The World: According to Rachael (30 page)

“You see, Rachael, your passion for change inspired me to start the radio show. And it’s working. Look at our influence in the last election. We sent a message to politicians that it’s not their right to die in office. They can be voted out, and the people want change.”

“Graham,” I interrupt him, “I hear what you’re saying, but one of the people you got elected is an insurance salesman. While he may be excellent at selling auto policies, he knows nothing about running a state. Do you understand? Change just for the sake of change is not always a good thing.”

“I agree, baby, I really do.” He’s so enthusiastic, smiling from ear to ear. “But we’ve made enough ripples in Washington that whoever the presidential candidates are, they’re going to have to listen to us. We’re that powerful. And I have some exciting news.” He pauses and licks his lips before he begins again. “A concert promoter has offered us more money than we can spend in our lifetime to reveal who we are and tour the country. We’ll be hosting live events, almost like rock shows, where people will purchase tickets to hear us speak. We’ve even been offered a three-book deal from a major publisher. The world is our oyster right now.”

“A good problem to have.”

He moves off the couch and kneels in front of me, taking both of my hands in his. He’s smiling up at me like a man who is about to propose marriage. “You’ve been so freaked out about what you’re going to do when your job ends. This is it, Rachael. You can join the tour and inspire people to action like you did me. The Sons of Liberty can gain a new member. We can get our own bus, and see the United States together. Hell, we can make babies, or just try really hard to. I don’t care. This is our future, Rach, and you’re the only one I want to share it with.”

I lean forward opening my mouth to respond, but he stops me by placing a finger over my lips. “Let me love you, Rachael. Let me take care of you. You are always in control—mistress of your own universe. When your time serving the President is up, let me show you how great of a life that we can share. Let’s do this together. Make it a family business.”

I slump back against the couch cushion, thoughts are whirring in my head. “This is too much,” I plead to Graham. “This is too much to process.”

He gestures to the binder in my lap. As he talks, he gets more animated. “That scrapbook chronicles your career, but it doesn’t define who you are. I was so pleasantly surprised when I met you. You are just as remarkable as that binder indicates, but you are so much more than this.” He taps the binder to make his point. “You’re funny and self-deprecating. Your heart is as beautiful as your appearance. Your loyalty …”

“Stop it!” I yell as I push the heavy notebook off my lap and leap to my feet. “I have to go.”

I turn and run in my high heels towards the front door. I can’t get out of this house fast enough. My heartbeat is ringing in my ears, and I feel like if I don’t get fresh air that I’ll pass out. The walls are closing in around me. I’m trapped, claustrophobic. My brain can’t reconcile that the man who made love to me is the same man who has a three-inch thick binder on my career and a whiteboard of filthy questions about women. The man who just professed his love for me speaks out publically against my boss, and he says that I’m the one who inspired this. He wants me to tour the country with him on a bus.

It’s just too much. Too, too much.

But before I can reach the front door, Graham wraps me in his arms and pulls me back to his chest. “Don’t leave like this, Rachael,” he says desperately.

I’m proud of myself. I keep my tears at bay. In a firm voice, I demand, “Let go of me. I have a lot to sort out.”

“Tell me that we’re not over. Tell me that you just need some space,” he breathes into my hair, his hot breath searing my scalp.

I shake my head. “I can’t tell you any of that. You’ve lied by omission. That, I’m sure of. The rest of this … I don’t know … I don’t know what to think, other than I have to leave. I can’t be near you any longer. I can’t hear you talk about a future with me when my feelings are all over the place.”

His grip around me tightens. “I love you, Rachael. I know that you feel how strong this connection is between us. Don’t let something so right end because I didn’t reveal the biggest secret I own in the first two weeks that we’ve been dating. You know that I didn’t use you. You know in your heart that this is real.”

With a rueful laugh, I say, “Heart. What fucking heart, Graham? The heart that I used to have before? The one that I gave to you in exchange for mind-blowing sex?”

He releases me and steps back with a cold, stiff demeanor. His arms cross over his chest, and his eyes fill with nothingness. I’ve wounded him, and it doesn’t feel nearly as satisfactory as I had hoped. “You know where to find me, Miss Early.”

