The World: According to Graham (7 page)

“She’s a friend and you know how I feel about Roan. I’d call him slime but that would be an insult to the snail that left it behind.”

“He’s a colleague.” Geez, I’d been defending the guy who—I agree with Graham—is slime.

Graham had looked up to the ceiling and said more calmly, “You know how I feel about you and you did that to . . .” he’d paused and then dropped his eyes to mine. He’d taken my face between his palms, “to hurt me—make me jealous.”

He’d run his fingers tenderly over my forehead as if he’d been brushing imaginary hair out of my eyes. “I’m right here, Rachael. I’m yours. No need to make me want you more. That isn’t possible. All you have to do is acknowledge me.”

My body had tingled everywhere he’d touched. My cells had recognized his as their counterpart. Graham was mine. I’d wanted him to erase Roan’s too soft, sweaty palms from my back. I’d wanted to replace his date’s touch with my own.

I’d stood on my tiptoes and grabbed him around the neck, bringing his lips to mine. At first our kiss had been tentative. Both of us had known that we shouldn’t have been doing this and definitely not so publicly. At any moment, one of the guests could have walked by and spotted the White House Chief of Staff making out with, well, a high school history teacher and coach. Not very professional at all. But as his tongue had become more forceful, demanding, the less I had cared about a code of ethics.

“My office,” I’d groaned into his mouth.

He’d pulled away and grabbed my hand. I’d straightened my dress. “Do I look presentable?” I’d asked, attempting to make myself appear sophisticated and classy instead of horny as hell.

“Your lips are swollen and your cheeks are flushed. You’re the most goddamn beautiful thing that I’ve ever seen,” he’d growled.

I’d smiled and showed him the way to my office where he’d pushed my dress up around my waist and had taken me from behind, bent over the arm of my sofa. It was the roughest sex that I’ve ever had. He’d used my body and I’d let him. He’d spanked my ass, leaving palm prints on it that had lasted for a week and I’d loved every minute of it. What I’d learned that night was that I like to run every facet of my life except for in the bedroom. I’d loved that Graham dominated my body.

Afterwards, we’d taken turns cleaning up in my small bathroom just off my office. He’d asked me to come home with him. I’d stupidly declined, letting my insecurities trump my heart. He’d looked miserable and I’d cried all the way home.

Reliving that night makes me nauseous.
How I hurt you, Graham, and yet you still did all of this for me.
I drop into the chair, too overwhelmed to process it.

A new laptop rests on top of the desk and trophies of sorts lines the walls. Graham took highlights of my career and turned them into black-and-white canvases, like the ones in his bedroom. Tears prick my eyes when I see the now famous picture of my delivering the news to Senator Langford Jones that his new title was President-elect Jones. I’m dressed in a campaign T-shirt and yoga pants because I had spilled coffee all over my beautiful suit earlier in the day. Graham had this picture and article in the notebook that he’d kept on my career. I spin around in the chair, looking for all of those colorful notebooks. They’ve been replaced with cabinets that hold my jeans, hats and sweaters.

Before I open the desk drawers, I know what I will find. It’s Graham. He thinks of everything. They are stocked with pencils, pens, notebooks and other office essentials.

This wasn’t the plan though,
I think, as I spin around in my desk chair. I have to leave Washington. I can’t have a watermelon under my shirt and go out in public here. Everyone knows who I am. My pregnancy will be exposed, which is not good for President Jones or Graham for that matter.

Even though I tried to avoid the newsstand on my corner, I still caught glimpses of the cover of gossip magazines flaunting Graham’s single status. Of course, they call him Revere, which makes me crazy. Graham is his name, and he loves me. Revere and some supermodel at a party. Revere and a pop singer dancing at a night club. His target demographic for the Sons of Liberty tour is men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. Those magazine covers are good for his image.

Just to torture myself a little more, I lean forward and peek out of the closed blinds just to see what my view would be. “Oh God,” I sigh as I sit back in my chair. It’s not the White House lawn, but Graham’s home backs up to a ravine with a stream that runs through it. It’s so tranquil and just what I enjoy staring at when my mind needs to wander.

