The World: According to Graham (28 page)

His words sting much more than the crazy bitch’s slap. His words are an acid burn to my soul. “Shit, man, what else do you want from me? I get that the tour has faltered without me around, but I told you this morning that I’ll be back full-time.” I run my hand through my hair in frustration. “You can’t mean that you think that us losing the baby is a good thing.”

Jake takes a shot of the Fireball and replies, “Every damn word of it I mean.” He slams down his glass and looks me in the eyes. “I hate that you guys lost the baby, and I’m sorry to see you upset. But I’m glad that we can become your priority again.” He gestures around us. “We’ve got such a good thing going here. Do you even know that CNN said this morning that we might be the single deciding factor in this year’s presidential election? When’s the last time that you combed through our Betsy Ross leads? You’ve been so consumed with Rachael that you’ve checked out of politics. Your commentary is shit. You’re recycling the same garbage that the cable talk shows spew. You’ve lost your edge. You’ve lost what makes you Revere and it’s really shit to see.” Jake’s voice becomes softer. “Yes, we’ve had a good weekend. Bits of old Revere were present tonight, but I need all of you. I need you firing on all cylinders. You’re the glue that makes this work. When you come back, come back and be Revere.”

He throws down two twenties on the table and turns to leave. I grasp his arm, feeling like I’ve been gut punched. “I’m sorry that you feel that way. I said this morning that I’ll be back soon.”

His eyes are filled with pity. “And I want to believe you, man, I really do. Tonight was a taste of how good we can be. I want you not only here physically, but I want you mentally dialed in. I want what we had tonight every damn day.” He shakes his head and walks towards the exit.

I turn back and look at Max. He says, “hurts more when it comes from the strong, silent type doesn’t it?”

Staring mindlessly at the dance floor, I replay Jake’s words over and over again in my mind. He’s right. I know he’s right. Max knows that he’s right. I haven’t been doing my research. Yes. I might have sat in front of my laptop and stared at a screen, but Rachael has been my priority. Hell, his accusation that I’ve been regurgitating cable news was kind. I haven’t really even turned it on in weeks. I guess I thought that no one had noticed. Apparently, everyone has.

I reach behind me and grab a bar stool, pulling it to the table. Sinking down on it, I step inside the black hole of doubt. Can I recover? Have I thrown the Sons of Liberty away for Rachael? Maybe I can’t divide my focus. Maybe I can either have the Sons of Liberty or Rachael, but not both. The thought is so depressing that the whiskey sours in my stomach.

Max’s slap on my shoulder pulls me out of my own head. I look up as he shoves another shot of Fireball Whiskey at me. “Drink this.”

We toast and down our shots. “You’ve got a great resource lying naked in your bed. She’s only one of the greatest political strategists of our time, and she ran the White House. She might, just might, be able to throw the Sons of Liberty a bone.”

Hearing Max talk so positively about Rachael again goes a long way to loosening the knot in my chest. He’s right. I’ve gotten so lost in our world that I forgot just who Rachael Early is. Yes, she’s who I want to spend the rest of my life with, but she’s also the person who inspired the Sons of Liberty. She was my muse, who kept me focused on my goal. She’s also a wealth of knowledge and skills, and Max is right. She’s lying naked in my bed. Time to go home and get my girl . . .

It feels surreal to walk these halls again. It hasn’t been that long since the White House employees and interns lined the walls, clapping as I exited for the last time as White House Chief of Staff.

I’m not sure that I recognize that girl anymore. She was deathly afraid of the future—scared of becoming a partner to Graham, and a mother. She was unsure of everything.

Now, the girl who approaches the President’s private office is changed in ways that she hasn’t come to fully recognize yet. She’d trade everything that she could to still be expecting a baby, to be by Graham’s side with a giant black Lab as her constant companion in a tin can in the middle of somewhere in the United States.

The secret service agents that lurk in the background of the White House each greet me with smiles. It feels right to be somewhere familiar. Nothing has been constant since I left this office.

