The List (29 page)

I walked past the house, trying to look natural. I didn’t want to leave the street
for fear of missing Sandro, so I went to the church. I was a somewhat practicing Episcopalian.
They weren’t going to turn me away.

Or maybe they were. The doors were locked. I was being rejected by God. Which made
perfect sense, since I was using the church as my cover while I stalked a married
man and tried to get information out of him. I sank onto the stone steps to contemplate
my poor life choices of late.

“They only have evening service on Thursday, I’m afraid,” said a voice behind me.
It was a woman with dark hair, graying in the front, and a distinct Brooklyn accent.

“Oh, okay. Thank you,” I said, turning around.

The woman, who was forty-five or so, gave me a big smile, probably because I looked
like a supercommitted Christian on the verge of a religious breakdown. When she was
twenty feet past me, I moved away from the church door and walked down the block.
Maybe I could just sit on the stoop of a house and
pretend I lived there. If the owner came home, I would just apologize and say I had
the wrong address.

I crossed the street and sat on the stairs of a ghastly bright red town house and
tried to look natural. All the lights were off in the house, so it had to be empty.
I wasn’t worried. In my dress, I even kind of blended in with the wall. Maybe no one
would notice me.

Just before eight o’clock, when I was starting to get both uncomfortable and paranoid
that I was going to get picked up for squatting, I saw Sandro. He was walking in from
the north side of the church, and he was alone. He was carrying his suit jacket and
wearing gray pants and a pink button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked
handsome, but tired and certainly not in the mood to receive an unexpected visit from
me.

When he was a block away from his elegant house, I walked down the steps of the house
across the street and headed up the block toward him. I wanted him to see me, smile,
walk over to me. I wanted it all to be natural. We would fall in love organically,
and he would leave his cheating wife for me as if it were as inevitable as the ebb
and flow of the tide.

But he didn’t even notice me. I had to call his name. He looked startled, like I had
woken him out of a comforting daydream.

“Adrienne. What are you doing here?” he asked, not sounding particularly happy.

“I . . . ” What was I going to say? I had expected him to look a bit more excited.
At Oyamel, he had said he liked talking to me, that we should do it again. And he
said I was pretty and touched my hair! So here I was, ready and able to conversate
and interrogate. Or procreate. Whatever he wanted.

“Do you know that I live on this street?” he asked. He sounded more curious than suspicious.
I loved his voice. It was smooth and even and easy.

“Yes, I do. I know that you live here,” I admitted. “I was hoping to run into you.”

“You were?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” I admitted, stretching out the word.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“No,” I said, trying to make my lie sound convincing. “I wasn’t waiting for you. I
was just hoping that I would run into you. And here you are.”

“Yes, here I am,” he said, flashing a minuscule hint of a smile. He looked at his
locked front door, then back at me, and said, “Well, why don’t you come in.”

I was about to step into Olivia and Sandro’s house.

As soon as my feet hit the hardwood floor of the entryway, I felt like an intruder.
This was Olivia’s house. Her marital home! Sure, she was having an affair in Middleburg,
but she wasn’t getting biblical in my bed. I had no right to intrude on her space,
on her life. But when Sandro put his hand on the small of my back and led me into
the living room, my common sense decided to wait for me outside.

The wide, airy, light-filled room was full of dark wood furniture and low modern couches.
A huge screen print of the Texas plains hung on the wall above a brick fireplace,
which was dotted with framed photographs. In a large, thick silver frame, I noticed
what must have been Olivia and Sandro’s wedding picture and looked quickly away.

I had not gone there to tell Sandro about Olivia’s affair—I just wanted to get a feel
for how much he knew. But standing in his living room alone with him, I felt morally
obligated to blurt out the torrid details. And after glimpsing the big wedding picture,
I was starting to feel that any kind of relationship between his wife and Stanton
would be news to him. He probably only knew the senator’s name from CNN or Olivia’s
articles. Even if
they were both working on immigration reform, I doubted Sandro was acquainted with
Olivia’s style of work.

