The World: According to Rachael (29 page)

“Rachael, you and I aren’t like that.” He looks up at the ceiling, as if it will give him guidance. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he takes my hands into his. “I want to tell you how this radio show idea began. Please. You were the one who inspired it.”

My face must express just how crazy his words sound to my ears, because he continues. “Remember when you came and spoke to future President Jones’ campaign staff at the D.C. office?”

In my best condescending voice, I reply, “Honey, I visited that office probably at least a hundred times. So no, I don’t remember one particular visit over another.”

“Let’s go back to the living room. I don’t want you in here any longer.” He drops one of my hands and leads me out of the studio. I follow him, not knowing exactly why. I don’t owe him anything. He lied and used me. What I owe myself is to never be this naïve and trusting again.

Yet, for some reason I sit down on the couch and tuck my legs underneath me. Graham walks into his Americana kitchen featuring white quartz countertops, white cabinets and a royal-blue tiled backsplash. One of his other Betsy Rosses even added a wood cut-out in the shape of the United States painted to look like an American flag. He opens a bottle of red wine and pours two glasses.
Smart man
.
I’m sure I’ll handle this story better with some booze in my blood.

“Did your Betsy Ross work two jobs? White House employee and Pottery Barn decorator on the weekends? We may need to look at giving the staffers a raise,” I cattily toss out there.

He leans against the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the living room. “I’ll be sure to tell my sister that you appreciate her good taste.”

I stand up and walk to him and my waiting glass of wine. It’s only then that I’m reminded that he doesn’t have a shirt on.

He catches me looking, and straightens his posture. When I reach for the glass, he grabs my forearm and pulls me to him. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “You have every right to be angry that I didn’t tell you immediately that I am one of the Sons of Liberty. But I didn’t use you. I dare you to listen to every radio program since we’ve been seeing each other. Find one bit of information that you’ve told me in confidence that I’ve shared on air. You won’t even find an innuendo. When I took your body and joined it with mine, it was because I’m fucking crazy about you. Not your title. Not your name. Not who you can introduce me to. You. I fucking love you.”

When he releases my arm, I grab my glass and turn around, walking back to the couch more confused than ever. His words bounce around my brain like lottery ping-pong balls. From what I’ve heard of the shows that I’ve listened to, there was nothing that caused me to believe that I was ever a source. But the words
immigration reform
are lit up like a red warning sign. There were only seven of us in that office. How did he know?

I flop back down on the couch, and take a sip of wine. When I look in his general direction, he’s resting on a barstool and drags his hand over his abs. I don’t think it was deliberate because he’s grimacing, but I find myself licking my lips anyway. He catches me.

Inwardly, I curse my fair skin, feeling it warm from being caught. I keep my chin tucked, hoping that the flush will disappear quickly.

When I finally do look up, his smug smile says,
You still want me
.

“Don’t get too cocky, Jackson. I blush when I get whistled at walking down the street.”

He shakes his head, and fortunately has the good sense to not push the subject. He picks up his glass of wine and the bottle and places both on the wooden coffee table that separates us.

I take a sip and wait for him to begin. He grabs his own glass and downs it in two big gulps. I have to look away, or watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down will make my cheeks rosy again.

He startles me when he begins speaking. “I had just graduated from college and was lost. I had gone from lacrosse star and president of my fraternity to the real world, where I was a nobody. My dad got me hired as a staffer in President Jones’ Washington office. Thought it would look good on future resumes. I was killing time before law school began in September.”

I do the math in my head. “That must have been about seven and a half years ago, give or take a few months.”

“Yes. But you know this. Remember when we met, I told you that I met you before,” he confirms as he pours himself another glass. “I hated the people who I worked with. I hated my job. But honestly, I really just hated myself. I had about as much passion for going to law school as I did for filing papers and making copies.

“The night before you were supposed to arrive, Max, Jake, and I had been on a bender. When I arrived at work, everyone was on edge because the great Rachael Early was gracing us with her presence. They scurried around, praying not to be fired. All I wanted to do was crawl home and go back to sleep.”

