It wasn’t until years later, when Cleo had extricated herself from the messiness of the affair, that she had seen it for what it was. She had written it on her list, yes, but that was just the regret. The pain, the secrets, the shame, all of it. They had been careful. Meticulous. Because it was in both of their natures. Amy hadn’t ever caught them, and if she suspected anything, Cleo never heard.

Back then, she had blamed herself as much as she had blamed him. She could have left that night. She could have turned him down. She hadn’t gone there seeking anything physical, but she hadn’t gotten up and left when his motives became clear.

Even now, she understood that there was still plenty of blame to go around. She wasn’t one to shirk that. Never had been. But years later, her perspective had shifted. That it was never an equal decision, that he was her professor, that he was the one with the power and the advice and the recommendations, and though, yes, she was a consenting adult, what they both did was wrong. But what he did was more wrong. He knew she wanted a full-time position at his firm; he knew her grades were in his hands; he knew that by initiating the affair, he left Cleo with few good options. To spurn him in that moment in his kitchen meant she risked all of the above; to spurn him down the line meant the same. Cleo knew, in hindsight, that she probably should never have gone there in the first place, to that dinner, eaten his chicken, toasted with her wine. But like so many regrets, once you’d set those actions in motion, they felt impossible to undo.

Certainly back then, Nobells, once it started, seemed impossible to undo. And even now too.

Cleo stood and clasped her hands together, stretching her shoulders and rolling her neck. She had lost track of time, and her whole body, not just her head, ached with a dull throb. She reached into her bag, pulled out the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and splayed it on her desk.

MaryAnne’s ad had been an echo of her op-ed. A large-font headline about Cleo’s marred character, some lines about her ethics and her judgment and how she was a cheater. How cheaters shouldn’t run our government, how cheaters shouldn’t be our collective moral voice. (Cleo knew that MaryAnne walked it right up to the slander line, probably consulted with lawyers, probably could back it up with facts. MaryAnne was smart enough not to risk a lawsuit, and so was the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.) Cleo ran her fingers over all the cheaters, then pressed her palms against the paper, its grit chalky on her fingertips.

The plan came together in her mind quickly, and she moved ahead, without consulting Gaby, without second-guessing herself. These were usually her best decisions—the ones that came from her gut. She knew this next step, hell, this next regret—undoing what she thought to be impossible—had to be big, to be a real reckoning, and she knew exactly the person who could help her.

She sat in her chair and cracked her knuckles. Grabbed her phone.

Cleo: Going to New York this weekend for something kind of top secret. Want to tag along? No questions until I say so.

He wrote her back within seconds.

Bowen: Mysterious. I’m in.

TWELVE

Cleo had been set to return to New York for the weekend for a few events with her constituents; thus it wasn’t even all that hard to slip away from Gaby, who was distracted by Oliver Patel’s arrival. He was landing Thursday night, so though she and Cleo and Cleo’s five legislative assistants were ostensibly set to prep for a meeting with Senator Jackman on the free housing deal, Gaby left the office early to “beautify,” and Cleo could make her New York plan in peace.

“This whole thing,” Gaby had said earlier that morning, swooping her hand from the top of her head to as far as it could drop. “I’m cleaning up this whole thing.”

Arianna happened to be in Cleo’s office at the time and piped in unprompted.

“Natural is back, by the way,” she said, and Cleo and Gaby both tilted their heads and stared. Arianna’s cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry? Should I not have said that? Oh God, oh God, I’m sorry! You’re a senator. I mentioned pubic hair in front of a senator.”

“Well, for one,” Gaby replied, “you didn’t mention pubic hair until now. But for two, OK, thank you. Noted.”

“We’re tired of putting our bodies through pain for men,” Arianna said, and for the first time, Cleo thought she had potential. Not because she wasn’t interested in having hot wax near her vagina (because when you thought about it, Arianna was much saner than Gaby), but rather because it was a strident notion that shouldn’t have been strident at all: that these things we do for beauty cause us pain, and who ever said that pain should be a requirement?

“I like that.” Cleo nodded. “I like the point your generation is making.” She herself had recently been considering Botox, not for a man but because youthfulness mattered to public perception. She gazed at Arianna for a beat. Actually, maybe that was for men too. Men had for so long dictated what was and wasn’t beautiful, what was and wasn’t youthful, and let it not be forgotten that youthfulness was more coveted than age. She resolved right then, with Arianna sorting through her files and Gaby rethinking her bikini wax, to skip the Botox. Unless, of course, it was for her. How she could even determine that, though, was unclear. The notions of beauty and power were all very messy. She thought of Veronica Kaye. Maybe she should ask her. She seemed like she might have the answers.

“I will think about all of this during my appointments,” Gaby said. “Extremely illuminating.”

Arianna seemed a little embarrassed but for once not apologetic.

“These are our bodies.” Arianna shrugged. “Men should be grateful to be seeing them at all.”

She finished with the files and left, and both Cleo and Gaby made “well that was a surprise” faces at each other, their eyebrows reaching toward the top of their foreheads, their chins pressing toward their necks.

“Kids these days,” Gaby said, shaking her head.

“Did not see that coming,” Cleo replied.

Cleo didn’t know whether they were referring to Arianna’s bravado or the newest trends in bikini waxing, but it didn’t really matter either way.

Bowen met Cleo at Union Station after lunch on Friday. Cleo usually tried to bring Lucas back for her trips to New York, but he didn’t have friends there anymore, and he was old enough to launch genuine gripes about why he didn’t want to spend his weekend holed up at their apartment while she held town halls or did ribbon cuttings or 5ks for various cancers. When he was littler, though he required more from her, he was also easier in some respects. He did what she said; he was simply an extension of her, and questions weren’t asked or argued in the same way that they were now. He would whine, sure, but he could be easily bribed, and besides, he didn’t really know any other way. It was them, the two of them, in it together, and he did what she did, peas in a pod.

Now, at fourteen, he would still come along from time to time, but he preferred to stay with friends in DC, or when she was really, really hard up, Gaby would babysit. (“Don’t call it babysitting,” she snapped once. “I do not babysit. This is me pitching in to get you back to your constituents.”) But this weekend, Emily Godwin (anointed saint) had been happy to have him. The boys had soccer practice for half the time anyway—“It’s easier this way,” she’d said. “Then Benjamin doesn’t have to talk to us at all. He’s much more delightful when that’s the case.”

Cleo had laughed and wished that Lucas had someone else to talk to besides her. Well, and Benjamin. But the two of them, mother and son, their little unit, she could see how it might be getting claustrophobic for him. Maybe that’s why he had two girlfriends, she reasoned: more options. More outlets. Then she chastised herself for such a cavalier thought. Gross, she told herself. You’re part of the problem. Women aren’t options.

These weekend arrangements had been made before Cleo had caught Jonathan Godwin in his act of betrayal, which was a bit of a relief—Cleo didn’t know if she could call Emily and ask for a favor while keeping such a secret from her. Though Cleo was indeed excellent with secrets—she sat on the Senate Intelligence Committee, after all—this one was different; this one was personal, and Cleo didn’t have it in her to lie to one of her few friends.