Jane laughed. “I’m all for it, just as long as I get to be in the editing room to make sure my best moves get put forward.
“Of course,” James assured her. “What do you think Bernie?”
After glancing up from his computer, Bernie nodded. “I’ll have someone look into it right away. We could use some backstage footage for the website.”
“Addison, you’re already becoming indispensable,” Jane remarked.
“Yes, she is,” James said. He whirled Jane back to her seat. “Thanks for obliging me, sweetheart.”
She winked at him. “Any time.”
I thought he was finished dancing, but James came over to me next. “Care to take a spin?”
“Here? Now?”
“With your theater background, I assume you’re a wonderful dancer,” James stated.
“Well, I’m not exactly wonderful, but I’m not too bad either.”
He held out his hand. “Come on, get rid of some of that nervous energy.”
As I rose off the couch, the song changed, and the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” started playing. “This is one of my dad’s favorite songs.”
“Is it?”
I nodded. “He had it on vinyl, and he used to take this beat-up record player with us on our trips. Even though my siblings and I argued with him that CDs were way less cumbersome, not to mention better quality, he argued vinyl was the best because it was more authentic.”
“I like his style,” Barrett mused from his seat on the couch.
I craned my neck over James’s shoulder to look at him. “You’re a record kind of guy?”
“I have a whole collection.”
At the desk, Bernie grunted in frustration. “I knew there was something I left off your questionnaire—things you collect.”
Barrett laughed. “I think that’s a pretty random question for a reporter to ask.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Bernie replied.
James eyed me curiously. “Speaking of your father, what did your parents say about your engagement?”
“Thankfully, I called them when I went back home to my apartment the first day, so they didn’t have to see it on the news.” They had been very surprised, and I even heard a hint of disappointment in their voices that I had been partaking in a secret relationship. One day I hoped to be able to tell them the truth.
“That’s good. I can imagine that would have been quite a shock.”
“Yes, it would.”
Our dance came to an end to the last strains of the song. “Thank you for the dance, Addison.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Feeling any better?”
I tilted my head in thought. “Actually, I do feel a little better.”
“It’s the power of dancing.”
With a laugh, I replied, “I’ll have to remember that.”
The captain came over the speaker to inform us we were about to begin our descent, and I couldn’t help marveling at how much speedier a jet traveled than a plane. Saundra came around to fluff Jane’s and my hair and touch up our makeup.
Once we landed, the car took us the short drive to the train station. Even though it wasn’t an official stop on the tour, there were people waiting to see us, but our tight schedule didn’t permit us doing any kind of walk-through there. Instead, we boarded the train and headed for our first stop just down the tracks.
We arrived to the fanfare of waving flags and Callahan for President signs as John Mellencamp’s “Little Pink Houses” blared over a loudspeaker. After the train came to a stop, James and Jane stood on the platform for a few moments, posing for photographs. Once they had made their way down the stairs, it was time for Barrett and me to come out.
As we stepped onto the platform, Barrett took my hand in his. A cheer went up at the sight of us, and we smiled and posed for the press who stood below us. Thankfully, just as my face felt completely frozen in place, Bernie motioned for us to come down the stairs.
When I started to take my hand away, Barrett squeezed it tighter. Speaking through his smile, he said, "Let me help you down the stairs."
"I can make it on my own just fine," I replied back through gritted teeth. With my free hand, I kept waving to the crowd.
"It'll look better for the photographers." He turned to me. “Besides, after what happened earlier, I don’t want you face-planting.”
"That wasn’t my fault,” I protested.
“Just let me help you.”
“Not happening,” I muttered. Honestly, I didn’t know why I was being so stubborn. I mean, did it really matter if Barrett helped me down the stairs? No, but something within my feminist self was repulsed by the thought.
A low growl came from deep within Barrett’s throat, which reminded me of the Beast in Beauty and the Beast. "Why do you have to be such a shrew?"
"Why do you have to be such a misogynistic douchebag?"
To those below us, we looked like a happy couple taking in all the supporters and perhaps commenting on the crowd. Our faces stayed frozen in enthusiastic expressions as if we had just had Botox. Of course, if anyone in the crowd was a lip reader, we were screwed.
When I moved toward the first step, Barrett still hadn’t released my hand. "Let go," I hissed.
"Fine."
What happened next was simply a matter of physics. The energy I was putting into tugging against Barrett sent me propelling forward once he removed his hand, and that forward momentum sent me rolling down the platform’s three stairs and into a tangled heap at the bottom.