If I told him the details, maybe he would leave Olivia on the spot, shoot Stanton
in the leg, and run into my waiting arms. That sounded fantastic. But first, he would
probably tell his wife that he knew about Stanton, and my entire story would be blown.
There would be no big article. No congratulatory handshakes from Upton. No payoff
for my months of hard work. Did I really want love—or a chance at love—that badly?

He walked over to me as I weighed my options. His hands were in his pockets, and the
top button of his pink dress shirt was undone.

“What do you want to tell me?” he asked. He was close to me now. “Is it about Olivia?
Is she okay?”

He smelled like he did that night at the Hilton.

“It is about Olivia,” I said. “But it can wait.” I said, buying a little time. “How
about a drink? A beer? I could use a beer.” That part was actually very true.

“Sure,” said Sandro, relaxing a little. “I’ll get us some beers. Come to the kitchen
with me?”

Olivia Campo’s kitchen? Of course I would go to Olivia Campo’s kitchen. I was pretty
sure it was filled with rows of sharp knives to bludgeon Christine Lewis with. But
sadly, it was more Martha Stewart than Freddy Krueger. It was all white with pale
marble countertops and a turquoise Smeg fridge.

“Cool fridge,” I said as Sandro reached for two Coronas. I ignored the picture of
them tacked up on the freezer. They were in Mexico City in front of a Diego Rivera
mural and looked mighty happy. No, he couldn’t know about her and Stanton. I hoped
that picture got ripped in two when I broke the news. There was also a small American
flag and a picture of Olivia and two older people who must have been her parents,
in a large silver frame
on the windowsill above the kitchen’s double sink. They were all smiling and sitting
on the bleachers in Cowboys Stadium in Dallas. It almost looked like a fake backdrop.
I knew she was from Texas but I couldn’t imagine her ever attending a sporting event.
I was sure she considered sports just another opiate for the masses. But here she
was, wearing white and blue, smiling with her parents. I tried to look at the picture
without obviously looking at the picture and noticed that Olivia’s mother had red
hair, too, but hers was a nice blondish red, not like Olivia’s.

It was confirmed. She had parents. Satan didn’t escort her to earth.

I walked to the other end of the kitchen where Sandro was standing, but the sight
of a stainless steel Cuisinart mixer sidetracked me. And was that a cookbook on baking
cakes and pies? Olivia baked? I would have been less surprised to see a huge pile
of cocaine and condoms.

“Olivia bakes?” I asked Sandro, pumping my voice full of fake enthusiasm. “When she
has time,” replied Sandro, looking at the mixer that had stopped me in my tracks.
“Which isn’t often. But she likes to; it relaxes her. She makes an amazing passion
fruit cheesecake. Hasn’t she ever brought any to the office?”

Olivia. Bring baked goods to the office. Maybe if Rachael Ray pointed a gun to her
head and forced her to.

“I don’t think she ever has,” I replied. “I love to bake though,” I added, sucking
up to Sandro. “You should taste my French frosted cherries jubilee à la mode. Award-winning
family recipe.” Where did I get that? That was a completely made-up dish. Luckily
Sandro didn’t present me with a baking tin and a bag of cherries; he just smiled and
handed me my beer.

Sandro jumped up to sit on the marble-covered island in the middle of the kitchen
and pointed at a stool for me to perch on. I could see his triceps rippling through
his shirt. I wanted to die.
I wanted to latch my jaw around his arm muscle like a piranha and never let go.

“Grab a seat,” he said, handing me a sliver of lime and then lightly smacking his
bottle against mine. “I’m glad you ran into me on purpose. Sorry I was unpleasant
earlier. I was just a little surprised to see you and I had a horrible day at work.
I couldn’t get in touch with Olivia and I’m dealing with something messy in El Salvador.
Anyway, I’m rambling. In short, sorry I was rude. I’m glad to see you.”

There, better. Now we were on the right track. I would go home and put celebrity wedding
planner Mindy Weiss on my speed dial.

“I like what you’re wearing,” said Sandro as I repositioned my dress so that my butt
wasn’t touching the counter. “You’re always wearing these bright colors when I see
you. It’s rare for a reporter. And for Washington. You look like you should be on
vacation. Ever been to Mexico?”

I had. I went to Cancún for spring break and let a basketball player from the University
of Florida do tequila shots off my stomach. But I might save that story for later
on in our relationship.

