The World: According to Rachael

by Layne Harper

  “It was, Rachael. And in those years, I’ve fallen in love with Amy, and we’ve had our two children, and I can’t imagine a life that didn’t have those three people in it. I’m saying this not because I’m trying to open a scar that’s healed rather nicely, I’m saying this because I know you. You’re so concerned with your legacy, and that of President Jones’ that you’ll sacrifice everything to preserve it.” He drills me with his eyes. “Graham loves you. Don’t make him hide. Don’t do what you did to me and always make me question whether or not you felt the same way about me that I felt about you. You want love, but you only want it on your terms, and Rachael, your terms are shit.”

  I can’t look at him anymore or stand to listen to his words. I know that what he’s saying is true, and it hits way too close to home right now. I grab the milk carton and turn to walk away.

  “Love is great, Rachael,” he calls. “You’ll like having someone to share your life with. All I want for you is to find the happiness that I’ve found with Amy. I implore you, for once in your life, to put your heart out there and be a team with someone other than the President.”

  I don’t turn around and continue walking out the double doors that lead to the back porch.

  Aiden is right. Intuitively, I know that my compromise for how Graham and I can be together is a copout. But I don’t know what else I can do. I can’t be associated with someone who is so controversial and be the White House Chief of Staff. It’s a conflict of interest. But there’s this little part of me that stomps her foot, balls her fists, and screams at the top of her lungs, “What about Graham Jackson? I want him just as badly as I want the legacy.”

  But do I really?

  I place the milk on the card table that Caroline set up for the s’mores buffet.

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  Aiden answers for me. He must have followed me out. “Had a tough time finding the cups.”

  “That’s odd. They should have been right inside the pantry.” Leave it to Caroline to know exactly where everything is.

  I sit down on Graham’s lap and lean into his chest. He kisses my hair. “I’m tired. Ready to go back?”

  “We just got here,” he says, sounding surprised. “You haven’t had your s’more.”

  “I know, but I think I might be coming down with something.” It’s a lie, but I have a sinking feeling in my heart that this might be my last night with Graham, and I don’t want to waste a minute of it.

  “Okay,” he agrees, with tight lips.

  Aiden tries to meet my eyes, but I ignore him. The mirror that he held up for me to look in didn’t show me an image that I was ready to see.

  We wish everyone a collective goodnight. Colin hands Graham a flashlight and shakes his hand, as if he’s wishing him good luck. Pancho escorts us until we reach the first guesthouse. I stroke his head and tell him goodnight.

  Our walk back is quiet. The only sounds are the ones of the forest and the leaves crunching under our shoes. I cling to each second that Graham is by my side, not knowing if I can ask of him what I asked of Aiden. Before my five minutes alone with my ex, it was all so clear to me—spend a year of keeping our relationship quiet and then, if we’re still together, slowly start doing things in public, like watching a movie or having dinner.

  I push those thoughts out of my mind when we reach the house. As our feet hit the front porch, I throw myself at Graham, desperate to connect in a way that reassures me that yes, there is a future for us past tonight.

  He turns his head, stopping my advances, and grabs me in a tight hug, pressing himself against me. His erection is trapped between us, hard against my stomach. “As much as I want to take you again, we need to talk,” he growls.

  Fuck! Why does everyone want to talk tonight? I try to persuade him by moving my body against the granite-hard cock in his pants, but he moves his hands from my waist to my hips, preventing me from moving. His eyes are that damn dark blue that I’ve come to loathe.

  I wiggle out of his grasp and storm into the house, grabbing a bottle of wine from the pantry. With more force than necessary, I pull out a wine glass and uncork the bottle so that it makes a glup sound as it exits the bottle. I know that I’m being childish and throwing a temper tantrum, but fuck. Can’t we just have one more night before we have to talk about the real world?

  He stands with his arms folded over his chest and leans against the wall across from me. My fit has not fazed him. “Why are you so upset? I hopped on a plane because you were ready to discuss our relationship. I thought you had a plan on how we could continue seeing each other. I’m just anxious to hear it.” I can’t tell if he’s taunting me, or if he’s really confused.

  I so wish this was a work crisis. I’d make both sides compromise, and if they didn’t, I’d threaten things like “The White House will speak out against a bill that you support,” or “Remember that night with the hooker in Vegas? I have pictures.” I can’t control this. I don’t know if my compromise is something that Graham is willing to accept, or if I’m even being fair to him by asking, as Aiden just warned me. My compromise was terrible for him, yet I’m asking Graham to make the same concessions. It does cross my mind that this may not be a good idea.

  The wine tastes so damn good as it slides down my throat. My whole body tingles in recognition that this might be an alcohol numbing night. “Graham, what scares the shit out of me is that I can’t control you. You aren’t one of the people that need my boss’s support. For the first time that I can remember, I’m flying blind here, and that’s not something that I know how to do.” I throw my hands up in frustration, as if that will help me.

