“I know the whole story, how he was Fitz’s coach when he was a kid, and I’m sure he has his own stories to tell,” Lo continues. “But Foller makes Josh feel awful. And then it’s this cycle where Josh thinks Foller’s right. There’s enough damage done to these guys in this game. I don’t think coaches need to add to it.”

“They don’t,” I agree. For a moment, I wonder if it’s worth bringing up the investigation Fitz told me about, but I recall how short he was on the topic. I decide against it.

Something inside of me feels protective over Fitz and his feelings, even when they’re in support of someone I can’t stand, someone I worry isn’t good for him. And I guess that’s what I should be doing as his fiancé—supporting and protecting him—even if it doesn’t matter at the end of it all.

Lo looks over, getting our waiter’s attention when my phone chimes again.

FITZY

Actually, grab me a margarita to go

A roadie? That kind of night at the office?

FITZY

No. Just an excuse to have a night cap. Haven’t seen you since last night.

I can’t help it. My mouth melts into a smile.

“Oh, there’s that look.”

I lock my phone’s screen. “What look?”

“The one you just tried to erase.” Lo laughs. “I had that look once. And I only knew Josh three months before I married him. You have it and you’ve already known Fitz a lifetime. How amazing is that?”

But the way I’ve known Fitz is so different than the way I know—or am getting to know—him now. And the truth is, I’m worried I’m not sure which version of him I prefer anymore—the boy I grew up with, or the man everyone believes I’m in love with.

* * *

Madeline told me my job was simple. Stand. Clap. Smile.

Here I was thinking the last one would be difficult. It’s been the easiest part of the night.

But I’m not smiling because I believe one word of my mom’s bullshit. The truth is, I know nothing about inflation, and I’m sure I’m high on the IRS’s hit list because I’ve never once filed taxes. No. I’m smiling because, in this small New Hampshire town where this early campaign event is taking place, people showed up in droves, nearly all in uniform—in Fitz’s Rebels jersey.

I know it must kill my mother, and never more than when she’s interrupted during her teleprompter speech by a lone ranger shouting, “Where’s Fitzy?”

All the laughter I’ve tried to keep inside for the last eighteen minutes bursts to the surface. And even though it’s swallowed in the loud auditorium, my mother doesn’t miss it.