He doesn’t wait for the front door to close behind me before he walks down the hallway that leads to the studio.

My joints ache from physical exhaustion and emotional angst. I splash cold water on my face, hoping that it will wake me up. If I slept ten minutes last night, I’d be surprised. Every time my eyes shut, I saw his face. I saw the damn green binder—a homage to me. The words written on his whiteboards danced through my head. I’d physically cringe when I remembered the crude topics that were up for discussion.

Love.

He told me he loved me.

I slapped him.

He told me he loved me.

I love him.

Or do I? Do I love the idea of him, and he loves the idea of me? Did I buy into great sex, waking up with someone in the morning, and sharing my life with another person? Did I buy into the idea of being a mother? Is he a safe choice because I thought he wasn’t in politics?

I laugh at that thought. My teacher and coach is more involved in politics than Roan Perez, who is also way less controversial.

Did he fall in love with a girl that doesn’t exist? Am I an idealized version of myself that is never going to meet his expectations?

Fuck. What is love, anyway? Did I love Aiden? Probably. Did I feel about him like I do Graham? Not even in the same galaxy.

Around midnight, I text Malik to tell him that I wouldn’t be at the gym for our Monday morning boxing session.

At two o’clock, I took two Tylenol. My head throbbed so badly that I couldn’t take the pain any longer. I stared longingly at the bottle, wishing that the chemical compound could work its magic on my heart.

At three o’clock, he texted me. All it said was,
I’m so sorry. Talk to me. I have no idea where your head is at, and it’s driving me crazy
. I didn’t reply. I don’t know where my head is at either. I’m so confused.

At five o’clock, I began the ritual of trying to restore my face to a point where I didn’t look like I’d been crying for about eight hours straight. I put cold compresses on my eyes to diminish the swelling. Next, I started using Visine drops every fifteen minutes. I dug deep into my makeup drawer and found cooling gel. The bags around my eyes have bags.

Eventually, I fell asleep around six o’clock, only to be startled awake by my backup alarm clock going off half an hour later.

Now, here I stand, looking at this half-human in the mirror. Last Monday, I went to work with a bruised cheek. Today, I look like something that has been regurgitated by an alien in a bad sci-fi flick.

Because I left early on Friday and didn’t work at all this weekend, I’m so far behind. But, how can I show up at the White House looking this unprofessional? My pride in my job wins out. I send an email saying that I had an allergic reaction to something and will be a little late. I figure this lie buys me another hour to pray that I can improve my appearance as well as an excuse if I can’t.

Two hours later, I walk down the hall of the White House to my office, looking sharp in a black suit. My hair is in a tight bun. Except for slightly puffy eyes, which can be explained away by my so-called allergy, I look like me.

I do what I’ve done for most of my life. I escape into my work. I execute each task with the precision of an Olympic marksman. This is my strength. Adversity is what makes me exceptional.

I skip lunch and work to reduce the size of my email inbox. Truth be told, I don’t think that I could eat if I wanted to. My stomach is filled with shards of glass. It’s what left of my heart.

Graham is wise enough to not send flowers or reach out to me in any other way than the late-night text message. For this, I am grateful.

I pushed my Monday morning staff meeting to two o’clock, which is right about now. Evan is the first to arrive.

He wastes no time plopping down in the seat across from me. “What did you think of the SOL email? Hillary did a nice job.”

I don’t take my eyes off of my computer screen. “Interesting, but I’m not sure why we care. It turns out he really is a nobody. Sort of boring. Don’t you agree?”

“Aren’t we singing a different tune? Last week you were like a cat with its tail on fire to get answers about SOL. Now, you’re indifferent.” He’s goading me, and I refuse to fall for it.

I look up, keeping my face as bland as possible. “Bigger fish to fry today,” I reply using another good southern metaphor.

“How was your weekend? Heard you and Graham checked in to the Four Seasons.” At just the mention of his name, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I swear the temperature in my office rises by three degrees. The dull ache in my stomach turns into nausea.

“Fine. Thanks for asking. Still seeing the girl from the gala?”

“Which one?” He laughs.

