40
The Second Debate
Yes, technically I’d promised to stay far away from Logan. But if my brief foray into politics had taught me anything, it was that there was always a loophole. I figured as long as no one ever knew I’d attended his second and final debate, that was as good as not going. Which is why I’d come to the Palmer Event Center in full disguise.
“Name?” asked the matronly woman behind the registration desk.
“Ruby Dangerfield.”
She rifled through the lanyards until she found it. “Here you go, Ruby.” She smiled. “I love seeing young people participate in our country’s grand democratic tradition.”
Feeling buoyed by her approval—I was a simple creature, alas—I put on the lanyard and let myself get caught up in the crowd. The Palmer Center was much bigger than where they’d held the first debate. Lee had told me the audience demand was so high this time around that the debate organizers had decided to switch to a larger venue. Not only were there tons of people, but the atmosphere felt buzzy and electric, almost like a concert. Clearly, people loved drama, and if nothing else, the gubernatorial race had served that up on a silver platter. At least Logan could take heart knowing his public implosion had enticed more people to engage with politics.
The crowd was perfect for hiding in. I’d borrowed a blond wig from Lee—refusing to let her tell me why she owned it—and wore my blue-light glasses and one of my old cardigan sets, cosplaying as a blonde me before the campaign makeover. I kept my head ducked as I found a seat in the back, sinking lower when I spotted Nora and Cary slide into the front row right before the curtains lifted. From that moment on, my heart was a runaway train. This was the final debate. If Logan repeated his last performance, he was done for.
The lights flashed and the announcer introduced Logan and Governor Mane, who strode out to applause and a swelling rendition of “America the Beautiful.” When the crowd settled, one of the moderators, a UT professor, directed the first question to the governor.
“Governor Mane, what do you plan to do about the state’s rising unemployment rate?”
The governor grinned and adjusted his signature bolo tie. “You know, professor, I’m proud of my tax incentive plan that makes Texas attractive to big businesses. We’ve had a lot of success getting corporations to relocate their plants to Texas, and I’m going to build on that. More plants means more jobs. And also—”
“But what kind of jobs?” Logan interrupted. “Low-paying jobs with terrible benefits that burn people out, or good quality jobs people can turn into careers?”
I sat straighter as murmurs rippled through the audience. Logan’s face was large on the jumbo screen, and I knew that dogged look: This was the old Logan. The real Logan, the man who loved to fight and didn’t care about things like decorum or deference.
“Excuse me?” Mane asked.
“It’s not Mr. Arthur’s—” the moderator started, but Logan barreled on.
“You think bringing more factories to Texas is the solution to helping the economy, but your last four years disprove that approach. That’s why unemployment’s still as high as it is.”
Loud grumbling sounded from the RNC side, but Logan wasn’t done.
“You can’t toss shitty jobs at people, jobs without health care, back-breaking jobs with sky-high attrition rates, and call that a win. These factory jobs you’re bragging about? The only people truly helped by those are the billionaire CEOs who get to dodge taxes thanks to your incentive plan.”
“Mr. Logan, swearing is not allowed,” exclaimed the moderator, who was visibly sweating. I caught Nora clutching her hair.
“They’re good jobs,” argued the governor, who’d grown a little red in the face. “Honest, hardworking people are just asking for a shot—”
“They should be asking for more than a shot,” Logan countered. “They want more, and you’d know if you ever stepped outside those swanky country clubs you like to hole up in with your old football pals.”
Oh, God—Logan was going for it, full throttle. No more noncombative. He was ignoring his advisers’ instructions. I didn’t know whether to cheer or wring my hands.
“At the same time you’re bringing these so-called great jobs to the state, you’re gutting unions or making shady deals with union leaders—” The audience erupted into whispers at the reference to Sonny and Kai. “Thereby destroying protections for workers. People need health care, governor. They need to be paid more than minimum wage. They need to be able to afford their rent. You can’t brag about bringing jobs to the state unless you’re talking about the kinds of jobs you’d be willing to work yourself. Until then, your ‘unemployment plan—’” of course he was making air quotes “—is just a corporate tax break by another name.”
The entire left side of the auditorium broke into applause, drowning the governor’s response. His face had gone from red-tinged to full-blown tomato.
“If we could pivot to thoughts on nuclear power,” a second moderator tried, but Governor Mane was eyeing the audience, several of whom had climbed to their feet to cheer Logan.
“Bold talk from a man who just publicly admitted he’s a liar,” burst the governor, and the applause died in a sudden arctic gust. “How are voters supposed to have faith in a man who concocted a harebrained scheme to fake date a woman to hide his sexual indiscretions?”
My heart leaped into my throat. Of course the governor was bringing up Logan’s worst mistake—he’d be a fool not to. But knowing it was inevitable didn’t lessen the pain when I saw panic flash over Logan’s face.
But then the most unexpected thing happened. Maybe it was because he was so close to the end and there was nothing left to lose. Maybe he figured he was a goner anyway. Or maybe Logan Arthur was just that much of a stubborn jackass. Whatever it was, the panic melted from his expression and he smiled. “You know what, governor? I don’t regret it.”
You could’ve heard a pin drop.
Governor Mane blinked, wheels turning in his head, before it occurred to him that Logan had just handed him a gift. His eyes gleamed. “You don’t regret lying to your future constituents?” He swept a hand at the audience. “These fine people?”
“No, I do regret lying. I knew it was a bad idea and I did it anyway. I didn’t think I could be fully honest about who I was and stand a chance of winning. So I regret not having more faith in myself, or the people of Texas. But what I don’t regret is making Alexis Stone my partner.”
My hands flew to my mouth. On-screen, the camera zoomed in on Logan’s face. He lifted his chin, eyes blazing. “I believe in the campaign Alexis and I built together, and I admire the hell out of her brain, her heart, and her spine. She was endlessly brave, leaping out of her comfort zone, and watching her do that made me better. You can’t be around someone like that without the example soaking in.”
He was describing me like I was some sort of hero. All around me, audience members were glancing at each other in disbelief. But I only had eyes for him.
“So I’m going to leap out of my comfort zone right now and do something my campaign is going to kill me for. But what the hell—I’ve already tangled my personal and professional lives. My relationship with Alexis might’ve been a lie, but it was real for me. She was real for me, the entire time. And she woke me up to what I really wanted. What I care about the most.”
Someone on the RNC side wolf whistled, and the rest of the audience laughed. My cheeks were on fire. On stage—on screen—Logan smiled, blush tinging his cheeks for the first time since I’d known him.
To me he’d felt like a dream I wanted desperately to sink into, and to him I’d been real from the start. I pressed my hands to my chest, feeling my heart pound through my ribcage, my fingers, my throat. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“So no, Governor, I don’t regret it,” Logan said. “And personally, I’d rather elect a candidate who made a mistake and owned it than one who’s made false promises for years but never shows remorse. I hope voters will agree.”
Mane started sputtering a counterpoint, but for a long moment the cameras stayed on Logan, drawn by the shining look he was giving the audience, the whole of his face radiating confidence. Here was the man I’d met at the Fleur de Lis, the man who’d helped teach me about sticking to my guns, the firebrand from every practice session.
Here was the man I loved, prevailing against the odds. I clapped with the rest of the audience, pushing away tendrils of sadness that I was stuck here, watching with pride from the shadows.