The World: According to Graham (29 page)

I, Rachael Early, did something today that I’ve not down in ages—if ever. I prepared a meal for Graham and me, and not just something simple like an omelet. No takeout. No sandwiches. No boxed meals. I went to the butcher and purchased two lovely steaks. Next, I went to the fresh vegetable and fruit stand and bought a head of cauliflower, apples, tomatoes, and salad fixings. Graham’s neighborhood is nice. George and I enjoyed our walk and just getting out of the house for a few hours.

Hopefully dinner tonight will be a congratulations of sorts. Graham doesn’t have to worry about me any longer and can rejoin his tour full-time, and I’m employed. George and I can remain here in D.C. and I’ll fly out to visit Graham on tour when the White House isn’t needing me. My income can help relieve any pressure that he feels to support me, and his focus can be on fixing and rebuilding the Sons of Liberty tour. It seems pretty darn ideal.

I’ve showered, put on makeup, fixed my hair in one of my signature knots and slipped on a casual dress that’s figure skimming and makes me feel pretty. For the first time since we lost the baby, I look a bit like me again. This is part of the façade. Fake it until you make it. You look the part until you can play it.

But my happiness isn’t completely faked. Today is a better day.

“Hi honey. I’m home,” Graham yells, as I hear the front door open. George, who has been resting since our morning trip for groceries, leaps to his feet and lumbers to greet Graham. I follow behind, not wanting to steal George’s thunder.

Graham looks gorgeous—dark denim jeans, a grey sweater and a navy blue baseball hat. The sweater isn’t tight, but it skims his muscular chest in a way that makes me jealous of the cashmere material. I remind myself that, much to my chagrin, we have five more days before we can be sexually active again.

He drops to his knees and gives George the attention that he requires, but he doesn’t take his eyes from mine. “Rachael, you look gorgeous—radiant.”

“Thank you.” I blush.

He stands up and wraps me in his arms, taking me back in a deep dip and planting a lover’s kiss on my lips. “I was a bit worried about you, but I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better.” He backtracks. “I mean, you seem to be. How are you?”

“Today I just decided that I had to find my new normal.” His brows forming a
V
. “It’s what Caroline always says. When something life-changing happens it’s stressful, whether it’s a good change or bad. Anyway, she always says that you have to give up trying to feel the way you felt before the event and focus on finding a new routine—a new normal.”

“Makes sense. I know someone else who also preaches that advice,” he says, pulling me into a tight embrace. I listen to the
thud, thud
of his heartbeat, grateful to have him, and grateful that he’s a good enough man to have forgiven me for all of the hurt that I’ve caused.

“What smells so damn good?” he asks, after a bit.

I look up at him and don’t have to fake my smile. “Dinner.”

“You cooked?” he asks, with a cocked brow.

“Don’t act so surprised. Just because the pots and pans in my old house went unused doesn’t mean that I don’t know to prepare food. I did make you an omelet. Remember?”

I take his hand and lead him through the living room and into the kitchen. I’ve set the table with Graham’s white dishes and have fresh-cut spring flowers arranged in a beer mug, it was the only vase that I could find, and now it’s resting in the center of the table. I cut three small branches of flowers off the cherry tree and used them as the focal piece for the flower arrangement. Two lit candles flank the glass. “Sit down,” I order, as I pull out his chair.

He does, but has a perplexed look on his face. “You did all of this for me?”

“Nope. George.” I don’t miss a beat. “What can I fix you to drink?”

“Wine would work, if we have any.” He places the cloth napkin that I purchased for this occasion across his lap. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

I grab the bottle of Chilean Malbec that I found this morning at the market and pour us each a glass. “I have some exciting news to share, but not now. Let me plate dinner.” I flit around his kitchen as if I own the place. “Tell me about the show.”

While I finish broiling the steaks and making our salads, Graham shares news about the tour and adds a very interesting story about a girl who hit on him at a club. The pangs of jealousy in my chest don’t go unnoticed. Briefly, I wonder if a wedding ring would keep the girls in their place, but I dismiss that thought immediately.

I know at some point we’re going to have to discuss what happens to The Cougar and truck. Because I’m trying to not look too far in the future, I push that thought away also.