Maybe he should join Graham’s road show. Evan would be right at home using women.

The rest of the meeting attendees trickle in and take their seats around my conference table. Ten minutes into the meeting, President Jones makes a surprise appearance.

He’s dressed sharply in suit pants, a white starched shirt, and an orange silk tie. “Greetings, my friends,” he says as he bursts through my office doors. “I come to spread Thanksgiving cheer.”

Evan quips, “Do we all have to go around the table and tell what we’re thankful for?”

The President reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stack of gift cards. He counts out ten, which is the number of people in the room, and drops them in the center of the table. I notice a slight tremble in his hand. Would it be of concern if I didn’t know that he had Parkinson’s? Probably not, but it adds to the tightness in my chest.

I reach for one and read the restaurant name out loud. “Cracker Barrel?”

“Yes. Cracker Barrel.” He’s so proud of himself. “We’ve gotten out of touch with the American public. That’s what the Sons of Liberty have taught me. While you’re on your Thanksgiving holiday, go find one of these restaurants. Eat there. Talk to the wait staff. Visit with the patrons. Play checkers on the front porch. Buy something from the general store. Reconnect with the people that we’ve pledged to serve. Then, the following Monday, you’re all going to report to Rachael what you learned.”

It’s the first time that I’ve smiled in what feels like forever. This is why I have served in this man’s administration. This is the Langford Jones that interviewed me many, many years ago. “Shall we write reports titled
What I Did on my Thanksgiving Vacation
?”

He beams. “Excellent idea. I’ll read them in my spare time.”

I look across the table at my colleagues. If I had any doubts about dragging my pathetic self to work today, they evaporate. I realize that for the last fifteen minutes or so, I haven’t thought once about Graham.

President Jones leaves in the same manner as he arrived. He calls out over his shoulder, “Happy turkey day.”

After, my staff meeting wraps up, and I’m alone again in my office, I kick off my heels and lie down on the rarely-used flower-print sofa. I close my eyes, and begin to analyze my conversation with Graham. I decide to approach this situation as if it were any other crisis that I deal with on a daily basis.

Objectively, this is what I conclude: Graham Jackson is a good guy. I might not be comfortable with the fact that he has a Rachael scrapbook, but I do remind myself that the first thing I did after meeting Graham was to pull his Secret Service file. Not exactly the same thing, but I’ll table the creepiness for the time being.

Although, I don’t agree with the Sons of Liberty’s burn-’em-down approach to politics or the degrading conversations about women, I can’t argue his point that they are reaching a previously untapped voter block, and making them care about the future of this country. And apparently my words from long ago inspired Graham to form this movement.

But even if I can set my personal feelings aside and debate whether or not we love each other at a later time, I can’t see how we could ever be together as long as I’m White House Chief of Staff. If and when he publically reveals who he is, I’m going to be questioned about the pictures of us attending the gala. I can dismiss those as me being on a date with a friend. But can I stand up to the public scrutiny of dating someone who publically speaks out against my boss, and everything that we’re trying to accomplish? Someone who gives advice on how to avoid going down on a female if she has a particularly strong odor? At this point, I don’t see how I can.

I take my job so seriously. I’m sworn to protect this administration. Could I be associated with someone who is so crude? Could I really separate my personal feelings for Graham from his political views, which would be supplying the majority of our income? Sounds like a huge conflict of interest to me. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I would have to resign my post.

Then my mind drifts back to Aiden. I wouldn’t be photographed with him because I didn’t want the perception of mixing Hollywood with Washington. Graham is the definition of mixing the two like a skilled bartender.

I’m a problem solver. When I collect my notes for my late evening meeting with the President, I at least feel like I know where my head is at. I do what I do best, which is focus on the political big picture, and ignore my heart.

Tuesday is better than Monday. I don’t hear from Graham, and I don’t reach out to him. When I pack for Thanksgiving break, I leave the green trench-coat dress hanging in the closet. Honestly, I’m really not sure why I don’t shove it in a black garbage bag and take it to the local donation center. I can never wear it again, and looking at it makes me feel ill. It’s a reminder of the possibilities that I let myself believe in.