“Not really,” I said. “Spring break, but that doesn’t count.”

“Tourism is tourism,” said Sandro, laughing. “But I’m from Mexico City. A highly underrated
place.”

“If it’s such a magical place, then why do so many Mexicans want to come to the U.S.?”
I was aware that my question sounded ignorant, but I didn’t know how else to bring
up immigration, besides idiotically.

Sandro smiled and took a swig of his beer. “Oh, you want to get deep, do you?” he
said, laughing. He didn’t seem cagey or even offended. Instead, he gave me a speech
about family connections and job opportunities, and while he said he sympathized
with the border crossers, he didn’t say anything scandalous. “In case you’re wondering,
I’m here legally,” he added, winking at me. I melted and quickly asked him about college
instead of sliding down the counter to rip off his pants.

Sandro told me what a shock it was to move to Texas when he was eighteen, how jarring
it was to go to school with fifty thousand people.

“But then I met Olivia and things got much better,” he explained. “She was beautiful,
so different from anyone I knew at home and just very opinionated and motivated. A
little like she is now, actually.”

Gross. That’s not what Olivia was like. She was
a lot
opinionated and motivated and unfaithful.

“Are you married?” he asked me after he jumped down from the counter and grabbed two
more beers out of the fridge.

“Me? No, no, not close at all,” I said nervously. “I’m dating someone, I guess, but,
nothing very serious.”

He pushed a lime wedge into my second beer with his thumb and handed it to me. When
I grabbed it, he didn’t let go and I was left grasping his hand while he grinned.
We stayed like that for what felt like minutes, until I pulled the beer away and he
jumped back on the counter.

“You’re very quirky, you know. It’s pretty adorable,” he said, before taking a swig.

I was quirky? Quirky? Wasn’t that how you described girls with funky glasses and thunder
thighs? I didn’t want to be quirky. I wanted to be seductive and mysterious. Everyone
always called Payton seductive and mysterious. Even when she was sixteen. I was twenty-eight
and I was still quirky.

“So, what was it you were going to say about Olivia?” said Sandro, scooting over to
where I was sitting. “Some workplace gossip?”

“Well, kind of,” I said, my heart beating faster. Could I really do this? Was I really
going to spill my story and ruin my chances of pole-vaulting to the top of the
List
just so I could make out with Sandro? And who knew if he would even lunge at me with
an open mouth. Maybe hearing the worst news of his life wouldn’t inspire a make out
session.

But I had confirmed what I wanted to confirm. He didn’t know about Olivia and Stanton.
I was pretty sure of that. And now I had the chance to tell him.

But instead of continuing, I leaned into him and put my face up to his. I looked him
in the eyes, closed mine, and fell closer. We were kissing. His lips were on mine,
and his hands were on my back. I felt every inch of him against me. His breath, his
body, the scruff of his stubbly face. I was completely wrapped up in his arms. He
held on to me tightly. His hands moved up and down my back; the right one was in my
hair again. We kissed harder, faster, he pulled me in even closer . . .

And then, suddenly, it stopped. He pushed me away from him and dropped his hands to
his sides.

“What are you doing?” he said. “You kissed me. Jesus! Why did you kiss me?” And before
I had a chance to answer, he shook his head and started walking toward the living
room. “You can’t be here,” he said firmly. “I’m married. Very married. And you know
my wife.”

“You . . . you! You called me adorable. You held my hand. And the other night at the
restaurant, you ran your fingers through my hair!”

“I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry,” said Sandro, pacing nervously. “But I’m
married. To your colleague!”

But she’s cheating on you.

Now I was absolutely sure that he had no idea what his wife was doing. He wouldn’t
be reacting this way if he did. I wanted
to blow up a photo of Olivia and the senator cavorting naked. What would he say then?
Would he pull me back into his arms and kiss me like that again?

“I’m sorry,” I said, angry and more embarrassed than I had ever been in my life. I
felt like I was standing naked in front of him with “I love you Sandro” tattooed across
my chest. “I’m so sorry. You gave me signals; I thought you wanted that. I’m sorry,”
I said, hesitating in the doorway. But he shut the green door so quickly that it almost
clipped my heels.