The World: According to Rachael (31 page)

Tuesday night, I realize that I haven’t eaten since the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I made on Sunday. Mentally, I’m too confused to eat. Physically, I know that I’m too petite to deny myself food for much longer. Reluctantly, I slip on running pants and a thick fleece hoodie, and ask Lou to drive me to a smoothie shop.

I peruse the menu and find one smoothie that doesn’t sound like it should be found in the candy aisle of a local food market. I get the kid behind the counter to add extra protein powder to it, and then ask Lou to take me home.

My mostly-packed suitcase lies open by the front door. It’s just waiting for my makeup bag, and then I will be ready to leave for Louisiana tomorrow.

I stare at the enemy cup of nourishment that’s now resting on my nicked coffee table. Memories of Graham and I sharing Chinese food there play out in front of me. I watch the two of us making bets on
House Hunters
. I actually smile when I see him eat the hot pepper. Those times were real, and that’s what I’m having such a hard time reconciling.

A new wave of sobs grip my body. I want to go back. I want to pretend that I didn’t confront him at his home. I want him here, with me right now, eating takeout Chinese. He doesn’t have to touch my body, as long as his presence is feeding my soul.

The only way that I’m able to keep myself from picking up my phone and calling him is to focus on the bigger picture.
One year more in office. One year more in office.

Plus, I’m not sure what I would even say if I called. Nothing has changed.

I calm myself down and pick up the smoothie. With care, I take the first sip. I swallow it and wait to see if my body will accept it. I take another sip, and then another. When I’ve emptied half of the cup, I put it in the refrigerator for breakfast tomorrow. The oven clock reads eleven. Since I have no better options, I drag myself upstairs to lie in my bed for the next eight hours, grieving for a love that has completely changed who I am.

I don’t bother putting on pajamas, leaving my workout clothes on, and I fall on top of my mattress, lying horizontal. I can’t sleep with my head at the top of the bed. It’s too much of a reminder that he’s not next to me. My housekeeper hasn’t changed the bedding since he was last here. His woodsy, masculine scent has become one with my sheets, pillows, quilt, and mattress. I’m half tempted to ask her to please burn everything while I’m gone.

I must drift off to sleep because I’m suddenly sitting upright on the edge of my bed, listening to a pounding on my front door. Intuitively, I know that whoever is watching my house would not let a stranger knock on my door in the middle of the night. That means it’s either a White House emergency, or Graham. I’m not sure which one I’m hoping for.

The motion-sensor light in my living room turns on as my foot hits the bottom stair. Without looking through my peephole, I open the door to Graham on my stoop. One look at his appearance and it’s clear that he’s doing about as well as I am. “Can I come in?” he asks as his eyes travel up and down my body.

I step back and sweep my arm in a gesture that says,
be my guest
.

He has on running shorts and a thick fleece pullover like mine. A casual observer might think that we’re just about to head out for a midnight jog. But on closer examination, the observer would realize that we’re both wrecks. Even in the yellow glow from my lamp, his skin looks pale, and his eyes are a lackluster shade of blue. He’s thinner—he’s probably on the same eating plan as me.

“I ran over here,” he says as if he felt he needed to explain his mode of transportation.

“Would you like a glass of water?” Politeness. I can handle a simple mannerly conversation.

He shakes his head and reaches up to run his hand through his hair, but pauses when his eyes meet mine. “Wow. We’re a pair aren’t we?” He chuckles, but I read the irony in his statement.

“We are. Two tortured souls.” I sit down on the second step of my stairs. “Why are you here?”

He slides down the front door, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. There’s maybe four feet separating us, but it feels like it’s four inches. There is this intense pull that we have towards each other, as if gravity is felt stronger when we’re together.

“I told you that I love you all wrong,” he says after a long stretch of silence where we just stare at each other. “I said it in desperation, hoping that you wouldn’t have to go into the studio. Hoping that you’d throw your arms around me and say that you loved me back, and whatever was in that room, we’d face it together.” He swallows and looks up at the ceiling. “I want you to know that I love you. It’s not a fleeting feeling, or something that I’ll get over. I love you. I will love you tomorrow. Even if you never want to see me again, I will still love you.”

