The World: According to Rachael (23 page)

I lean into his hand and smile reassuringly at him. “I know. You’re a good man, Graham.”

He steps towards me and pulls me tightly against his chest. My head fits perfectly between his sculpted pecs. I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the tension in his back muscles. I hold him and try to silently communicate that whatever is gnawing at him, he can tell me about it.

The warm water cascades over us, making me think of the postcard magnetically attached to my refrigerator downstairs. My mind drifts to images of tropical islands and waterfalls. Then, it explores dirty thoughts, like having Graham take me in an outdoor shower, or under the spray of our own private waterfall.

He doesn’t speak, and we linger like this until the water starts cooling down.

I break our embrace to shut it off. As I step out and begin toweling off, he says, “You’re going to work today aren’t you.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.” I grab my brush and begin to work the tangles out of my hair. In the mirror, I watch him roughly drag the towel along his abs, thighs, back, and hair.

He pauses as he exits the bathroom. “Text me when you’re leaving. I’ll meet you here and fix us dinner.”

I grab my blow-dryer, but before I turn it on, I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I’ll come to your place. I don’t think my kitchen has been used for preparing a meal since I moved in.”

Hot air blasts the side of my injured face. Fear? Trepidation? I’m not sure, but it clouds Graham’s eyes for just a flash. Instantly, an alarm bell sounds in my head. He had friends at his place this weekend. Why doesn’t he want me there? One of the reasons that I’ve been as successful as I have is because I listen to my gut instincts. Right now, they’re telling me that something definitely isn’t right.

He walks back into the bathroom and places a chaste kiss on my bruised cheek before he leaves the room and heads downstairs.

I don’t have time to dwell on Graham. I’m running late, which is no way to start off a Monday. When my hair is damp, I twist it into a tight knot, put on mascara and lipstick, because I decide that there’s no point in wasting my expensive Chanel base when all everyone will be focused on is the bruise. I walk into my closet and take my favorite suit off of the hanger. It’s winter-white with decorative gold buttons that are shaped like knots. I pair it with a pair of black heels and nude thigh-high hoses. I choose the thigh highs just in case I see Graham before I change.

I step in front of my three-way full-length mirror, examining my appearance. Not bad. The image that I want to portray is that of a strong, confident, female who isn’t ashamed of her bruised cheek. When I’m satisfied I’ve achieved that by adding a gold chain necklace, I head downstairs.

George is gone, so I assume Graham is also. I grab my purse and tote bag and open the front door. Lou is leaning against the passenger door.

“Did you take Graham home?”

“Took a cab, ma’am.”

“Why?” I ask, as I lock it behind me.

“I don’t know, but he seemed to be in a hurry.”

I slide into the backseat, and he shuts the car door behind me.
Whatever, Graham. I don’t have time to worry about you right now.

My morning is awful. I’ve had to explain at least five thousand times what happened to my face. Finally, I grab a sheet of typing paper and write,
You should see the other guy
. I rip off a piece of tape and hang my sign just under the brass placard outside of my office door that reads
Rachael Early, White House Chief of Staff
. Hopefully, that will keep anyone else from asking.

Around one o’clock, Evan strolls into my office. “You know you were supposed to bob and weave, right?” He demonstrates by picking up his arms in a defensive stance and does a goofy dance while tucking his chin to his chest. Even in my grouchy mood, I can’t help but laugh, which causes my cheek to throb.

I push back from my desk and give him my undivided attention. “What’s up, Mohammad Ali?”

He drops to the chair in front of me. “I’m getting questions in my press briefings about the Sons of Liberty. They’re the equivalent to a boy band from the nineties, and the media are all twelve-year-old girls.” Evan has such a way with words.

“Our response is that the President believes strongly in the First Amendment. Next question.” I pause for a second, and think about what I just said. “You know, Evan, do we try to get Roan a guest spot on their radio show? Might be interesting to see how the show’s demographic responds to our immigration reform ideas.”

Evan and I sit in a comfortable silence, both turning over the thought in our minds. My phone, which is charging on my desk, dings. I glance at the screen and see that it’s from Graham.