I’ve spent a lot of time since Graham has been gone meditating on what’s next for me—always the planner. I even ventured into my new closet and office, and spent some time trying out my desk. At first the idea of continuing with
Anything, But Not Everything
seemed hollow in light of losing the baby. Sam was my happily ever after. Sam was how I planned to end the book on a cheery, upbeat note. Success! See, world, I managed to have it all. I got the fantastically spectacular career and the baby that I’ve just recently dreamed of having, as well as the super-cute boy. Well, my happy ending isn’t happy. My conclusion is no longer the same. I have no way to end my story.

The cherry tree blooming outside my office window has been a source of calm for me. And I love Graham so much more than I even thought possible for coming up with such an amazing tribute to Sam.

After hours upon hours of staring at the physical reminder of the life that we created, I came to the conclusion that I have to be my own happily ever after. It will not be the same joy as the idea of becoming a mother has brought to me, but I owe it to Sam to keep going. I have to. It’s my tribute to the life that we created together and the journey my pregnancy has taken us on.

Today has been the first decent day that I’ve had. I found some hope that one day I will be able to move on—never the same and always with a scar on my heart—but Graham and I will find joy again.

Then, like things seem to happen in my life, I received a call from Evan this morning. He had been asked by President Jones to extend me a part-time job offer. The President wants to bring me on as an advisor. Apparently he misses our evening conversations and strategy sessions. The job pays well. It means being back at the beck and call of the White House. If President Jones needs me, I drop what I’m doing and take his call or race to his office. It would also give me the flexibility to continue working on my book while having a steady stream of money being deposited in the bank. Those are good things. My savings account is still somewhat padded because I haven’t had much in the way of expenses, but I can’t expect Graham to keep paying for everything.

We’ve never discussed our finances. I assume that Graham’s radio show contract is what he uses to pay his bills. He certainly spends money. The truck and The Cougar couldn’t have been cheap, and then he had it retrofitted with his recording studio equipment.

However, I’ve seen the magazine cover that Graham thought by leaving in his studio I would miss. I hadn’t been spying per se, I just happened to be looking for something when I’d gotten up before Graham the morning that we’d left to come back to D.C. I was curious what had kept him up late. That was when I’d seen the headline. My stomach had dropped, and I’d known it was my fault.

“Miss Early,” the President’s weekend secretary greets me warmly. “Your absence has been noticed.”

“Thank you, Regina.”

She’s a kind woman that’s in her fifties and has served the President for as long as I have—well, I guess she’s now been with him longer.

“He’s ready for you. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“You know, coffee would be great.”

She smiles and turns to enter a small kitchenette near the President’s office. Regina doesn’t ask how I take my coffee, but it’s perfect as usual.

I thank her and enter the space where I’ve spent most of my evenings for the past seven years. The President is sitting in his spot on the peacock blue sofa with a manila folder in his lap. As usual, I scan his hands to check for any signs of tremble. Fortunately, they look steady. The medicine must be doing the trick.

He’s dressed casually in a tan pair of slacks and a pale yellow sweater. Today, he doesn’t look as aged as he has in the past. Maybe Shelby and he enjoyed a rare private evening of movie watching.

Leaning against the doorjamb, I wait for him to invite me in. It doesn’t take long. “Rachael.” He beams. “Come have a seat.”

Because I’m a creature of habit, I take the same chair that I used to sit in every evening. Normally, my bag would rest at my feet, filled with the items that we needed to discuss. Today, it’s just my purse, and it holds nothing relevant to the President. The thought simultaneously makes me sad and relieved.

The President doesn’t keep me waiting. “First of all, I’m sorry for your loss. Not that I’m going to pretend to know what it feels like, but please know that you are in my and Shelby’s prayers.”

I nod and take a sip of my coffee.

“Before I discuss the position that I had Evan call you about, I want to talk about you.” I must let my face betray my unease, because he chuckles. “Calm down. After our last visit you left me in the dark on certain areas of your life. I care about you personally, but I need to know before I offer you this job that you are focused and available.”

In my head, warning bells sound. He’s wanting an update on my personal life. President Jones is going to ask if I’m still with the baby’s father. How do I answer that question? I certainly don’t doubt Graham’s commitment, but he’s going to rejoin the tour full-time, and I’m not sure where that exactly leaves me.

