The World: According to Graham (30 page)

“Graham . . .” I say, wanting to crawl in his lap and tuck him tightly against me. I see this for what it is. I’ve watched a man want something so desperately that he would campaign when he was so tired that he could barely stand, or so sick that he was vomiting in a trashcan while a medic gave him an IV so he could go to the next rally spot. I know what laying it all on the line looks like. I’ve seen it before, and Graham is that desperate.

He holds his hand up, preventing me from comforting him. I’m not offended. He needs to say his piece. I’ve learned this about him. “That’s not the worst of it.” He looks at me with pleading eyes. “Please don’t take this wrong, but I’ve been so focused on us that I’ve let my research slip. I’ve lost my edge. I’ve lost what makes Graham Jackson, a nobody, into Revere. Jake pointed it out last night and he’s right. I’ve been dialing it in for weeks.”

“Tell me what you need,” I say. “What can I do to make this better? Let me help you.”

I can fix this. This is what I do. My skill set is what earned me the title of youngest, and only female White House Chief of Staff. My heart is pounding at the thought of being able to right this for him. I silently plead for him to let me.
Graham, this is the same as you making me admit that I trusted you, and I know you wouldn’t cheat on me
—
no matter what the world says. This is my line in the sand. Acknowledge that you want me as your partner.

He stands up and begins to pace the kitchen. In Texas, there’s a saying “a cat in an electrical storm.” His behavior fits the metaphor. “Come on, Graham. I can help. I know that I can, but you have to tell me what you need.”

Agreeable Rachael would quickly anticipate his needs. She would open with something like, Graham, dear Graham, man in our relationship, I’ll gladly be the woman by your side and clean up your mess. But I’m no longer Agreeable Rachael. She died along with the life growing inside of me. I’m me—warts and all. Life is too short and too precious to try to be something that I’m not. He has to ask me for help. I like the new/old Rachael. She has the same drive and will-power to succeed, but she knows that she can be herself and have the support of her lover. He’s proven his worth by sticking by my side through thick and thin. It’s a novel concept.

He stops pacing and turns to face me. His face is twisted in anguish and I don’t recognize where it’s coming from.
Ask me. Ask me for whatever help you need.
In my mind, I’m begging him, imploring that he open up to me. He doesn’t have to always be the hero. I can fill that role also. I just need him to ask me for help.

Graham walks back to his glass of wine and slams it. He then finds the bottle of bourbon and pours a glass over ice. That’s when I start worrying that it’s me. Am I so terrifying that he can’t talk to me? Does he need for me to exit, stage left, from his life? I’m watching a man self-destruct and there’s nothing that I can do to help him if he doesn’t ask. It’s maddening and terrifying all in one beautiful package wrapped in jeans and grey cashmere.

“Tell me, Graham. Tell me what you need,” I implore.

“I . . .” He starts, then stops. “I need for you to . . .”

It’s pulling teeth, really. I jump to my feet and wrap him in my arms. This is part of being the new and improved Rachael. I can support him without losing what makes me, well, me. I’m all in at this point. Graham Jackson is my future. He’s my warm place on a cold, stormy night. He’s my rocking-chair buddy at the age of eighty. He’s my partner-in-crime and my port in a storm. He’s all that I ever need to feel like life is complete—if he’ll have me.

“Tell me, Graham. Tell me what I can do to help you.”

“I need you . . .” He sputters and swallows hard. “I need you to come on tour with me and fix it. Fix this mess that I’m in. Find a way to make it better, and in the black, and what it’s meant to be. I need you to run this tour like you ran the White House and let me focus on what I do best, which is being Revere.”

I’m humbled by his words and relieved that this isn’t the end for us. No one has ever asked me for help. Sure, President Jones paid me for my knowledge and expertise. I’ve been asked to consult on many issues, but no one I love has ever asked me to help them out of a jam.
Doesn’t he know that I would move mountains for him?
New Rachael has learned to love herself just as much as she loves Graham.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” I ask with burning cheeks.

“So?” He steps back with a curious look in his eye, as if he trying to read my body language.

Does he actually think that I would tell him no? “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” His brows crease.

“Yes, I will lend you my incredible management expertise, don my Wonder Woman cape and swoop in like the superhero that I am to right your wrongs.”

