you can't help admiring Claire's ability to break the tension and make everyone around her comfortable. 

"And that was it," Claire finishes. "It was incredibly refreshing to meet someone so successful who doesn't take themselves too seriously, like a lot of people on Capitol Hill. She's a breath of fresh air in a city full of smog. I knew I wanted her in that very moment, but I decided to play the long game."

"And by long game, you mean friendship?" Phyllis questions.

Claire's politician smile morphs into something softer, more natural-looking on her face. "We didn't stop talking the entire session," she confirms. "I even walked her out to her car—and you could never guess this—she was the one who stole my parking spot, just to try to get a coffee without being late."

The audience's amused bouts of laughter almost cover the sound of your gasp. "I've been using that parking spot for years!" Your eyes bug out of your head. Why would you give that up for me?, you want to ask. Instead, what you say is, "Why didn't you tell me?"

With an odd lack of confidence, Claire shrugs noncommittally. Nevertheless, she smiles back at you, eyes twinkling with unguarded affection. "Why do you think I insist on carpooling when the weather is bad?"

"You told me it was because your car has a precipitation mode!"

Claire waves you off. "Semantics."

Phyllis and Fred watch with soft expressions. “Seems to have worked out for you both.” Phyllis squeezes her husband's shoulders. “You two remind me of us.”

She seems to pull herself together, remembering the discussion is supposed to be an interview. Phyllis clears her throat. "Senator, you mentioned a conversation about pollution. Has your budding romance influenced your stance on climate change or in policymaking?"

Claire straightens in the chair and her expression takes on a careful neutrality. "Yes and no. I've always been a staunch advocate for green policies, but a certain someone," she glances back at you and pats your knee, "has definitely opened my eyes to the science behind all of it. I have a greater appreciation for all the work being done in the EPA. That's the reasoning behind my bill, the People Before Plastic Bill, which aims to..."

You zone out as Claire utilizes the segue into politics, and therefore her campaign. Here, like this, she is in her element---it's where she is supposed to be. You make sure to smile and nod in all the right places, but you don't pay attention to the contents of the words spoken around you. Before you know it, Fred is thanking you for being on the show and Claire is leading you off the stage and away from the cameras. 

"You okay?" she asks as soon as you're out of earshot.

"Yes," you respond without really thinking about it. You're surprised that it doesn't feel like a lie. Perhaps Claire's presence was calming enough that what you said is actually true.

Before you can think on it any more, you're pulled into a bone-crushing hug. One arm tightens around your back and another holds your head to Claire's chest. From where your head is tucked underneath her chin, you let her scent waft over you and the warmth of her skin soak into your bones. Here, you feel safe. 

"Thank you," she says low enough that you almost miss it. You don't ask what for, you simply close your eyes. The folds of her navy blazer are no doubt imprinting themselves on your face but you can't find it within yourself to care. 

"Come on, before Jen finds us," Claire says once she deems the hug has gone on long enough, "we're going to get ice cream."

You pull back just far enough to meet her eyes. "Claire, it's not even eight am." It's not so much a protest as it is a question. 

"So?" She releases you from her embrace but doesn't step out of your space. "I've seen you drink frappes with way more sugar way earlier in the day. What's the difference?"

Claire turns and starts walking but doesn't make it very far before deciding she needs to check if you're following. You are, of course, but you still grumble about ice cream being deficient in caffeine. 

You're certain she couldn't have heard you, but as you round the car she responds, "You can always get coffee flavored."

-

As it turns out, no ice cream shops in the DC area open with the sunrise. That's how you find yourselves in an empty 7/11 parking lot, chiseling cookie dough from a shared pint of ice cream with flimsy plastic spoons. Another concession, it seems. 

It's relatively quiet in the area, but you can still make out the low hum of cars in the distance over the car's heat. Turning the heat on in the spring seemed ludicrous to you, but Claire insisted upon it. To her credit, the ice cream was easier to eat now that it was slightly thawed. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Claire glancing in your direction every so often. There's a tension in the air that you can't explain, but it's thick like the fog outside.

