Mr. President

By: Katy Evans

Father ran for reelection, and won.

Then, three years into his second term, an unhappy citizen put two bullets in him. One in his chest, the other his stomach.

It’s been thousands of days since. Too many years spent living in the past.

Now, as I secure my cufflinks and smooth my tie, I think back to those shoes and realize that I’m about to step into them.

“Ready, sir?”

I nod, and he pulls back the curtain.

The world is watching. They’ve been speculating, hoping, wondering.

Will you, won’t you . . . Please do, please don’t . . .

He’ll win if he runs . . .

He doesn’t stand a chance . . .

I wait for the noise to settle down, lean into the microphone, and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce that I’m officially running for President of the United States of America.”




The morning after my birthday, I notice the light on my answering machine is blinking. I press play, half listening as I lie back in bed, trying to shake my grogginess away.

“Charlotte, it’s your mother—call me.”

“Charlotte, answer your cell.”

After a third similar message, I get up, put coffee on, and return my mother’s calls. “You heard the rumor?” she asks in place of a greeting.

“I’ve been asleep for the past … seven hours.” I squint. “What rumor?”

“It’s on national television! And we’ve been invited to his campaign inaugural, Charlie, you must come. Time for you to get your feet wet in politics.”

My first thought is the same I’ve had for years. That I don’t want to be in politics. I’ve seen and heard too many things being the daughter of a senator. I’ve lived through much already.

“It’s time for you to make a difference, take steps in embracing your own personal power …” my mother continues, and while she rambles on, I turn on the television. Matt’s face flashes before me.

His sun-bronzed, slightly-stubbled, perfectly symmetrical, hot-as-hell face.

He stands behind a podium, a place he’s never been photographed before. The paparazzi have caught him unaware on dates, on the beach, everywhere, but never, as far as I know, behind a podium.

A black suit and crimson tie cover a body fit for a GQ cover, his suit so black that the suits of the men surrounding him seem gray in comparison.

He’s been known to be an outdoorsman who loves physicality, who keeps in shape by experiencing every adventure and sport nature has to offer. Swimming, tennis, hiking, horseback riding. His lean, athletic build, clearly defined beneath the fitted suit, is certainly a testament to that. A full, rather seductive mouth curves into a smile as he speaks into the microphone.

Beneath him, a black line scrolling across the screen says:


I read the line again. I also vaguely listen to his voice on the TV. He has such a delicious voice, it’s making the little hairs on my arms stand at attention.

“. . . running for President of the United States of America.”

Something inside of me somersaults; I’m hit by a series of emotions—shock, excitement, disbelief. I fall back on the couch and press a hand to my stomach to keep the winged things inside of it from moving. My mother continues telling me how much my father and she would love my company, but I hardly listen.

How can I, when Matthew Hamilton is on TV?

He is so gorgeous I bet every woman watching wants him to father all of her babies, put those lips on nobody but her, and use those eyes to look at nobody else …

This god.

The prince of America.

Has decided to run for president?

He speaks from a place of confidence and strength.

I know firsthand that politics are not for wimps. I know what my father has gone through to reach and keep his seat in the Senate. I know the kind of sacrifice, patience, and discipline that serving the people requires. I know that despite doing his best, criticisms have kept him awake at night more times than he’d care to admit. I know that being president cannot be easier than being senator. And I know that Matt hadn’t really wanted this.

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