After three more meetings with his staffers, Max gathered up his papers to walk home. It was already dark, and he was suddenly depressed. About being in this dark, cold, lonely city; about having this difficult, stressful, pointless job, where personalities and conflicts and elections and money mattered more than helping people; about not having anyone to talk to about any of that.

He picked up his phone, but no, Olivia hadn’t texted. Instead he texted Wes, whom he hadn’t seen since the week before, because of their terrible schedules.

Heading home now, and look at me, I’m going to order the pizza this time. What kind do you want?

He walked out of his office and waved to his staff members who were still there. As he left the building, he looked back down at his phone, willing Olivia to contact him, right now, tonight, to turn this day around.

Just then, a text flashed across his screen.

Was this it? Did he finally have magical powers? If so, maybe there was hope for his criminal justice reform bill.

Nope, not Olivia.

Beat you to it; a pizza—and a SALAD—should arrive right when you do. But you can pick up more beer on the way home, we’re almost out.

Damn it. There went the one victory he thought he’d get today.

He took the food out of the hands of the delivery guy as he walked into their apartment building, and opened their apartment door to find Wes on the couch in his sweatpants.

“Here’s the food and the beer.” He tossed everything on the table.

Wes looked up at him and narrowed his eyes.

“No ‘Hi, honey, I’m home’? No complaints about the salad? What happened to you? Where’s Normal Max tonight?”

Max sat down and flipped open the pizza box.

“Normal Max has been beaten down by the machinery of the United States Senate, that’s where Normal Max went. Kara thinks my criminal justice reform bill is on life support. That’s confidential, of course.”

Wes patted him on the shoulder.

“Oh man, that sucks,” he said. “But the machinery of the United States Senate has beaten you down before, and I haven’t seen you like this since . . . What else is wrong?” His eyes widened and he held up a finger. “The girl! I haven’t seen you since last week—what happened with the girl?”

Max shrugged and looked away. Damn Wes for knowing him so well.

“I told her how I felt, and that—fuck you for making me do this, by the way—that we couldn’t have sex, which . . . well, never mind. Anyway, she seemed taken aback, and said she’d ‘think about it.’ But that was Friday night, and I haven’t heard from her since then. I think I lost my chance with her. I never should have listened to you.”

Wes dropped his head in his hands.

“I didn’t tell you to tell her that; good God, Powell! I thought you were a better politician than that.”

Yes, well, so had he.

“I didn’t make a plan! I just blurted it all out! This is why I have people write my speeches and talking points for anything important; I’ve always been bad at shit like this when I don’t prepare! Anyway, that’s what happened with the girl.”

Wes closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Okay, well, there’s nothing we can do about that now. That was Friday night—have you texted her since then?”

Thanks for the reminder.

“I texted her on Sunday from the plane, just saying to have a good week. She said, ‘Thanks, you, too!’ and that was it.”

Wes pushed the container of salad over to him.

“Please eat some of this and come to your senses. That was Sunday, today is Wednesday. What are you waiting for? We’re too old for those games about when you should text a woman and when you shouldn’t. You like this woman, that’s obvious—don’t whine about it to me. Text her!”

As much as Max hated to admit it, Wes was probably right. Well, not about the salad.

“I was trying to give her space!” he said. “But you might be right. Plus, she’ll definitely tell me to go away if she doesn’t want to hear from me; she’s that type.”

Wes grinned.

“I like her even more now.”

Max rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone.

How’s your week going? Any more thoughts on Saturday? Maybe we could tick off some more of the items on your to-do in LA list?

There. That was friendly and breezy but still interested. He hoped.

He pressed send, and immediately realized exactly why he hadn’t done this earlier. Because now, it was going to be even worse waiting for her to text back.

“Satisfied?” he said to Wes.

Wes dished out some of the salad into a bowl and took a very pointed bite.

“About that, at least. Now eat some damn vegetables; we both need some in this godforsaken town.”

Just as Wes got up to go to the bathroom, Max’s phone buzzed.

Thanks for giving me time to think about it—Saturday sounds great. Maybe the Getty?

Max smiled, for maybe the first time that day. Finally, something went right.

Chapter Seven

Max wished he could spend all day Saturday with Olivia, but he had an event that afternoon to honor one of his old teachers who was about to retire. So he’d suggested they head up to the Getty in the late afternoon to see the art and walk around, and then they could picnic outside at sunset. As soon as Olivia agreed, he ordered a bunch of picnic supplies from his local, exorbitantly priced grocery store—they were supposed to have great pie, so he ordered one of those, too. He hoped the pie lived up to the rumors.

Max slapped on a name tag from the front table when he walked into the event, and was immediately surrounded by people. He hadn’t brought any of his staff along with him today, because this felt more like a personal event than a political one, but now he suddenly appreciated everything they did for him. He shook what felt like hundreds of hands, tried to remember what everyone said to him, and took all their business cards with no idea of what to do with them. He laughed at himself—he’d gotten so used to having one to four extra brains working on his behalf at all times, it was like he didn’t remember how to do all this himself. This was probably a good exercise to go through every so often, just so he didn’t get too soft.

Finally, he made his way over to Ms. Sussman and gave her a hug.

“Congratulations on forty years as a teacher, and on your retirement,” he said. “Best teacher I ever had, even though you sent me to the principal’s office far too many times.”

She blushed and hugged him back. And then scolded him gently, as he’d expected.

“Now, Maxwell,” she said. Ms. Sussman was one of only two people in the world who called him Maxwell; the other was his grandmother. “That only happened twice, and I’m sure you agree with me that you deserved it both times.”

He grinned.

“I absolutely did,” he said.

Max chatted with her for a while, until another of her former students came up to them. They’d had this event for her outside of school hours because so many of her former students wanted to come. She’d worked at his private high school early in her career, and then twenty years ago she’d surprised everyone by moving to a public school in East L.A., and had been there ever since.