diligently to
ensure abortion becomes illegal in the United States. Life is precious and we
must think in that context when considering ending it. It’s my personal belief
there is never a situation in which abortion is the right answer.”
Frustration
and indignation pulse like a second heartbeat bubbling to the surface. “You
would take a woman’s right to protect herself, to protect her own body, away
from her? For reasons you wouldn’t know, couldn’t know. You would take away a
woman’s control over her body and possible health?” My voice is terse, hard.
It’s as if I were thinking out loud, yet it was stated firmly and with
conviction for everyone to hear. All heads swivel quickly toward me, looking
for the dumb-ass shouting out in argument with Mr. McPerfect McKenna. My cheeks
burn and I know they must be the color of flames, but I don’t back down. I
would like to know. I need to know.
It’s
his turn to stare at me as he easily finds my eyes. His gaze holds mine for
what feels like an eternity before he finally addresses me with consideration.
“A child has a right to be born, a right to live. There are some things God
must have control over, and those are life and death.
Man
has become too involved in the workings of what He should control. G od should play a larger part in people's lives.
Abortion is not the answer: life is. ” His eyes continue to bore into
mine, not letting go of our connection. My heart thrums at the link between us
until I garner the resolve to break away, embarrassed by my outburst and my
reaction to him.
Others
invade the moment, hurling questions. Hesitating momentarily, his eyes linger
before he shifts his attention away.
Relief
floods through me as I sink back into my seat. What did I just do? I berate
myself, wishing I could slink out the door.
The
questions and answers flow until finally the conference comes to an end.
McKenna catches my gaze for only a second, curiosity brightening his eyes, and
a small smile lifts the corners of a perfect mouth before he turns to smoothly
exit the platform. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Standing abruptly to straighten my skirt and quickly pack my iPad, I follow the
woman next to me toward the door.
A
touch to my elbow halts my progress and my heart stills with it. Reluctantly, I
turn at the contact, meeting a pair of lighthearted gray eyes, flashing with a
secret air of amusement.
“Ms.
Carter?” When I nod, the man smiles and continues, “Evan Daugherty.” His hand
reaches toward mine in greeting, “Colin McKenna’s campaign manager.”
His
hand hovers in the air as I fumble for words, still reeling from my enormously
stupid foray into presidential debate. He has a warm, easy grin centered on a
handsome face; he’s handsome in a California surfer kind of way. His hair waves
from root to end, his shaggy cut perfect in its imperfection, and his gray eyes
are hauntingly expressive and compliment his bronzed skin.
Again
I’m stunned by how young he is considering the position he holds. Taking his
hand in mine I find my voice, “Mr. Daugherty . . .” His grip is firm and warm
in mine.
“I
hope your trip was uneventful. Did you have any challenges finding the
university?”
“No,
thanks for asking.”
“Please,
come with me. I have a private space set aside for us to talk.” His tone is
kind, generous.
I
don’t know if this is a good idea; after the reaction I had toward Senator
McKenna, this assignment is looking more and more unfavorable. Nerves are about
to get the best of me so I only listen half-heartedly as he leads us to the
front of the room and up the four steps of the stage. If this is not a good
fit, I’ll walk away. I can always say no; an interview goes both ways.
We
end up in a small meeting room with a few people milling about, and others
huddling together, exchanging excited conversation at a large rectangular table
which anchors the room. No doubt they’re a part of the
Michelle Pace, Andrea Randall