Do I want to tour with him, focused on completing my book? There’s a part of me that screams that it feels weak and dependent to follow a man. Then I ask myself the question—do I want to go days and probably weeks without seeing him? I know that that’s not possible. Now that Graham and I have spent so much time together, the thought of not seeing him every day makes me already miss him.

“What have you spent your time doing since you’ve left the White House?” He crosses his legs and the image fills my head of him as a psychiatrist, probing my brain to see if I’m mentally fit.

You’re losing it, Rachael. Just answer his question.

“Well, let’s see. I spent the days before I lost the baby riding in a truck with a boy and his dog that pulled a travel-trailer called The Cougar. We ate in roadside diners and slept at campground sites. I did laundry at a washeteria.” I pause for a second and study the expression on his face. His eyes are wide and his forehead is slightly wrinkled. I may have just shocked the President of the United States. “Oh. And we were almost eaten by a meth head in Oklahoma.” I throw that tidbit in just for shock value.

He nods and is silent.

I don’t think that there’s any need to mention what I’ve been doing since we lost Sam. Lying on the couch and planting a tree aren’t nearly as shocking.

I guess when he finally recovers from my story, he replies, “And you did all of that why?”

My cheeks pull up into a face-splitting grin. “Because I am head over heels in love with a boy.”

“Best reason that I’ve heard.” He leans forward, as if this story is getting better by the moment. “And the boy is?”

I take a sip of my coffee as a stall tactic. I’m going to tell him. I’m not ashamed of the man whom I love, and I find myself wanting to broadcast it to the world. Revere is just a fraction of who Graham Jackson is, and I hope that the President can recognize that.

Blue and orange flames dance in the beautifully sculpted fireplace. There’s something so relaxing about a fire. I think of roasting s’mores with Caroline, Colin and their crew. Fires apparently also make me bold. “You know him. He’s been to the White House a couple of times, and even been to your screening room for fight night. In fact, that’s how I met him.”

I pause, waiting for President Jones to make the connection. When he does, he shakes his head and looks away. His reaction is puzzling to me, so I ask, “No congratulations?”

He uncrosses his legs and leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His head moves back and forth, and I get the impression that he is disappointed in me. Anger tries to flare in my belly, but I tamper it. This man has been the biggest influence in my life. I owe it to him to reserve judgement until he has said what he needs to say.

“I was hoping it was Evan.”

My hands slap over my mouth to keep the laughter at bay. “Evan. As in Evan Atkins? Are you kidding me? Why? Why would you assume him?”

He looks chagrinned. “Well, you two have a good friendship, and I assumed that you were resigning because it would look bad that the White House Chief of Staff was sleeping the White House Press Secretary.” He has an embarrassed smile, complete with flushed cheeks. “Boy, was I wrong.” Then he pauses. “Graham Jackson, really?”

“Really.” Before he can interject, I continue. “Before I get the lecture, trust me when I say that I’ve warred with myself about the content of his shows. I’m not one hundred percent on board with what he’s doing, but I love him as a human being. It makes it easy to overlook locker-room humor when you can reconcile that it’s just a stage persona. He’s a good man and treats me like I deserve to be treated.” I don’t mention the little refrigerator incident.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “You’re happy? I’m happy.” Then he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I know that this is a terrible question to ask just a week after losing the baby, but the pregnancy was unplanned?”

All joy and happiness exits the room in a whoosh. It’s replaced by melancholy and angst. I stare at the Oriental rug that has been my mental escape for the past seven years. This is actually a question that I’ve toyed with over the last week. I’m a planner, and as a planner I’m always looking towards the future, trying to do less so.

After a bit, I swallow hard and reply, “I believe it would be a disgrace to the memory of the baby that we lost not to try again. However, as Graham told me once, I need time and space before that can happen again. But, yes, Mr. President, I do want to have another child one day.”

He seems satisfied with my answers. Our conversation moves from personal to professional as he outlines the job responsibilities of being an advisor. I tell him that I will give it careful consideration and let him know in a couple of days.