The World: According to Rachael

by Layne Harper

  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.

  Chapter Fifteen

  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 th
e 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.

  Chapter Sixteen

  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.

  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.”