Closing the door on my beautiful room makes me sad. I know Graham’s motivations for building it for me. He’s showing me that he wants me in his life. He may have needed time and space, not been able to properly tell me where his head was at, so he decided to show me. The message has been received loud and clear. I’m just not sure if I can stay in D.C. or even want to. He’s on the road touring for the next eighteen months. That’s no place for a family. I’ve had a taste of that life when President Jones traveled by bus all over the country campaigning. It was hell, and it took a real toll on Shelby and the boys.

One night, Shelby broke down in tears. It was over something simple, but I knew that it was the overwhelming frustration of not having a place to call home—of losing her privacy and her boys missing their friends and schoolmates. Through her sobs, she told me that she felt all alone. That night, we ditched the campaign and found a movie theater. We watched a chick flick, ate popcorn mixed with M&M’s, and then finished the evening off with mint chocolate-chip ice cream. The night made both of us feel human again.

I smile at the memory, but also know that if I join Graham on tour I will become Shelby. I’ll be friendless, lonely and lose my privacy, all while experiencing changes to my body that I can’t even fathom. A tour bus is no place for an infant. And there’s no point in me staying in Washington. I might as well go to Texas. At least I will not be alone.

My head falls back against the desk chair. It gives a weak squeak of protest. It’s not quite exactly like the one in my office. This one is new and needs to be broken in.

How did my life become so complicated? Before Graham I could play my life like a board game. Everything was predictable. I knew with the roll of a dice where my next move was. Now, I’m a flag flapping the in the wind. The room—it’s just too much.

One of the bonuses of my pregnancy is that the more exhausted I become, the more nauseous I get. I’m beginning to feel queasy. It could be the hormones or it could be the personal space that he created and my turmoil over what to do. I decide to let it rest tonight and I’ll discuss it with Graham tomorrow. I note the time on my watch. His flight must have been very delayed.

My overnight bag is where I dropped it. I carry it into Graham’s room and unzip it. My pajamas are on top, but I can’t bring myself to wear them. I want Graham to hold me—for him to surround me—so I walk back to his closet. It’s so pathetic and I wish that I could fight off these girly impulses but tonight is not the night. I succumb to being a lovesick sappy girl.

One of the last shirts towards the back of his closet is a blue button-up that looks as if it has seen better days as a thin layer of dust that rests on the shoulders. I pull it off the hanger giving it a brush and bring it to my nose. Inhaling deeply, I sigh. It’s the scent of him that I crave so much. As I button it over my bump, I imagine his arms pulling me against his chest and him whispering in my ear how much I mean to him. Sighing at how pitiful I’ve become, I grab my toiletries bag and phone and head to the bathroom that I assume Graham’s guests use. After a face scrub and tooth brushing, I make my way back to his bedroom. The bed looks so inviting. I fold his comforter back and slide in between his incredibly soft sheets. I choose to sleep on the left side of his bed because the couple of times that we’ve spent the night together, he always chose the right.

As I drift off to sleep, I allow myself to believe that this could be our future, and the smile on my face is so foreign that my cheeks ache from lack of use.

The airport is a cluster fuck. Veronica, who was on an earlier flight, had no issue getting out of town. I had to record our radio program, which was tense, but we got through it without killing each other, and we still have all of our teeth. Sometimes you just have to label days like this as survival. It would have been easier to call in sick, but I showed up—showed the guys that I’m still committed to the Sons of Liberty. It has to count for something.
Man, I sure hope so.

“You have to get me on a plane,” I plead to the harassed lady behind the counter who doesn’t care that I have to get back to D.C. to Rachael . . . to my baby.

She bangs on the keyboard for a bit making little “hmm” noises. “Okay. It looks like I can get you on the next flight. It leaves in an hour. ID?”

I almost kiss her. She hands me back my driver’s license. I settle into the executive lounge and order a bourbon. I don’t have a lot of time, but it’s enough that I can start working on notes for tomorrow’s show.

Unfortunately, I check email first. I scan my inbox for anything that requires my immediate attention. Sure enough, I spot an email from David Riker, the Sons of Liberty’s agent.