He pushes off the floor as if he’s going to stand up, but I stop him by crawling into his lap. I surprise myself by making such a bold, unplanned move. I’m shocked at my neediness, but when he cradles me to him, clinging on to me as if I’m a life preserver, and he’s lost at sea, I know that I did the right thing. For the first time since Sunday, I can take a breath. With the same intensity, I hold on to him.

“Rachael … fuck … Rachael, I’ve missed you. I couldn’t let you leave without me telling you that I love you. So fuckin’ much…” He kisses my temple and my hairline.

I pull back and grip his chin in my hand. Looking into his glassy eyes, I say, “I love you too. I love you so much that I haven’t eaten or slept, or done anything else but work and think of you.”

When his gorgeous smile cracks his grey skin, it almost kills me to add, “But that doesn’t change the facts. I don’t see how we can be together while I’m the White House Chief of Staff and you’re coming out as one of the Sons of Liberty. You understand that, right?”

His face falls, and his eyes dart to the side. As if he can’t bear to hear the words, he just nods and grips me tightly to his chest once again.

He doesn’t argue with me. We both know that we could spend the next few hours debating how we could try to make this work, but what it boils down to is really quite simple. Us being together is a conflict of interest, for him as well as me. One day, when it’s someone else’s turn to occupy my office, Graham and I can live in the sunlight.

A new press secretary will have to answer ethical questions, and deal with conflicts of interest that the media point out. But I know that I can’t sacrifice my reputation, or the President’s, just because I’ve fallen in love with a boy.

After an eternity, I mumble, “Stay the night. It’s late.”

This moment feels so good. As if my other half of me has been returned after an extended absence. I don’t want to lose this feeling. I’m an addict.
Just a couple more hours to feel complete.

“I don’t think I can,” he whispers. “I can’t be next to you and not hold you or kiss you, or show you all the ways that I want you.”

I want him to hold me and kiss me and make love to me, but I know that it will just make it harder when he has to leave.

“Is this goodbye then?” I ask, not wanting the answer, and hating myself for asking the question.

“God, I hope not.” He releases me and I reluctantly stand up, feeling bereft without his touch.

He takes my chin in his palms. “I want you to hear how sorry I am. I’m sorry that you didn’t hear my secret from me. I’m sorry that you think that I lied and used you. I didn’t. I would never have betrayed your confidence.”

He drops my chin, and I look away from him feeling very small compared the desperate man next to me.

He turns to open the door, and with his back to me, he says, “I love you, Rachael, but I can’t keep putting myself through this. When you’re ready to talk, I’m here to listen. Day or night. Doesn’t matter. I’ll come to you, wherever and whenever, but I’m not going to contact you again. It’s now your turn to make the next move. If you love me as much as I love you, you’ll move heaven and earth so we can be together.”

With those parting words, he walks through my front door. I lock it behind him, feeling numb. I think I’ve finally reached the point where my heart just can’t shatter anymore.

The next three days are a blur. I sit in meetings with the President. We tour LSU’s campus and listen to two days of presentations on why Baton Rouge is the perfect location for his Presidential Library. I take notes. I have proof I was there. I know that I ask pertinent questions because President Jones doesn’t ask me once if there’s anything wrong, and that man can read me like a book.

But I feel nothing. All Graham’s late-night visit did was disturb me even more, and I didn’t think that was possible. How the human heart can take this much abuse is beyond me.

The rich Cajun food they serve us tastes like a cardboard box. I put it in my mouth to be polite, but I have to excuse myself more than once to be sick in the restroom.

I was even desperate enough to call my parents. Mom was seeing a patient, and Dad was in surgery. The receptionist took a message. It’s been two days, and they haven’t called me back.

So when I pull my grey rental car to Caroline and Colin’s gated driveway, I all but collapse in relief. The entrance to their property is hidden amongst very old and tall pine trees. I’ve passed it more than once and now know that when I see the last convenience store, drive another one and a half miles and the shale driveway is on the left.

