“Well, Mr. President,” he says, smiling wryly as he spots us. “Looks like you’re up for a second term.”

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. Matt’s hands tighten on me, his jaw clenching, his eyes flashing with happiness—with gratefulness.

He frames my face and plants a firm, fierce kiss on my forehead, then he steps up to shake Carlisle’s hand. “I couldn’t have wanted to hear anything else.”

They shake hands, and Carlisle slaps his back. “You do me proud, Matt.”

“Where’s Matt Junior?” he immediately asks me.

“In bed. Matt, you cannot seriously wake him—”

“Oh yes I can,” he says, already striding inside. I follow him to the bedroom, where he slowly opens the door and steps into the room to find our son’s sleeping form.

Matt sits on the edge of the bed and leans down to whisper, “Hey, bedbug,” waiting for Matty to stir awake.

“Dad,” he just says, grinning a toothy grin.

Matt strokes one hand over his head. “We’re staying.”

Matty’s eyes widen. He’d been worried. No matter how much I assured him that we’d find another home, that his dad has a lot of homes we could move into, he’d argued that none of the staffers he’d come to love would be there, nor the swans in the fountain.

“Jack too?” He blinks, and Matt laughs and grabs his face, kissing the top of his head.

“Jack too.”

“Okay,” he says happily. “Jack, we’re staying!” he says, and we tuck him back into bed and just watch him for a minute in the shadows as he falls back to sleep. Our boy, the apple of our eye. Jack is wagging his tail from the corner of his room when Matt embraces me from behind, cupping my stomach with both hands, his chin propped on the top of my head, his thumbs moving back and forth. He doesn’t need to trace the letters “I love you”; the way he holds me says he loves us, all of us, all the same.

45

THE END

Charlotte

He won. By both the popular vote and the Electoral College again. The White House staffers breathe a sigh of relief. Matt and I wander the West Colonnade, Matt Jr. asleep upstairs. The noises of the White House are so familiar to us, every creak and shuffle, the hum and the bustle. There will be no transfer of power until four years—four more years of Hamilton change are under way, of slow steps forward, continued increase in economy and security.

It’s a cold winter day, and hundreds of thousands of people flood the National Mall to watch Matt’s second inauguration.

Usually protocol dictates that the operations supervisor organizes the dinners and the entire Inauguration Day, rearranging furniture for upcoming interviews, moving out one president as the next one moves in—all within a few hours. The few hours when the oath is taken, the luncheon is served, and the parade on Pennsylvania Avenue is held. This year, there is no such furniture moving. The first family is staying. But while that part of the protocol seems to allow the White House staff to breathe a sigh of relief, other parts are still taking place.

Getting ready to welcome the president after the inauguration through the North Portico doors. Organizing a buffet for us to share with our family and friends before the inaugural balls.

Everyone is buzzing—the standard hustle and bustle of the White House seems to be triple its usual speed.

I spend the morning with a stylist and a makeup artist, while Matt has a security briefing to rehash what has been done so far, and where things stand.

We get ready for church service, and Matty and Jack go with us to visit Matt’s father at Arlington Cemetery.

I feel a bottomless sense of peace and satisfaction, humility and honor, as we head to the U.S. Capitol, where the inauguration will take place.

I worried Matty would not behave during the event, but instead I’ve realized that he’s as smart as his father, and everything I asked him to do—stand still, pay attention, sing the anthem—he’s doing instinctively.

I sit behind Matt as he’s sworn in, and I glance at his profile and then at my son’s. Matt told me last night that he felt honored to share this moment with his son, that he remembered so clearly the days his father took the oath both his first and second time.

Now I watch Matty drink in his father, as he swears to protect and preserve the Constitution of the United States.

I wore blue last time, and white for my wedding day, and now I went for a wine-colored dress. I look like a flame, Matt says.

You never quite get used to the adoration people shower you with; at first it’s almost uncomfortable. It takes courage to receive this love and adoration—to own it, because in a way it means you must reciprocate, must deserve it. I know it has been easier for Matthew to do it than it has been for me. He was born to be commander in chief. You could say he belongs where he is because he was born with America in his veins, but I also believe it’s part of his personality. It’s what has helped us change and grow so much in the past four years—the knowledge that we are phenomenal, and can do and deserve phenomenal things, but also the humility to accept that there is no perfection, that change takes time and effort, that this country isn’t based on one person, but on the joint effort of many. Matt is just the leader.

I could not be more proud of him.

The way he carries himself, the smile he wears, the strong outline of his shoulders straining against his gabardine.

Once he finishes his speech and the inauguration comes to a close, we exit up the stairs, and I hug him. Just a hug, and I whisper, “Congratulations, my love.”

Wisps of hair fall on my face, and before I can brush them aside, Matt brushes them behind my forehead first. I laugh at the wind blowing my hair into disarray. The wind is being just as playful with his hair. I brush a lock of hair behind his forehead too.

“Four more years,” I say.

“They go by fast, don’t they?”

“Too fast.”

He smiles. “Let’s do it.”

His fingers smooth and warm as they touch mine, the effect like a hot burst of fireworks in my veins as he takes my hand, the other already taken by Matty.

“Is my first lady ready?”

“As ready as you are.”

After the luncheon and the parade, we head to the White House to relax, snack, and then change for the balls. I go to the bedroom to change into more comfortable heels, and when I head to the Old Family Dining Room, the boys aren’t there.

“Oh, Mrs. Hamilton, Junior’s with his dad, I think.”

“Where?”

“The West Wing.”

I head over and greet Portia, worried Matty may be giving her trouble, but she merely grins and motions to the door. “You’ll find them both there, Mrs. Hamilton. Also, Alison is on her way—oh, there she is. The president wanted a family picture today.”

I just grin, amused, and step into the Oval Office. And there he is, the Ruler of the Modern World, looking out the window, arms crossed, but he uncrosses them as he turns. He sets his hands on the desk before him, arms spread wide, his gaze unflinching and uncompromising—the gaze of the most powerful man in the world. He smiles at me.

I shut the door.

I clear my throat, my lips curving. “Mr. President.”

“Mrs. Hamilton.” He starts to round the desk.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where a rather restless, very handsome young boy went? I can’t find him anywhere.”

Smiling, he shakes his head and lets his eyes fall to his desk.

Alison is suddenly behind me, her camera flashing as Matt Jr. peeks from under the desk saying, “Boo!”

“Matt, get out from under your father’s desk,” I chide.

Alison snaps a few pictures.

“But I don’t want to. It’s my special hiding place,” Matt Jr. says.

“We’ll make a tent in your room, or in the Red Room—no, the Blue Room. We’ll make you the perfect hiding place there.”

“But Dad won’t be there. It’s no fun without Dad.”

Matthew laughs and I roll my eyes. “Were you this difficult?”

“Not nearly,” he says, glancing at me, his smile fading.

He looks at my mouth, and I realize that I’m gnawing my lower lip. He leans his dark sable head to me as he brushes his thumb over my lip to make me release it. “I want to kiss that lovely lip.”