His chin drops as his eyes roll. “Seriously? That’s your answer? A simple ‘yes, Graham, of course, I will help you because you’re the love of my life’ would have been sufficient.”

Now, it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “That’s an answer that Agreeable Rachael would have given.”

Poor guy. His brows crinkle in confusion. “Agreeable Rachael? Who in the hell is that?” He mutters under his breath, “I need a fucking manual.”

My cheeks flush as a smile reaches my eyes. “Oh. She’s no one that matters anymore.”

I walk towards him, because I can’t think of any better place to be at the moment than in his arms, but he takes two steps back, almost bumping into the kitchen sink. Pausing in confusion, my heart sinks. Surely, we aren’t back to the place where we have to be friends and can’t touch each other.

Then, his left cheek pulls up in a side-ways grin, like he has the biggest secret in the world. His hands reach for me and I offer him mine. With a gentle jerk he pulls me next to him. My heart tries to beat its way out of my chest. This feels like a big moment—an epic moment! My body temperature rises and my face flushes with heat. Before I can stop myself, my lip is pinched in between my teeth. I look up at Graham in anticipation of what he is going to do next.

His dimple appears just under his eye and as he looks down, a piece of hair falls over his forehead. There’s a slight edge to his voice when he says, “So while you seem to be in an agreeable mood, why don’t you agree to marry me?”

It’s three simple letters, and translates to every spoken language. Y-E-S. In Spanish it’s
sí
. In French it’s pronounced
oui
. In German, it’s
ja
, and in Portuguese, it’s
sim
. I speak all of these languages fluently. The first time I said yes, my heart knew it was the
only
answer, but the rest of me was still getting on board; the second time it was agreeing to a new career; and I have no doubt that this “yes” will hold just as much adventure as I become Graham’s wife and partner. Well, as I told President Jones yesterday, I’m all in. I’m head over heels in love with a boy. There is no doubt in my mind—no second-guessing. So as I look Graham in his sparkly blue eyes and take his face between my trembling palms, I whisper the most powerful word in any language—yes.

“I mean, the bride wore white! What a joke. What happened to first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage? Is nothing sacred any longer? Values. That’s what is missing from today’s society . . .” The lady who looks like my wife spews this nonsense to the camera. The white blond hair and petite frame is where any semblance ends. She’s a bitter, hateful woman who can turn our story into something that is ugly, and I will not have that happen today of all days.

I shut the TV off and slip the remote between the mattress and the box springs, hoping Rachael won’t think to look there. She’ll be curious to see how the world is reacting to our announcement, but I don’t care. I, or should I say, the Sons of Liberty pay someone to worry about that kind of stuff so we don’t have to.

No. Today is our day. Real life starts tomorrow.

“Rach, they’re waiting on us,” I call to my wife of thirty minutes.

“They’re just going to have to wait. The baby can’t feed himself,” she responds in a hushed but serious tone.

I stand up and walk into the adjoining room in our hotel suite where I drink in the sight of my life. Rachael is snuggled into a coral and aqua striped chair with her feet propped up on an ottoman. Her long blond hair is resting over one shoulder. She’s slipped out of her wedding dress, which is tossed over the back of the couch, and replaced it with a pale pink bathrobe. One small but firm breast is exposed and our son is attached to it, enjoying his evening meal. His chubby, pink hand reaches up and grasps a lock of her hair, twisting it around his fingers. He has a strong pull, but if it hurts Rachael, she doesn’t let on.

“Hey, big guy,” she coos. “You were so good during the ceremony. Mommy was so proud of you. You let Miss Shelby hold you and you didn’t even cry.” Her face is so soft, relaxed when she talks to him. Those that called her a ball buster would not recognize this version of the beautiful woman I call my wife.

I take the chair opposite her in our hotel suite and watch the two things that I love the most in the world have their moment.

When Rachael is able to take her eyes off of our son, she smiles a serene smile that matches her dancing eyes. “The ceremony was beautiful.”

“Was it? I didn’t notice. I was too busy pinching myself that the gorgeous lady in front of me was really mine.”

She rolls her eyes and smirks. “You’re so corny.”