“What’s with the crooked grin, Rachael?” Evan goads.

Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I know I’m blushing. Damn, I hate being so transparent. “That’s none of your damn business, and I'll thank you to stay out of my personal affairs,” I reply in my best Jim Carrey as Ace Ventura voice.

Evan and I can banter like this all day. “Read his message. Let’s see what lover-boy has on his mind.”

I pick up a piece of my personalized stationery and crumble it into a ball, launching it at Evan. I also grab my phone to read Graham’s text.

Graham:
Reason #326 that MMA is better than boxing: I could have had you in a rear-naked choke hold this morning instead of jab crossing into your face. Can’t wait to see you tonight …

“So?” Evan asks.

“Inside joke,” I reply. “Now, back to the Sons of Liberty, or should we shorten their name to just SOL.”

“SOL it is.”

Evan and I spend the next thirty minutes debating the merits of giving the Sons of Liberty the attention of the White House. It’s a fine line we have to walk. The three guys are loose cannons. We can’t predict how they will treat Roan, and rule number one of public relations is don’t put your client in a position unless you are certain of the outcome. On the flip side, it could be a huge coup for us. If we had the will of the American public behind us, it would make support from congress a whole lot easier.

In the end, Evan and I decide that it’s worth running by President Jones. I make a note to discuss it with him when he’s back in town.

When my office is quiet for a second, I grab my phone and respond to Graham.

Me:
Reason #446 that Boxing is better than MMA: Choking me out sounds life-threatening. A punch makes a bruise that WILL HEAL. Although, I’ll grant you the rear-naked part. Remember I don’t know where you live. Please text me directions.

I decide to ignore his comment about coming to my place.

As I hit send, my office door flies open and a new set of problems are dropped on my desk. This is just another Monday.

I come up for air around seven o’clock. The sky is dark, and the lamps that are on automatic timers in my office came on thirty minutes ago. I grab my phone and check to see if in all of the chaos of the last couple of hours that I missed Graham’s text with directions to his house.

My chest falls when I realize that he never responded. Instead of texting him back, I call instead.

“Graham Jackson,” he answers on the third ring.

“Hi,” I respond, really not knowing what else to say. Did he forget to send me his address? I could easily find it on the Internet. However, that feels pushy. Maybe even a bit stalker-ish. I decide to not ask again, and see where this conversation leads.

“Hi. How’s your face?” He sounds genuinely happy to hear from me.

“Nothing that two Aleve couldn’t handle.”

“That’s good. I’ve been worried about you all day. Are you still at work?”

“Yes. I’ve decreased the size of the urgent pile so I think I can tiptoe out of here.”

“Great. I’ll meet you at your place in about an hour, then.” My stomach drops. I want to see him, but warning sirens are blaring in my head. Why can’t I go to his home? About twenty different reasons race through my head. He’s a serial killer, and has a kidnapped female locked in his basement. He has a girlfriend. He is a hoarder, and doesn’t want me to see the piles of old newspapers blocking his bedroom door. He lives with his mother.

I sigh. “Fine. See you in an hour.” My voice sounds tired—resolved.

If Graham notices, he doesn’t say anything. We hang up with mutual “byes.”

So now I do what any girl who is questioning her boyfriend does. I Google his address, and type it into my GPS mapping program. I switch to satellite view, and then click on
street level
.

From the comfort of my office, I feel like I’m standing in his front yard. The home looks lovely. It’s a ranch-style that is one-story. The bricks are painted white with black faux shutters, and a black front door. The yard looks maintained. There’s nothing about the appearance of his home that would keep me from visiting him.

I close the browser and log off my computer feeling perplexed and annoyed. I also find myself questioning the speed at which our relationship is moving. We obviously have chemistry, but even chemistry can’t overcome the realities of a relationship.

As I slip into the backseat of my waiting town car, I’m finally able to identify the feeling swirling like a tornado in the pit of my stomach. It’s the realization that all is not what it seems. My heart, that has been cracked open by Graham, begins to seal a bit of itself off. That’s the part that I’m reserving so that if he devastates me, I’ll still be able to breathe.

