Twitter Girl. Nic Tatano

to have another person to brainstorm with our team,” he says, eyes locked on her as he still hasn’t let go of her hand. He places his other hand on top. “Should help to have someone who’s not in politics. Sometimes we’re too close the problem. I really appreciate you volunteering.”

      “Well, my agency can spare me from time to time. Of course, you can do that if you own it.”

      “I guess so.” He turns to me. “Oh, Cassidy, Tyler is waiting for you in the conference room. Wants to run some stuff by you this morning.”

      “Sure.”

      He turns back to Ripley and gives her that famous smile. “And I’ll give our newest volunteer a tour.”

      They head out the door as I watch for a moment before I’m off to see Tyler. I have to admit, they look like a couple on the top of a wedding cake right off the bat. There’s some obvious sexual attraction there by the Senator.

      Hey, she’s my best friend. I’m happy for her.

      Yeah, let’s go with that.

      ***

      “T.G., welcome home!” Tyler’s face lights up as I enter the conference room. “You kicked ass in Iowa.”

      “Thank you, but it was the Senator who kicked ass in the debate.”

      “Yeah, but you started closing the lid on Marvin Hensler’s coffin. A few more tweets like that and he’ll be dead and buried.”

      “Hell, Tyler, he doesn’t have a shot anyway.”

      “Yeah, but the best way to wake up his followers is to show that he’s stupid.”

      “I think he does that on his own quite well.”

      “But you help take it to another level. You’ve heard the term national joke?”

      “Yeah. What about it?”

      “That’s what you’re doing to candidates like him. Some of the late night talk shows used your line. You should demand royalties.”

      “Hey, a job in the White House would be payment enough. So what are you up to this morning?”

      “Wanted to go over some homework for you.”

      “Homework?”

      Tyler reaches over to the next chair and grabs a bunch of manila folders stuffed with papers. “The staff has compiled all the stupid things the other candidates and the President have said over the years.” He plops them down in front of me.

      “I would think it would fill an entire library.”

      “Good point. Perhaps if Top Dog gets in office we can get a pork barrel project for that. National Museum of Idiocy. Anyway, familiarize yourself with this because you can make these little sound bites rear their ugly heads and nip the candidates in the ass.”

      “Okay, it’s a lot of reading but it will be fun.”

      He pulls a zip drive out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Here’s your travel version. I printed it out so you can make notes in case you’re old school.”

      “Actually, I am when it comes to journalism. I may be Twitter Girl but I’m like Robert Redford in All the President’s Men when it comes to investigating a story.”

      “I love that movie! That scene where he works the phones and writes stuff on the legal pad—”

      “That’s me. And that’s the most accurate film you’ll ever see about how reporters actually work.”

      He nods and pulls his laptop in front of him. “Now to something fun. Do you have any plans Sunday afternoon?”

      “Well, like most New Yorkers I was gonna sit down and watch the Giants playoff game. Why, do you guys need me to come in?”

      “No, not at all. So you like football?”

      “I love football.”

      “Great. I’ll put you on the ticket list.”

      My eyes light up. “You guys actually have playoff tickets?”

      “Top Dog is a season ticket holder and he likes to take the staff on outings. A team building sort of thing to get away from the campaign.”

      “But I just started here. Surely some people who have been here awhile are entitled to them.”

      “Most of our people aren’t from this area. Not a whole lot of Giant fans on staff so the ticket is yours. By the way, this isn’t a private box, so you’ll be sitting out in the cold.”

      “Fine with me. After Iowa it will feel like the beach. You going?”

      “Unfortunately I have to go to a wedding.”

      “Who the hell gets married on a Sunday during playoff season?”

      “Jets fans. They knew their team would be awful, as always. Anyway, I’m taping the game so don’t you dare call me and tell me how it went. Big Blue all the way.”

      ***

      Sam rolls toward the dining room table on this Saturday night carrying a bunch of dishes like a seasoned waiter along with a bottle of wine in his lap. I lick my lips as he slides a plate of cajun seafood Alfredo in front of me. Ripley already has her fork and spoon at the ready as she adores his cooking. Sam leans over and starts carpet bombing her fettuccine with freshly grated parmesan, as he knows she’s a cheese fanatic. She digs in immediately, twirls a ball of pasta with a shrimp and pops it in her mouth. She closes her eyes as she savors it and licks her lips like a cat. “God, that’s better than sex. Sam, you’ll make someone a great wife.”

      “Cute,” he says, as he moves to the head of the table. I’m older but he’s the man of the house, so he sits at the head. I like tradition that way. By the way, Sam has had a major crush on Ripley since he hit puberty and says he would die if she ever knew. Of course it’s so obvious the way he dotes on her that she figured it out long ago, but thankfully he doesn’t know she knows. (Even my brother the genius is a typical man in that when it comes to women he misses the obvious.) I’ve always wondered if there weren’t such an age difference if those two would make a good couple.

      “So,” says Sam, grabbing the bottle opener, “how’s the political version of The Bachelor going? Has there been a rose ceremony yet?”

      I cock my head at Ripley. “She’s out of the gate like Secretariat,” I say, just before I stuff my face with pasta.

      Sam turns toward Ripley as he pops the cork on the wine and beings pouring her a glass. “Ah, do tell.”

      “Nothing to tell,” says Ripley, too busy shoveling food in her mouth to bother looking up from her plate.

      “Horseshit,” I say. “Becker nearly tripped over his tongue when he saw her in that red dress.”

      “The one with the high neck and the cut-out shoulders?” asks Sam. I nod. “She looks great in that. Of course, she looks great in everything.”

      Ripley looks up and smiles at him. “You’re sweet,” she says, talking through the pasta, though it comes out, “Yur sreet.”

      I point my fork at her. “Becker gave her a personal tour of the office.”

      “And that’s all it was,” said Ripley, coming up for air and a sip of wine.

      “Oh, come on, I could tell you two had a connection.”

      “Maybe so. But all he did was ask about you.”

      My fork is suddenly suspended in mid-air inches from my mouth.

      “And the plot thickens,” says Sam.

      “Continue,” I say. “What did he ask?”

      She puts her utensils down and dabs her lips with a