Eventually, Claire sighs and says what's on her mind. She approaches it softly, like you're a wild animal and she doesn't know whether you'll bite or not. The ice cream is passed over to you and she twists in the dark leather seat. 

"You know that I care about you, right?"

"Yeah," you answer slowly, as if you might be missing important context. Was that a trick question?

Claire sighs again and her eyes find something outside the driver's side window to focus on. It takes her a moment, but she gets the next words out. "And that care," she starts, "you know that it's more than I care about—" She gestures vaguely in front of her. "—the campaigning."

You stare at her quizzically, not sure what she's getting at.

She glances away again, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. It's that, that familiar gesture, that slaps you in the face. Claire is nervous.

You don't think you've ever seen Claire nervous.

A pause. You aren't sure what she needs in the moment, but you finally decide to do what she does for you in moments dripping in anxiety. Distraction.

"You're really good at that, you know."

Claire finally looks up and quirks a brow in question.

"I almost believed you." You swallow around a bite of ice cream. "Earlier, at the studio. I almost believed you."

Her posture deflates like all the air was being pulled from her body. She doesn't hesitate to latch onto the change in subject. "Only almost? I guess I have some work to do before our next acting gig."

You can't help the soft snort that escapes. "Yeah, that part about me being unbelievably attractive was, well, unbelievable. I thought politicians were supposed to be good liars."

It was meant to be a joke—a way to get Claire to lighten up, maybe laugh—but it has the opposite effect. Claire frowns, the lines in her face deepening.

"Honey, I wasn't lying," she assures, and it hangs in the air like a confession, although you can't quite put your finger on why. Claire clears her throat. "Not completely. I knew you were special then and I wasn't wrong."

You can't help but flinch slightly at the declaration. 

"Hey," the pad of a finger finds the underside of your chin, gently pulling you back, "I wasn't wrong. You're the most important person in my life." The besides Jen isn't voiced aloud yet you still hear it. 

Your eyes burn and your throat swells with residual emotion. She sounds so resolute. So sure. That's enough for tears to threaten to spill, but one thing stops you from being truly happy in the moment.

You manage to find Claire's gaze without falling to pieces. "But how am I supposed to know what's part of the act and what isn't?"

Claire opens her mouth to speak but her cell, connected to the car, rings. She doesn't acknowledge it at all, actually. "I'm not acting," she says over the shrill tones. Long fingers jab at the screen until they find the end call button. "Don't you trust me?"

The hurt in her voice makes your heart ache, but you're saved from answering by the phone's repeat performance. "You should probably get that."

"It's just Jen," Claire says, not taking her eyes off you for even a second. "She can wait."

The phone rings for a third time in as many minutes. "Could be important."

She knows you're right. Claire sighs, giving in. Before she answers the call she makes sure to tell you, "Fine. But we're talking about this later."

You nod in acknowledgement as Jen's loud voice fills the vehicle. 

"Where the hell did you two run off together this time? I even checked all the stalls in the ladies' room for you. Then, I make my way out to the parking garage to find I've been abandoned."

Claire winces. Her mouth opens to attempt to speak but Jen continues.

"You know what? I don't even care. You're trending. Teens are making edits of you on TikTok. Do you know what this means?"

"Uh," Claire blinks, lost, "they...like us?"

Jen groans. "You're lucky you've got the looks or this campaign would not be worth the amount of effort it is to have a client who refuses to be on social media," she rants good-naturedly. "They don't just like you, they love you. My guess is you'll have a ship name by the end of the day."

Claire mouths, 'Ship name?' 

You shake your head. You'll explain it to her later.

"That said, we still have work to do. Claire, I cancelled your lunch with Governor Lucas. Make sure your girlfriend is free. We have an appointment at one."

"What kind of appointment?"

"The kind with Doctor Trish," Jen states simply.

You stare at the dashboard, stricken. "Doctor Trish the intimacy counselor?!"

"Oh good, I won't have to do the introductions then. Don't be late."

The line goes dead.