In spite of my trepidation regarding Graham not allowing me to visit him at home, Monday evening was nice. He pan-cooked us steaks, steamed broccoli and green beans, and stopped by my favorite bakery for chocolate éclairs. He never offered an excuse for why he came to my home instead of me going to his, and I didn’t bring it up.

I made my peace before he arrived that it’s too early in our relationship to make this a major sticking point. Although, I did set a deadline in my head. Thanksgiving is two weeks away. If I haven’t been invited to his house by the time we return to D.C., I’m going to have a chat with him.

Unfortunately, I didn’t see him for the next three days. Between the President being out of town and then coming back to Washington, I’ve done nothing but work. Although, every night, no matter how late, Graham and I at least watch one episode of
House Hunters
together while we talk on the phone.

I have a few minutes before my next meeting, and after checking the clock I know that Graham has no more classes today. I actually put my work aside and give him a call.

“What’s wrong, Rachael? Your cheek. Are you okay?” he says when he answers the phone.

I giggle. “My cheek is fine, worry wart. I missed hearing your voice so I decided to call.”

“Ah … baby, that’s so sweet.”

“I’m a sweet girl.”

“You are,” he replies suggestively.

“Stop it. You’re a bad boy.” I lean back in my chair and look out my window. There are lines of people outside waiting for their White House tour. I’m reminded what a privilege it is to work here.

“Are you still working late tonight?” He sounds so hopeful that I’ll reply
no
, it makes me miss him more.

“Yeah. Late meeting with the President’s doctor.” Oh, shit! Did I just say that? Damn. Damn.
Damn.
What’s wrong with me? I know better than to mention any meeting with the President.

“Is everything alright?” Graham asks. His voice rises in concern.

I play it cool. “Of course. He’s the most poked and prodded man in America. Routine.”

“Oh, okay.” Changing the subject, he says, “Care to place a wager on tonight’s
House Hunters
?”

I sink in relief, thankful that he didn’t push for more information on President Jones’ health. I can’t let slips like that happen again. “A wager? You know I’m so non-competitive. Whatever.”

He laughs. “You, my dear, are the most competitive person that I know. Okay. Here’s the bet. I choose the house that they pick tonight, and you have to have Thanksgiving dinner with my family.” He tosses it out there, as if meeting his parents, sister, brother-in-law, niece and whomever else is not a big deal.

I freeze, motionless in my desk chair, while I formulate a response. What I would like to reply with is, “So I can meet Mom and Pop, but I can’t walk through your front door?” But I squelch that idea in favor of, “I’ve told you. I spend Thanksgiving with Colin and Caroline.”

“And Aiden …” Graham adds through a tight voice. Although, I can’t see him, I imagine him gripping the edge of his desk until his knuckles are white.

“Who is happily married to my best friend’s sister and has two gorgeous children,” I add.

He sighs. “Look, Rachael, I like you. If having a sit-down plate of turkey is too much for you, then come over the day before or after. Hell, we can meet everyone at a restaurant if that makes you more comfortable.”

The bet has been forgotten, and I wish that I had answered a few more emails instead of making this call. In one short conversation, I let it slip about the President’s health and have been railroaded into meeting his family.
Maybe his life calling is politics.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asked, as if he couldn’t believe that I’d agreed.

“Yes. Okay. I’ll have dinner with your family on Wednesday. Thursday morning, I’ll drive to Caroline’s compound. You can meet the people who I think of as my family on Friday and watch football with us.”

By the time we say our goodbyes, I’m almost trembling. This is the biggest step that I’ve taken towards a serious relationship, and my gut tells me it’s too soon. Sometimes I really hate my gut. I wish that it would shut up and let me have some worry-free fun.

I called Graham when I got home last night, which was around eleven. My heart wasn’t in the conversation. I was still reeling from agreeing to meet his family. We talked for about twenty minutes, and then I made the excuse that I was exhausted. After we hung up, I stared at my ceiling for hours. Running President Jones’ campaign wasn’t near as intimidating as taking this step in our relationship.