The World: According to Graham (2 page)

I can survive without him. I’ll have our child and love him or her enough for two parents. There are plenty of universities that will hire me to teach political science classes. We’ll live in some quaint college town where I will bike to class and write political theory papers about how to fix Washington from my utopian perch.

But in my dreams, in the place that I dare to visit when I’m feeling like a dumb girl in a romantic comedy, Graham and I find a way to overcome all of the pain that we’ve created and become partners.

He rises to his full height, which is much taller than me. He has to feel my determination to make him see that we’re better together than functioning in this shitty existence apart.

Still with his back turned and me cocooning him with every ounce of strength that I have, his body shifts. My head raises, anticipating his next move. Then, he reaches up and rubs his thumb over his eyes. Is he crying? God, that makes my eyes burn and my mouth flood with too much liquid. This big, strong, tough man has been reduced to tears.

Sometimes I really hate being me. This is all my fault.
I wish I could know the words to say to make this better, but I’m at a loss. So I just speak from my heart. “Forgive me, please,” I plead into his back. “I need you, Graham. Tell me what to do to make this right. Tell me what I have to do to make you forgive me.”

He breaks free of my grasp and flips me around so I’m now the one in his embrace. His arms tuck me possessively against his chest, my face fitting perfectly against his hard pecs. He leans down and whispers in my ear in a scratchy voice, “I need time, Rachael. Time and some space to process all of this.”

If it’s even possible, my lungs tighten so painfully that I have to gasp for a breath of air. The juxtaposition of his body cocooning mine and his words are somewhat laughable. Space? There isn’t a molecule of air between our bodies.

I want to ask what “time and space” means. I like timeframes, deadlines. Does the proper amount of time and space equal one day, one week, one month, one year, ten years? I hate his response. It’s not definitive. It leaves my heart flapping in the wind waiting, once again, for one of us to step up to the plate.

The lack of planning in his response makes me feel as if I’m walking on quicksand. I can give him time. I can also give him space. But in the moment, I become resolved to continue on with my plans of being a single mom. I have three more weeks as the White House Chief of Staff. I’ve already given notice on my town home. My final day is the last Wednesday of the month. Colin and Caroline have agreed that I can live in one of their guest houses until I’ve come up with my next plan—finding a job, a place to live, and some town that I can blend in to. This is so not how I saw my days at the White House coming to a close.

Now it’s time to focus on what’s important, and it’s this baby who didn’t ask to be conceived. This can no longer be about Graham and me torturing each other, him unwilling to embrace my private relationship demands, and me not able to publicly support his brand of humor and politics. This is now about a baby that is owed a better upbringing than I was given.

One day, if Graham comes around after he’s taken his time and used his space, I’ll welcome him back into my life. I owe him that. I’ll be his whenever and wherever. I just hope that it won’t be too late.

“Jab. Cross. Left hook. Uppercut. Right hook. Jab. Cross,” my trainer, Malik, instructs as he blocks my punches. With each throw, my back, then my shoulder, followed by my arm muscles burn with intensity. Sweat trickles in a steady stream off of my forehead, blurring my vision. This is my last boxing session with Malik.

This gym has been my five-o’clock-in-the-morning, Monday-Wednesday-Friday ritual for the past eight years. Here is where I work out my aggression, battle my demons, and find a reprieve from my over-active mind. This place feels like my home much more than my townhouse ever has.

“Focus, Rachael. Give me everything that you got. One minute left.” Malik holds the red pads in front of his chest, and I throw all of my intensity into the final minute of my last workout with him for at least the foreseeable future. My jabs are quick and hit with force as I aerobically push myself to a place of exhaustion. It’s sixty seconds. I can do anything for sixty seconds.

Jab.

Cross.

Uppercut.

The timer dings, indicating that we’re finished. My arms fall listlessly to my sides and I stumble for a brief moment, working to gain my equilibrium. Then, I feel it. My sweat-drenched body heats uncomfortably and abnormally hot. My stomach roils. I stagger to the barf bucket that I’ve never had to use.

Malik drops his pads and looks at me, satisfaction painted on his sculpted features. “Ha! Last day. I knew I could make you puke.”