“Sounds like an interesting couple of days.” I place the salad in front of Graham and take my own seat next to him. He reaches over and grabs my hand, placing our interlaced fingers in his lap. He chooses to grasp his fork with his left hand and eat that way. I don’t complain.

We eat in silence, except for Graham’s utterances of how good his salad tastes. It’s a tad overkill. It’s spinach, kale and lettuce with a lemon vinaigrette dressing. It’s not spectacular, although, the fresh tomatoes are rather yummy.

When we’re finished, I pick up both of our plates and take them to the sink. “What’s the next course, Chef Early?”

I giggle at his dumb joke. “Steaks, cauliflower mashed, and stewed apples.”

“My stomach growled. Did you hear it?” He jokes—I think.

I top off his wine glass and mine, and rest the bottle on the table.

He takes a sip, and asks, “What’s your exciting news? Do you have a publisher?”

I tuck my hair behind my ears as I place his plate in front of him. My eyes lock with his and the chemistry between us is palpable. I don’t know how it’s possible to crave someone as much as I long for him. Before November, I would have said that our energy was something invented by Hollywood to sell movie tickets, but it’s real. There are moments when I’m sure that the pull can be physically seen.

He grabs my hips, and looks up at me with those heavy-lidded bedroom eyes. I know what’s on his mind because it’s the same thing on mine. His need to own me, and my desire to let him is like adding gasoline to a forest fire. I bend down, for a pleasant change, and let him make love to my mouth. His tongue shows me what he wants to do to my body, and I reciprocate. My ass is cupped in his hands and I moan in appreciation of the massage.

“Dinner,” I remind him, as he kisses down my neck.

“Fuck food,” he replies, with a nip to my collarbone.

“Five more days.” I gently wiggle out of his grasp.

“Five more days,” he repeats, and looks down with pleading eyes at the straining bulge in his pants.

I grab my plate of food from the counter and join him at the table.

“Distract me from my nefarious thoughts. Exciting news?” he asks as he cuts into his steak. I wasn’t sure how he liked his steak prepared, so I went with medium. Apparently, according to the moans of appreciation, I chose correctly. “This is fantastic, baby.”

I try the cauliflower mash. It’s really tasty. Thank you to Google and some nice lady who shared her favorite recipe on a blog, because until today, I could only order it from the corner restaurant. “I had a meeting with the President today to discuss an advisory role in the administration.”

I look up from my steak, expecting to see Graham’s eyes shining blue with pride, and a huge smile of happiness on his face. Instead, he looks as if I’ve kicked him in the gut. His fork tumbles out of his hand and crashes against the plate, making a loud clanking noise that startles George. Graham’s eyes turn black and stormy, reminding me of a seriously angry ocean, and his brows pull together. “You had what?”

My appetite makes a run for the border so I set my silverware down next to my plate, unsure what in the world is going on. I mumble, “A meeting today with the President.”

He motions for me to continue.

“To discuss an advisory role in his administration,” I add, with trepidation in my voice. “Why are you so angry?”

He ignores my question. “Tell me what it entails.”

“No. Answer my question first. Why are you upset that the President of the United States wants me to be an advisor? It’s an honor.” Honor sounds more like hon-or. I’m trying to keep the emotions out of my voice and handle this situation delicately, but for the life of me, I never expected my lovely home-cooked meal to be this derailed by my seemingly great news.

Graham throws down his napkin and replies, “I’m going for a run. I need to think.”

“Bullshit.” I yell, leaping to my feet. “You aren’t throwing a hissy fit like a bratty pre-teen and then deciding to go for a run. You obviously have a problem with me accepting this job. Tell me why,” I demand as I carry my mostly untouched plate to the garbage, scraping the food into the can.

“Why are you wasting food? Put it in the fridge and we’ll have it later,” he orders.

I like domineering Graham when we’re making love. I don’t approve of him outside of the bedroom, or maybe I do . . . But, I’m tired of being Agreeable Rachael. He can meet me in the middle. I’m tired of rolling over and playing dead to appease him.

The plate lands in the sink with a clank. “No. You’ve ruined my meal that I worked so hard on.” I use my fork to scrape the remnants of the stewed apples that I didn’t have a chance to sample into the garbage can, taking my frustrations out on the plate.