I push the button on the call box and wait for someone to answer. Ainsley, Caroline’s seven-year-old daughter, asks, “May I help you?”

It’s the first time since I last saw Graham that light enters the place where my heart once was. “You certainly may. Open the gate this instant. I have presents for you and those bratty brothers of yours.”

“Auntie Rachael,” she screeches, as the very thick metal gate swings open.

“See you if I survive your daddy’s obstacle course.”

The call box goes dead, and I put the car into drive, hoping that today is not the day I crash into a tree. Colin built this ridiculous driveway through the woods as a security measure, but all these twists and turns are going to do is get one of us killed, which will probably be me. I never drive and am terribly out of practice.

Finally, the thick forest parts and I drive past the three guesthouses and arrive at the main house. I leave the car in the circle drive, and don’t have a chance to remove my seatbelt before three little people are bouncing up and down outside of my driver’s door.

These three make a huge smile fill my hollowed cheeks. I throw open the door and give Ainsley a huge kiss and a hug before I greet the fearsome twosome. Jax and Liam are identical twins. Not even their parents can tell them apart. The little trick that I learned is to say, “Jax, come give me a hug.” Then, Jax hugs me, and I remember what color shirt he has on. I rinse and repeat this every single morning while I’m here visiting.

I note that Jax is in green and Liam in blue. Both of the boys are very sweet, even for rambunctious five-year-olds. “How are my favorite boys?”

It’s a simple question that launches an animated conversation while I unload my trunk and carry my things to the front porch.

Caroline is leaning against the railing, watching us with amusement in her eyes. “It’s a shame my kids don’t like you.”

I just shrug. “What can I say? When you’re this awesome you just can’t hide it.”

The closer I get, the more her face begins to register that something is wrong. Her eyes grow large as she takes in my hollowed cheeks and the bags under my eyes. We may not see each other often, but we’re as connected as her twins. “Hey kids, go tell Daddy that Rachael is here. I think he’s in his office. Also, make sure Pancho is with him.”

The kids give me a hug goodbye and run towards Colin’s two-room office that sits separate from the house.

When they are out of earshot, Caroline says, “He either broke your heart or you’re pregnant.” Then her eyes grow wide. “Or both.”

I drop my bags by the front door and follow her inside. “Have you got any wine?”

She looks at the clock that hangs on the wall in the kitchen. “One o’clock on a Sunday? Sure, why not? I also have tequila.”

Tequila is our drink of choice when we have to discuss something serious.

She opens the cabinet over the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of each. I sit on a bar stool at the huge island and wait for her to quit busying herself in the kitchen.

She pours us each a shot of tequila first, and we down it. “I guess this means that you’re not pregnant.”

“No,” I reply as I lick my lips. “There’s no bun in the oven, baby on board, fetus without a father, or any other thing occupying my uterus, except for the IUD that should be firmly in place.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I know how you feel about kids of your own.” Her words are like a punch in the gut. I’ve always said that I did not want children, and being an aunt and a godmother is responsibility enough. But lately the thought of not having a child with the same blue eyes and hair as dark as Graham’s makes me desperately sad, and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes.

Colin, along with the kids and dog enter the house through the French doors that open up to the back porch and faces the lake. He’s a very perceptive man. He sees the bottle of tequila, and my water-filled eyes and sends the kids back outside.

He walks over to me and pulls me into a side embrace. “How ya doing, kiddo?”

“I’ve been better,” I reply.

“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure she can fix it,” he says as he kisses Caroline’s cheek. “The kids and I’ll make ourselves scarce.”

“Thanks, honey,” she says as she kisses him back.

It amazes me that they’ve been together this long and they’re still so in love with each other. I find myself envying their relationship, which is also a new feeling for me.

When he’s gone, Caroline says, “Let’s hear it.”

I pour my heart out to her. It feels so cathartic to share what’s been burdening my soul. At some points in my story, Caroline gets the soft eyes of someone who has experienced the same emotions. Other times, her lips thin in anger. She especially is appalled when I share the content of the “other” whiteboard. When I finish, she pours us each another shot of tequila, and says, “Are you ready for my thoughts?”