"Alcohol isn't the cause. It just reveals your adorably superstitious self."
I don't know where my superstitions come from. A nanny, I suppose. It really does take alcohol--in copious quantities--for me to mention one. James thinks it's adorable. The only thing I can do is to change the subject fast, which I did.
Twenty minutes later, I slipped into the car's leather backseat, feeling faintly ill. James wanted to run for senator. I should have seen that coming. Soon after we'd started dating, I'd asked whether he had any plans to follow his dad into politics. He'd laughed it off but never really answered, and I hadn't pursued it. I hadn't dared. I'd been falling for James Morgan, and I didn't want to hear anything that might interfere with that.
I could fake a lot of things. A politician's wife, though? I might be able to pull it off for a month or two. Years? Maybe even a lifetime? Never. I'd grown up in these circles. I knew what came with the position. What would be expected of me. I could not do that. It was like masquerading as a paramedic and then suddenly being promoted to chief of surgery.
As the town car headed into the suburbs, I called James.
"I'm going back to school," I said when he answered.
A long pause. "You're going...?"
"Back to school. For my doctorate. In the fall if I can."
"Okay."
That's all he said. Okay. My heart rate slowed.
"Where did this come from?" he asked.
"I've been thinking about it for a while. I was going to tell you after I looked into it some more, but now with your news..." I took a deep breath. "I wanted to be upfront about my plans, too. I'd really like to go back to school. Get my PhD in English."
"Okay."
I leaned back against the seat, eyes closing in relief.
"There's no reason you can't, Liv. Like I said, it'll be a few years before the campaign starts. I won't need you full time until then."
My eyes opened. "But I'm going back to school for a job. I want a career."
"With an English doctorate?"
"Yes, with an English doctorate," I snapped.
"Sorry," he said. "Of course you could do something. Maybe you could write."
"Write?"
"Mysteries. I know you love mysteries. You could be the next Arnold Conan Doyle."
I resisted the urge to correct him. Arthur Conan Doyle had been the subject of my master's thesis. James hadn't read a novel since college, but when he'd discovered my area of study, he'd read two volumes of the Sherlock Holmes stories, just for me.
"Fiction writing isn't really my thing," I said.
"Don't be modest, Liv. You're a great writer."
I'd meant that I had no interest in it as a career. I wanted to get out and do things, not tell stories about other people doing them. But at least he understood I needed a job. It was a start.
After we hung up, I relaxed into the seat again. I'd been overreacting. Even if he did run for senator, there was nothing to say he'd win. He wouldn't even run for five years anyway. Lots of time for me to persuade him this wasn't the path for us.
I was lost in my thoughts when the driver said, "Is this it, miss?"
I looked out the side window at the familiar gates. Manicured flowering shrubs softened the "keep out" message of the fence. My mother's touch. Dad always said if you're uncomfortable with the message a massive fence sends, then you damned well shouldn't put one up.
"Yes, this is it."
"Nice place."