(THE CUT) -- Andrew Cuomo’s hands had been on my body — on my arms, my shoulders, the small of my back, my waist — often enough by late 2014 that I didn’t want to go to the holiday party he was hosting for the Albany press corps at the executive mansion.
I was 25 years old and working as a statehouse reporter for what is now Politico New York. I had been on the Capitol beat for a couple years by then, but I was still among the youngest reporters in the press corps, and one of the few women in the group whose job it was to report on the governor’s every move. Everyone else was going, and some had been covering state government for decades. I thought if I skipped the event, I might miss out on some intangible opportunity to cement myself as a part of that community. I ignored my instincts and went anyway, walking over from the New York State Capitol Building with several colleagues.
Shortly after I arrived, news broke on my beat, and I had to return to the Capitol. I decided to thank the governor for inviting me and, more importantly, to offer my best wishes for his father’s recovery. Former governor Mario Cuomo was dying at the time.
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