I stare her down as she walks toward the back of the plane, disappearing into a side door that leads to the presidential quarters.

“You alright?”

I didn’t even realize Fitz had turned around. He’s boiling, I can feel it.

I try to nod, but I can’t.

Fitz grabs my hand, and even though his hold is so different from my mother’s, I twist out of it and sink back into my seat, slipping off my heels and pulling my knees up to my chest.

“Parker,” Fitz whispers. “What was that about?”

I bring my head toward the window. “Nothing. We can’t go anyway. We have plans. Or at least, I think we do.”

At this point, given how cold he’s been, I wonder if Fitz is about to break the news that he’s backed out of this altogether.

But his iciness is cut by his frustration. “What’s the problem with Brookdale?”

My eyes squeeze shut. For a minute, I think I’m shaking from the vibrations of the plane’s engines, but then I realize I’m the one shaking.

“There’s nothing in Brookdale,” I say, rotating my head toward him. “Nothing except hell.”

An explosion erupts in Fitz’s eyes, a tornado of anger from what my mother just did, frustration with me, and confusion. It would be beautiful—the way the colors swirl together as he tries to piece everything together—if it wasn’t so tragic.

“Sorry for the interruption, but I’m afraid we can’t arrange transport back to Boston tonight.”

I look up at one of my mother’s aides. “You can’t?” I snap. “Or you won’t?”

“Inclement weather. It’s been storming all day in New England,” the aide offers.

I point at Fitz. “My fiancé has a meeting he needs to get to first thing in the morning.”

That was the plan—Fitz would attend his last offensive meeting before the holiday, and then we’d head to the airport.

“The president and First Lady will send you home tomorrow,” the aide says, dodging the question. “You’ll stay in the Residences for another night.”

Slowly, I drag my head away from her to Fitz.

“Your mom didn’t make it thunder, Parker.”

She did though. The storm is just in me.

* * *

“This is the White House,” I grit out, tapping my phone. “You’d think there wouldn’t be a service issue.”

I try reloading the Amtrack website as I pace up and down the hall of the Residences. Fitz sighs from the couch in the sitting room as I pass.

“I’m not sleeping in a train car, Parker. Forget it.”

I think about Mr. Foller cornering me during the party. I don’t want to give him another reason to even try that again, but Fitz is right. He probably won’t be much use to anyone after sleeping sitting up.