The subject line is “Graham: READ IMMEDIATELY.” I roll my eyes as I click on the email. David is a bit high-strung. Like if it were still the 1980s I would swear that he has a coke problem. He’s one of my least favorite people that I’ve had the pleasure of working with. However, Max fought for us to hire him because he’s a shark in the entertainment ocean. And as much of a jerk as I think he is, he did negotiate us one hell of a sweet package deal with the concert promotions company.

Revere,

I just hung up with Solomon. I’m assuming that he misunderstood you when you told him that you were leaving for D.C. IT’S WEDNESDAY! May I direct you to the attachment that lists the SOL calendar. You have a show on Saturday, with a radio show to record and appearances every hour of the morning and night. A quick trip home is NOT on the itinerary. Now, get your ass back on a plane, and we’ll visit in person tomorrow about this stunt.

D.R.

I delete the email without responding. What’s done is done.
He works for me.

I down my drink without tasting it and settle back against the plush seat. My guilty subconscious reminds me that I signed a contract. Not the Sons of Liberty, but Graham Jackson used a Mont Blanc pen to scratch my name on the ‘sign here’ line. I agreed to make our tour my number-one priority.

That was before her.

My head falls into my hands, and I stare at the green and grey abstract squares decorating the carpet. David is going to lose his mind when he realizes that I’m leaving after every live show to spend the next four days with Rachael before I have to be in the next city. I decide that it’s best to not mention that little detail yet.

My phone dings with a text.

Veronica:
All is good here. Desk is set up. Clothes need organizing, but everything survived the move. Anything you want from the store?

Me:
The usual stuff and grab a few things that you think a girl would like.

Veronica:
Eye-eye Captain

I smirk at my phone and whisper to myself. It’s “A-y-e, Veronica.” David certainly didn’t hire her for her knowledge of the English language, but she is efficient.

My flight is called, so I pack up my little-used laptop and head for the gate. I just have to keep all the balls in the air for a few weeks. Hopefully, that’s all it will take to convince Rachael to see things my way.

“Hey, man.” I get the cab driver’s attention by tapping him on the shoulder. “Can we make a detour?” Our plane had to make an emergency stop in Denver because some asshole decided to have heart palpitations. Rachael has probably been asleep for hours. No use in rushing home at this point.

“It’s your dime.” His voice is deep and rich. He sounds as if he should be playing the sax at a smoky jazz club in New Orleans instead of driving a dingy yellow cab in D.C.

About ten minutes later, we pull up in front of the high school where I used to work. I never really had a chance to say goodbye. The day before we revealed that we were the Sons of Liberty, I met with my principal. I gave him the news and told him that I would be resigning at the end of the month.

It didn’t go well. He was very upset and accused me of jeopardizing the school’s reputation and putting the students in danger. I still don’t know how hosting a radio show endangers the youth of America, but I wasn’t in a decent position to argue. I thought that I would get to say goodbye to my students and work with the new lacrosse coach, helping him transition to coaching such a talented group of guys. Instead, the principal slapped me with a letter informing me that if I stepped foot on the grounds of the school, they would seek a restraining order.

I climb out of the back of the cab and walk across the yellowish brown grass of the lacrosse field and take a seat on the home team’s bench. It’s a chilly evening, so I pull my wool coat tightly around my chest, flipping the collar up to keep the cold wind from my neck.

After the plane touched down in D.C., I made the mistake of checking emails again. You would have thought that I had learned my lesson the last time. There were six more from David making sure that his displeasure at my absence was noted. I deleted his voicemails without listening to them and did the same with his text messages. That’s not why my chest feels like an elephant is performing a pirouette on it. Max and Jake have been radio silent. Normally, we text throughout the day. Some of it’s about the Sons of Liberty, but mostly it’s just good-natured ribbing each other. These guys are my brothers and right now our family doesn’t seem to be speaking to each other—or just me.

I ask the night sky, “Why the fuck can’t I just be a history teacher and lacrosse coach?”

Of course, I know the answer. The Sons of Liberty were my passion, my baby. Rachael inspired me so many years ago to make a change—to see a problem and fix it. I put my heart and soul into building our radio show into what it is today. Proud is an understatement. It’s my life. Now, I have a complicated relationship with Rachael and a baby on the way because I was much more than a history teacher and lacrosse coach.