Smug son-of-a-bitch doesn’t know that I’m pregnant.

At least he has the decency to grab my thermos of water and hand it to me when I’m done. I swish the water around my mouth and spit it into the garbage can.

This morning sickness business is a new addition to my pregnancy. The only evidence that I’ve got a baby on board is a slight bump just above my pubic bone. However, I seem to get nauseated at the drop of a hat. My doctor says that this is a good symptom. It means that this is a healthy pregnancy, but it sure would be nice to have a steaming-hot cup of coffee again without feeling violently ill.

“You alright?” he asks as I collapse onto the rusted metal chair in the corner of the gym. Sweat is running down his cheeks, and his dreadlocks, pulled away from his face, show perspiration beaded along his hairline.

“I guess you finally got me.” I toast him as I take a drink of water, praying that it stays in my stomach.

He pulls up a chair near me and touches my knee. “I’m going to miss the hell outta ya.”

Malik and I have a very professional relationship. However, you can’t spend three mornings a week with someone and not consider them somewhat a friend.

“Me too.” I smile.

“You’ll stop by when you’re in town?” He removes his hand from my knee and grabs his own water bottle.

I smile and lean back against the chair, finally feeling my stomach settle. “I will. But it’ll be a while. I’m dropping off the D.C. radar. I need to figure out what’s next for me, and I can’t do that here,” I reply, glancing around his simplistic gym.

“Understandable,” he says, placing his water bottle on the ground. He opens his gym bag and rummages for something. Then he produces a small piece of paper and a pen. He takes the top off and scribbles something on the paper.

I take another sip of water, as the thudding in my wrists slowly begins to return to normal.

He stands up and walks to where I’m sitting. He hands me a business card. The white cardstock has the gym logo on it, and his name and phone number written in a block font. I look up at him, very confused. “I have your number, Malik. I’ve texted you before.”

He smiles. “Turn it over.”

I flip the card over in my hand and see his email and mailing address on the back. “Your home address?” I think I sound as perplexed as I am.

“I expect an invite to the wedding and pictures of the baby,” he says, with a smirk.

I leap to my feet, blood pounding in my ears.
How does he know?
No one knows about the baby except for Graham, President Jones, Shelby, Caroline and Colin.

He chuckles. “No one told me,” he reassures me, while shaking his hands. “I just assumed. Graham was clearly a man in love when you brought him in here.”

Graham was a man in love the first and only time he met Malik. Unfortunately, shortly after that, I discovered Graham’s secret. He’s one of the Sons of Liberty, a political radio show with shock-jock humor thrown in for good measure. His night job makes my day job very difficult. As the White House Chief of Staff, it’s my duty to protect the President and his policies from those who disagree. The Sons of Liberty have been reasonably fair to the administration so far, but the public perception of me, one of the President’s top advisors, being in a relationship with someone who is so politically polarizing would reflect poorly on the White House. Plus, they discuss topics like strippers’ breasts, how to avoid giving oral pleasure, and my favorite topic, my love life.

We played a four-month game of Russian Roulette with our emotions before I told him a few weeks ago that I was stepping down from my White House position because I was carrying his child. As of right now, our relationship can be described as complicated.

My hand instinctively covers my abdomen. “How do you know that . . . I’m . . . I’m pregnant?”

“I have three kids, Rachael. You were green when you entered my gym.”

I put my hands on my hips, and glare at him. “Why did you push me so hard, then?” I want to add
asshole
, but I refrain because I really adore Malik.

“Because you wouldn’t have wanted to have been treated any other way.” He chuckles.

I grab my black gym bag, water bottle, and towel. I tuck the card into the side pocket of my bag before I toss it over my shoulder. “Look. This needs to stay between us. Graham and I aren’t exactly together at the moment, and I need to figure a lot of stuff out.”

He pulls me tightly against him, giving me a sweaty hug. When he releases me, he says, “It’s all good. I’m like a therapist. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories that I hear.”

“Thanks for everything,” I call over my shoulder as I walk out the gym’s glass doors for the last time.

“Later,” he replies. Then, he adds, “Good luck.”

