In Bed With Mr. President

Celeste's POV

There are many things people don't tell you about leaving rehab. Maybe Lindsay Lohan would know how to phrase the experience better.

Nobody tells you that freedom can become terrifying because you're suddenly responsible for staying clean and staying sane and every damn morning, you wake up and wonder what the hell you're supposed to do with yourself.

I'm finding my path, or at least I believe I am.

I look at myself in the mirror one final time before wrapping my hair into a messy bun. It's 6:30 am, and I need to start jogging around the neighbourhood. It's been part of my routine and a form of coping for the past few months.

I'm wearing my tracksuit, and I connect my headphones, putting my Spotify playlist on shuffle before jogging into the early morning.

One foot after another. Breathe in, breathe out.

The neighbourhood is still quiet, the streets washed in that pale morning light, with only a few cars passing and someone's dog barking behind a fence. I like mornings like this. Nobody expects anything from me at six-thirty in the morning.

This has to be the best exercise for me because I don't plan on stepping foot inside a gym anytime soon and my sister hates seeing my lazy ass bedrotting, so I have to at least try to be useful to myself and make sure she sees I'm good at something rather than being sober.

An hour goes by and I'm back in our tiny apartment. The smell of butter and vanilla already hangs in the air from whatever Ciara is preparing for her cake orders. She’s already dressed to run the cake shop.

"You can finally commit to something, I'm glad." Ciara stands in the middle of our tiny living room with her arms folded across her chest, looking quite impressed with my morning dedication.

I know she's been taking notes, and truly, I really do want to impress her. "Thank you?" I smile quietly, pulling out the band on my head.

Mission accomplished.

"But Celeste, you really need to get a job."

Oopsie. Wasn't she impressed with me like thirty seconds ago?

"Uhm." I cough a little. "You know I never get responses after applying, and it's kind of tiring." I pull out my headphones and place them on the table because I'm trying to avoid her eyes.

Ask me why.

"You don't get responses because your application mails are still in your drafts!" She clocked me.

Yeah, that's the reason I'm avoiding her eyes. I'm a pathological liar, and I'm still working on that.

"Cia, I knew you were going to find out, and I'm sorry about that, but it's just that I'm still overwhelmed with everything, and I don't know if I can trust myself with a job which is someone else's investment." I take a deep breath, trying to hold myself together.

I hate difficult conversations because they make me feel naked when all I just want to do is to disappear.

"Celeste, you're six months into your recovery, and I trust that you can handle a job." Ciara walks to me and holds my hand and calmly rubs it.

She just has her way to get me to relax, and it's working. The way she looks at me, like she's waiting for me to stop fighting myself.

Ciara knows me better than anyone and she has been by my side all through despite taking the whole weight of the family by just running a little cake shop and sometimes I wonder how we're both surviving on that income.

My elder sister is indeed the strongest because if I were her, I'd have relapsed quickly, but no, Ciara isn't particularly sentimental. She's tough.

"Okay, Cia, I promise I am going to send those emails." I pull out my hands from hers and give her a reassuring smile.

"You should. But before then, you're going to help me out with something."

I look at her suspiciously. Does she want me to come to work with her? Well, it's not like there's a problem.

"Celeste, why are you staring at me like that? Oh my God, I'm not about to send you out to a war-front." She chuckles loudly. It's crazy how she easily notices my expressions and knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"No, it's not a war-front thing. I'm just surprised to help you out in your bakery finally."

"Oh, it's not even the bakery, I just need you to cover for me later this afternoon."

I narrow my eyes in slight confusion. "Uhm, cover for you when it's not the bakery?"

"Yeah, I thought I could handle two jobs since you weren't applying." She folds her arms again and gives me a stern look. "I've got a last-minute wedding order and I have to deliver it by four and the times are clashing."

"That's fair." I accept the defeat. "So what kind of job, Sis?"

"A campaign rally event." She answers quickly.

I stare at her. "A political setting?"

She looks at me as though I should use my common sense. "What campaign do you think I'm talking about?"

I'm in shock. “Hold on, you’re working for a presidential campaign?”

"Temporarily.”

“Why?” I ask foolishly.

“Because they pay, Celeste! Why else would I work?"

Stupid me.

Truly, Ciara has been running her little cake business for months, taking orders for birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, baby showers, basically anything involving sugar and poor financial decisions.

Yes, it’s cute, but it’s also nowhere near enough, and I'm not even being a supportive sister to try and apply for jobs.

Right now, a temporary campaign position doesn’t sound completely ridiculous anymore.

“What do you need me to do?”

"Just go to the event and wear my name tag."

"Is it that simple?"

"Yes, it is." She explains that she’s working as an event assistant, checking lists and directing guests and helping campaign staff with whatever they need.

Nothing complicated or dangerous. "It is that simple, Celeste."

“You know that I don’t know anything about politics. I'm the least interested person in national matters. I don’t even know what party he belongs to.”

“He’s a Republican and you don't need to have a broad knowledge of politics before covering for me."

“If you say so. What’s his name again?”

The look she gives me tells me I’ve offended her personally. “You’re joking.”

“I genuinely don’t know.”

“Jordan Rogers.”

Not even familiar.

"He's the presidential candidate. So will you do it?"

Is this a rhetorical question?

Of course, I have to and not because I care about America or about Jordan Rogers and definitely not because I want to spend my day surrounded by politicians.

But because of my dearest sister and for all the times she's shown up for me when she doesn't have to.

"I'll do it." Fingers crossed.

My sister smiles and somehow that makes me even more nervous. She holds out her badge to me, and I take it.

The plastic card is ordinary but staring at my sister's name printed across it makes me shiver.

"I hope I don't get arrested again."

This time, for impersonation.

CIARA IAN.

Event Operations.

One afternoon as the responsible sister, and that will be all.

Or at least that's what I think.