“And cute . . .”

“Yes. Definitely cute,” she agrees, with a nod.

There’s a knock on the door that breaks our shared moment of calm. “I’m coming,” I yell as I walk toward the hotel room door.

When I do, it startles the baby, making him jerk in Rachael’s arms. Immediately, she cradles him against her shoulder and whispers soothing words in his ear.

I open the door, completely annoyed at the interruption. “What?” I ask our wedding planner, Erin.

“Guests are seated and dinner will be served shortly. Can I get an idea of when you’ll be down?”

She’s a nice enough woman. Supposedly, she’s the best wedding planner on the East Coast. Right now, she and the rest of the wedding guests can go to hell.

“We’ll be there once the baby is finished eating and settled,” I reply in a tight voice.

“I would just hate for you two to miss your party. Plus, Former President Jones and Mrs. Jones are on a tight timeline, and the President’s assistant said that he can only stay another hour. They have to leave . . .”

I whisper, so Rachael can’t hear me. “I don’t give a fuck about Former President Jones’s timeline, or the current President’s, for that matter. My wedding. My wife. My baby. I wrote a very large check so every guest could enjoy lobster at my reception. We’ll. Come. Down. When. We’re. Ready.”

I shut the door before she has a chance to respond.

Fortunately, Rachael seems too preoccupied getting our son ready for bed to have overheard the conversation I just had with Erin. Hell! It’s a shame Rachael hadn’t met her when she was in politics. The lady could have been her right-hand man—chopping off heads.

I locate Rachael and my son in the second bedroom off of our suite, which has a baby bed set up in the corner, and a hotel-provided rocking chair. The curtains are parted and moonlight bathes them in a pale glowing shade of blue-grey. I literally grab the doorjamb at the sight of them and gasp. I wish I had known twenty months ago, when she’d ambushed me in the Cracker Barrel in the middle of nowhere, Virginia, that this was how my life would end up. I would have done things so differently. It’s a miracle that we’ve arrived in this place, and the enormity of the amount of work that we’ve put into this relationship and the sacrifices that we’ve made along the way are not lost on me.

“Is he asleep?” I ask in a hushed voice, while I walk quietly towards them.

“Yes, but I don’t want to let him go,” she says adoringly, as she runs her fingers over Hunter’s thin, black hair. “I just love him so much.”

“I know you do, baby. That was Erin at the door letting us know that dinner is being served.” It’s a statement—not a suggestion that we leave. The nanny is waiting for our call to come and stay with Hunter while we enjoy the reception. However, if it was up to me, Rachael and I wouldn’t leave our suite again until the morning.

She doesn’t reply with words. Her body language speaks volumes though. She leans over and dusts kisses on Hunter’s head and cheeks, and then she hands him to me.

“I just can’t believe he’s ours,” she says, in her lullaby voice that she discovered the moment she held him in her arms.

His footed pajamas are blue and have big black dogs on them. I know that she chose them in honor of George. Hunter’s little body molds against my chest and I whisper into his ear, “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite, Daddy loves you with all his might.”

Carefully, I place him in the middle of the crib and kiss my two fingers before touching them to his head.

Rachael joins me, and I wrap her tightly with my arm pulling her against my side. “Thank you so much for trying again. I know it was hard, but you’ve given me him, and the only gift that I’ve received that is more wonderful is you.” Then, after a heartbeat, I add, “Mrs. Jackson.”

She smiles and replies, “We’ve been blessed beyond belief, haven’t we?”

I’m not sure how long we stand there staring at our miracle, and it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned what life is about by loving these two. Everything else doesn’t hold a candle.

“I guess we should go say hello to the people that have traveled from all over the country to attend our wedding.” She sounds about as excited as I feel.

“Or I could carry you into the bedroom, untie that robe and properly introduce myself to you as your husband.”

She giggles and grabs my hand, dragging us out of our son’s room. Once the door is shut, she says, “Dear God, Graham. Your lines suck. ‘Properly introduce myself as your husband.’ Come on. You can do better than that.” She fists her hands and places them on her hip. When she does, her robe falls open, exposing her left breast. The milky white skin against the strawberry pink nipple drives me insane. The swell of her perky tits do funny things to me.