He doesn’t know how much I’ll need it.

Lou opens the car door for me, and I slide into the back of the town car. Letting out a sigh, I mumble, “Time for the next goodbye.”

My favorite winter white suit with the gold knot buttons is hanging in my closet, ready for one last wear. There will be no need for business suits in the middle-of-nowhere Texas, hiding out in Colin and Caroline’s compound.

I stand in front of my full-length mirror in the second bedroom that I use for a closet, looking for any telltale signs of my secret. My breasts still fit comfortably in my padded bra. The control-top pantyhose have taken care of any bump, flattening my stomach. I slide the skirt over my hips, zipping it in the back. I button the jacket over my bra, and slip my black heels on my feet. I examine my appearance from every angle, as I know that I will be photographed incessantly today. Once I’m confident that my secret is safe, I exit the closet and enter my bathroom to complete my last-day look. My hair needs to be secured back in one of my signature knots.

Usually, I keep the hair pins in the drawer next to the sink. Today, they rest on the counter next to my overnight cosmetic bag. Everything is packed except for what I need just for this morning.

As I begin running the brush through my hair, my phone dings. My heartbeat picks up, hoping that it’s a message from Graham. Today is one of the hardest days of my life. I could use a bit of encouragement right about now. Granted, he didn’t plan on knocking me up, and I have complicated his life, but “a thinking of you” text would be nice.

Graham:
Movers will be there in fifteen minutes. I’m booked on the 5:00 flight. Meet you at my place.

I exhale. That’s it. I mean, I know that we’re not in a good place, but a “have a nice day” message would have gone a long way to making me feel better about my decision. Hell, I would even accept a “don’t suck on your last day of employment.”

Sighing, I turn back to my task at hand—making myself presentable for my final day spent holding the title of White House Chief of Staff.

For the hundredth or maybe the thousandth time, I wish that I didn’t love him. Today I walk away from my career. My life that I built for myself—every bit of normalcy that I have—to begin a new life as a mother, a person responsible for another human being. With Graham still taking his time and space, I don’t know if my new life and responsibilities will be shared by him. I have no idea why he wants to meet me at his home this evening. All I received was a few-word text a few days back asking me to spend the night at his place after I completed my last day at the White House. Not an ounce of further details. I replied asking a few questions but so far, they’ve been ignored but like the drone that I’ve become, I agreed.

Just as the last pin secures the tight chignon at the nape of my neck, there’s a knock on my front door. Quickly, I toss my remaining bathroom toiletries into the bag and bring it downstairs, dropping it on my over-used chair by the front window that will be donated to charity.

Exhaling, I open the door and greet Lou along with Rita, the move coordinator. We walk to the middle of my living room. I have previously discussed with Rita what should be donated, what should be shipped to Texas, and what should just be destined for the dumpster.

I’ve known that this day was coming. The majority of my belongings don’t hold an ounce of sentimental value. However, the few things that I do have are very important to me. My closet being one of them. Not that I have particularly expensive taste, but my business suits and high-heeled shoes mark time for me. I can tell you what jacket and pencil skirt I was wearing when important events happened. My navy heels with the pointed toe are the shoes I wore when I had to make a trip to Capitol Hill to convince a Congressman to come around to the White House’s way of thinking. My clothing is a trip down memory lane—my career scrapbook.

Rita opens her notebook and takes notes as I point out important reminders. When I mention my closet, her eyes shift to the carpet, then she looks up at me rather timidly. “Have you spoken to Mr. Jackson yet?”

“What does Mr. Jackson have to do with this?” I ask in a high-pitched voice. Graham has not shown the least bit of interest in my move, other than to make the initial contact with the moving company. One of his friends from college owns the business. Graham called on my behalf, hoping that the moving company would take extra care with my things if they knew that I was friends with the owner.

Rita clears her throat, and says, “Mr. Jackson phoned on Monday and requested that everything that was to be shipped to Texas should instead move to his residence, including your closet.” I’m spending one night with Graham. Why would I need my entire closet for this? I have a feeling that his online text invite to his house after work tonight holds more significance than I had originally thought.