“I didn’t mean to ruin anything,” he says, sounding dejected. “You just took me by surprise.”

I walk over and take his plate off the table, and wrap it in foil before placing it in the refrigerator. When I’m done, I grab the bottle of wine and fill my glass to the top. I sit back down at the kitchen table and say, “Spill it, Graham. I’ve worked my ass off today to make sure that you had a good meal. I fixed myself up and worked my hardest to ensure that I was as much like the old Rachael as possible so you would feel comfortable leaving me to rejoin the tour. I landed a job to help out with our finances. And instead of being proud of me, you’re throwing a fit. What gives?”

“We need to talk.”

My least favorite words in the English language are “we need to talk.” It’s never good. No one says “we need to talk” and then proceeds to tell you that you won the lottery. Those four words are always followed by bad news.

What little I had of dinner isn’t settling well in my stomach and my heart begins to speed up. Thoughts race through my mind.
I’m no longer pregnant, so he doesn’t want me anymore. He’s seeing someone else. He’s going to want me to choose between a career and him. He’s ending our relationship so he can focus on his work.
None of my thoughts are positive.

“Quit looking like I’m about to tell you that your mother died,” he quips, as he takes a sip of his wine.

In my mind, I think
this conversation would be more along the lines of losing Caroline or one of her kids
—
not my mother.
Of course, I don’t say this. Graham doesn’t need to know that I never bothered to tell my parents about the baby or that I was resigning from my post at the White House, and that they didn’t call when it hit the news.

“So now you’re a comedian, huh?” I match his sip of wine with my own. We might be drunk before this conversation actually happens.

“Look,” he starts, before taking my hands in his. His are shaking. Not trembling like a leaf, or any other metaphor. No. But they’re vibrating enough that I know that this is not an easy conversation for him to have, which piles on to the sense of dread that I’m feeling.

He drops my hands and grabs his glass of wine and downs about half of it before he begins again. “The tour isn’t going well,” he says this as if he’s breaking news to a child that their elder dog didn’t make it home from the vet’s office.

I’m not totally surprised. Over the past few weeks, the thought has entered my mind as to just how he could take so much time away from the Sons of Liberty and they still be going strong. I learned at a young age that if the owner isn’t present, then everything goes to hell in a handbasket. I also saw the cover of the magazine. Of course, he doesn’t know that I’ve seen it. I try to keep my face neutral and just let him speak.

The man in front of me ages before my eyes. He doesn’t have to communicate to me how hard this is for him to talk about; his face and body language speak more than words ever could. Even though I’m angry at him for his reaction to my news and for ruining my dinner, I reach out and place my hand on his knee. This is no longer about me and my anger, and is all about him.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I’m pretty sure that our tour manager, Hank, is stealing from us, but I can’t prove it.” His eyes shift to the floor when he delivers this bit of news.

I gasp. Theft is such a violation of trust. It cuts to the core of our basic human need to feel safe. My dread over this conversation is replaced with anger and repulsion. “What do you mean Hank is stealing from you? Fire him!”

“I wish I could. I can’t prove that it’s him. He has a contract. If I fire him, I still have to pay him. That’s theft on top of theft,” he states. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, as if he’s swallowing something that is rather unpleasant.

“Graham, I’m so sorry. I had no idea . . .”

He cuts me off. “There’s more.”

This time, I pick up my glass of wine and take a slug. More? How could there be more?

“Rachael, it’s a shit show. We don’t start the bands on time, so everything goes late, and we’re paying fines out the ass. Then, our road crew keeps getting caught smoking pot, or not showing up, or just generally fucking off, so that’s another set of problems.” He pauses for a moment and then takes a deep breath before he continues, “You wouldn’t believe the amount of extra security that we’ve had to hire to keep the different opposing view organizations from killing each other. It’s like it was a great idea in theory, but actually it’s a nightmare. We’re barely making enough money to pay our bills. The only positive note is that people are still showing up to our sponsor events, and to the show.” He pauses, taking a breath. “On top of that, our radio ratings are beginning to drop, and it’s all my fault.”