As he’s talking, I’m trying desperately to remember any of this. Unfortunately, one campaign office stop blends into another. I shift on the couch to a more comfortable position and take another sip of wine, leaving a trace of my harlot red lipstick on the glass.

“It was my job to pick up our lunch deli order. I went too early, before I knew the food would be ready, just to get out of the office. While I sat on a barstool pretending to read a newspaper, I tried to make myself feel something other than apathy. It actually scared me that thoughts of getting fired or being homeless didn’t cause some sort of reaction inside of me.”

As Graham has been talking, I study his face, hoping to read the sincerity behind his words. He looks rather like a teacher who is trying to impart important knowledge to a student. He’s not particularly passionate about what he’s told me, but he doesn’t look bored. But when he pauses for a moment, he gets a nostalgic twinkle in his eye and a genuine smile crinkles his eyes.

“Then you walked in to the deli.” He picks up his glass of wine and downs about a quarter of it. Swallowing hard, he says, “You were gorgeous. You had a green business suit on. Your high heel dangled off of your perfectly manicured red-painted toes. Your platinum-blond hair was tightly pulled away from your face. Kind of like right now. And your eyes, fuck.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Fuck, baby, your big green eyes saw me. A me that I didn’t even know existed.”

He pauses again, as if he is lost on his trip down memory lane, and then he clears his throat and takes another sip of wine. I shift uncomfortably against the couch. I feel a bit lost myself. I’m obviously witnessing a moment that has meant a lot to Graham. It’s all about me, and I don’t remember a damn thing. I so wish that I could finish his story. But, this important event in his life didn’t even merit a second thought in mine.

“My hands were full of food, and you held open the door for me. We walked back to the office together. It never even occurred to me that you were the Rachael that was coming to our office. I even told you that we called you a ball buster, or something like that, and that you were coming to our office today. When I realized that you were the ball breaker, I wanted to die. I tried to hide in the conference room. I sat at the very end of the table. You were the most beautiful woman that I’d ever seen. You looked like a real life Tinker Bell, and I couldn’t glance at you without my dick jumping in my pants.”

I can’t help but smile a bit at hearing how much he liked me at first sight. I’m not particularly fond of the Tinker Bell comparison. But even in my extremely angry and disappointed state, I don’t think Graham means it in a hurtful or demeaning way.

He finishes his second glass of wine and reaches for the bottle, emptying it into his glass. “Hold on there,” I caution. “If I have to hear this story, I’d at least like the sober version, please.”

His lips pull into a half-smile. “Rachael, about the only way that I can tell this story is with the aid of some liquid lubricant. I’ve never even told Jake or Max.”

I brace myself for whatever else he is going to reveal.

He drops his head and stares at the floor. He appears lost and upset. Instead of a full-grown man, I get a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a little boy. There’s a part of me that longs to take him in my arms and reassure him that everything will be okay. Unfortunately, I can’t do that. This situation is not okay, and so far his studio and this story aren’t making it better.

He picks his head up and continues. “You began to speak, Rachael. Your words paralyzed me. You beguiled me with your passion for politics, and President Jones. It’s as if you sprinkled me with political pixie dust. I’d heard the message you were sharing with us about why Senator Jones should be the next president, but it was you. I don’t know if it was some chasm in the universe because I don’t have a clue how this sort of shit works, but you touched my soul in a way that no else had or has since. You inspired me to believe that I could make a difference in this world.”

He stops speaking, swallowing hard. He grabs his glass of wine and downs the rest. Then he leaps to his feet. “Wait here. I have something else to show you.”

As if I could even get up at this point. My mind is warring with itself. On one hand, I’m still so hurt, but on the other hand, I’m shocked that whatever words I spoke so long ago have affected him this much. I contemplate looking into hypnosis to see if I can recall that memory, because I’d give anything to share it with him. To know what it was about that day that was so important.

When he returns, he places a very thick bright green binder on my lap. Briefly, I wonder if it’s from the shelf in his studio. As I try to open it, he stops me by placing his palm on it. “Not yet.” Then he glances at the seat cushion next to me. “Can I sit next to you?” he asks with pleading eyes.

I nod, and he sits down next to me with the only skin contact being the sides of our knees barely touching. Even in my agitated state, I can feel the energy moving between us.

He takes a deep breath and then continues. “You became my muse. I started that binder.” He gestures to the thick book resting on my thighs. “I printed out articles that you were quoted in, and I cut out pictures of you that I came across in the newspaper.”

My eyes widen as I take another look at this thing on my lap. Now, it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and I scoot away from him breaking our contact. I know that I must see the contents inside. This story is taking a stalker-ish turn that I’m not okay with. I take a sip of wine as I question just how big of an error in judgment that I’ve made.

Graham senses my anxiety and explains, “I didn’t do this in a way like,
I’m going to make you mine
or anything creepy. It was more of a way to admire your work. I think of it like being a fan of a rock band. I listen to their music, I pay to see them in concert, and I might even keep news articles about them. I don’t want to own the rock band. I’m just a fan … An admirer.”

His explanation doesn’t settle well with me, but I choose not to harp on it at the moment. I open the cover and examine the first news clipping. It was printed from a political website. This is one of the first articles written about me and my contributions to Senator Jones’ campaign. I was so proud of it that after I read it, I immediately forwarded the link to my parents. Two days later I got an email back from my mom that just read
This is great, honey.
I had felt deflated.

As I turn the pages in the binder, I note that Graham has a comprehensive scrapbook of my career. A sense of pride overwhelms me that at least someone besides the President has appreciated my accomplishments. Then, I cringe when I see the tab labeled
gossip
. Ugh! The stalker-ish feeling returns with a vengeance.

Gingerly, I grasp the tab between my fingers leery of discovering what Graham has deemed worthy to save about my personal life. I peek up through my lashes and see that he is studying my face. He flashes a soft smile, and his eyes are pleading with me. Pleading for what? I don’t know. Acceptance? Understanding? Validation that he is a good guy? I cut my eyes back to the gossip section and hold my breath as I turn to the first page in the section.

Exhaling, I realize that it’s red carpet photos of some of the more important political events that I’ve attended. There are no hearts drawn around my head, and my date’s face scribbled out or replaced with a picture of Graham. It’s more of an account of public events that I’ve attended, and I find that I’m okay with it.

Closing the binder, I leave it sitting on my lap. I’m not sure what to say. It’s bizarre to have someone that I’ve only known for such a short time show me a scrapbook of my career. On the other hand, I find it a bit endearing. My thoughts are all over the place and only time will help me make sense of it all. I know that I’ll have plenty of long nights ahead of me to process this evening.

Graham clears his throat, shifting closer to me. I’m not strong enough to resist his touch so I move away from him and sink deeper into the corner of the couch. Hurt flashes through his eyes before his sighs, “Anyway, I graduated from law school, and was ready to make a difference in politics. By then you were the White House Chief of Staff. I was frustrated that the cogs in Washington were taking such a long time to turn. I joined a lobbyist firm. I was ready to battle for truth, justice and the American way, but instead I was put on an account to lobby for earmarks for wind farms in Nevada. Still, I plowed on. You had told a story about being the copy girl when you first started working for Senator Jones. Every morning I would replay that story before work, and try to remember that everyone must start at the bottom.”

His eyes widen with excitement, and his body shifts so he’s facing me. He couldn’t keep the rosiness from his complexion if he tried. “Three years ago, I woke up one morning fed up. I remembered this movie my sister watched all the time when we were kids. It’s called
Pump Up the Volume.
It’s about a teenager who has a pirate radio station. Max, Jake and I started brainstorming how we could do something like it. We wanted to make our own change outside of the existing system. I quit my lobbying job and became a teacher and coach at the high school that most of the politician’s kids go to. You won’t believe the insider information that they let slip. It took about a year of meticulous planning, but we made it happen. The three of us became the Sons of Liberty.