  He stalks toward me, mahogany locks shadowing his eyes. “We’ll do this together, Rachael. Come on sweetheart, don’t flake out on me now. Remember, one day at time. Stay with me here,” he coaxes, as if I’m one of his students.

  I nod, grab my bottle of red wine and my glass, and head towards the doors that lead to the balcony. I remove a wool blanket from the couch before I settle into one of the Adirondack chairs. Graham pulls the other chair next to me so that we’re touching. He picks up the wine bottle that I placed on the deck and tugs a long pull of it.

  I watch his profile that’s highlighted by the moon that is just peeking through the clouds. Without a doubt, I love this man. When I ended my relationship with Aiden, I’d told him that I loved him, but that I loved me more. For the first time ever, I wonder if I actually love Graham more than I love myself. I love the future that I’ve imagined for us. I love the dark haired, blue-eyed baby that’s still a twinkle in Graham’s eye.

  I shake my head at the absurd thought. Of course, I have to love myself the most. I can’t feel that strongly about him.

  But I do.

  He sets the bottle down and turns toward me, waiting for me to speak. If he’s cold, he doesn’t show it. Awkward silence deafens the night air.

  I wrap the cobalt-blue blanket around my body, and I tuck my knees against my chest as if I can shield my heart from this conversation.

  Before I begin, I picture myself addressing my assistant Maggie instead of the man that I’m crazy about. I have tons of experience dealing with work crises, but I’m flying blind here when it comes to relationship conversations. “This week, separated, showed me that my life without you in it feels empty. I love you, Graham, and I desperately want to see where this path leads us, but I can’t do it publically because your radio show conflicts with the White House’s policies. It would be poor form for me to date someone who speaks so publically against some of our deepest beliefs—core values, if you will. I want to keep seeing you, but we should keep it a secret. Then, when I’m no longer the right-hand to the President, we can gradually transition into more public dating.”

  There. I said it. I pick up my glass and take a sip while I wait for his response. In my mind, it went rather well. I made my points. Now, it’s his turn to make his.

  He stands up from the chair and drops his forearms against th
e wooden railing, resting his head on his hands. For a split second, I wonder if he’s ill. Then with words as thin as paper, he says, “Rehearsed that one, Rachael? Is that the same tone you use when you’re the White House’s Attila the Hun? Maybe the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech? It would have been more effective if you’d used a whiteboard and dry-erase markers to diagram it out for me. You know, little stick figures fucking in secret, inside of a box. But if the sun hits their bald heads, you could diagram one on one side of the board while the other hides in the corner. ” He stands up to his full height, turns around and walks to where I’m sitting, placing his hands on the arms of my chair and caging me in with his body. The moon is behind his so his face is darkened in shadow. “Well, fuck you very much, Miss Early. I’m not an employee, or a staffer, or a congressman who needs your blessing. Fuck you for thinking you can marginalize me to an occasional glorified masturbation session when it suits you. Fuck you for thinking that you love me, and then can turn around and make such a half-hearted, cold statement. And to think that I thought you could ever love me back.” He leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose as if he feels sorry for me. In a sad voice he says, “The only people you love are yourself, Rachael, and President Jones. I hope he’s worth it.”

  He stands up and walks back inside the house, leaving me alone on the balcony. His words feel like icicles, puncturing the sac that my heart used to reside in. That’s not how I meant it. He’s not like the others. He isn’t a member of a mutual just-physical relationship. I do love him. Our secret rendezvous will be passionate, not just a “glorified masturbation session,” as he called it.

  I follow him inside and find him throwing his clothing back into his suitcase. “What are you doing?” It’s obvious that he’s packing. What I mean is “Are you leaving me?” and “Is this it?”

  He throws a folded black sweatshirt into the bag with much more force than necessary. “I’m very proud of the work that I’ve done as part of the Sons Of Liberty. We’re making a difference, Rachael. Just as you’re fond of pointing out that you’ve worked too hard to get to the position you’re in to throw it all away, well, I tend to agree. Love is not being someone’s dirty little secret, like a kept mistress. Has it even ever crossed your mind that you might be the one who looks like a whore in all of this, and not me?”

  Feeling bereft, I sink to the floor, watching him stomp around the room that we made love in just hours ago. This is not how this should have gone. I offered a perfectly reasonable solution. I didn’t ask him to keep his identity a secret, or give up his touring plans. I just asked him to keep our relationship on the down-low. I clear my throat to try to swallow the lump that is burning my esophagus and causing my stomach to churn with acid. “I’m proud of your accomplishments. I really am. I’m not …”

  He cuts me off, and stares down at me, making me feel like an errant child. “Are you? Are you really proud of me? Those words sure haven’t exited your mouth in the last week. All I’ve heard is how my accomplishments are causing problems for you. Have you thought that maybe your accomplishments are causing problems for me?”

  The dam breaks, and I yell, “You knew who I was, but I had no idea who you really were.” I drop my head into my hands. “Why did you trick me into falling in love with you when you knew that I couldn’t?”

  The air shifts around me as he joins me on the wooden planks. He pulls my hands away from my face and replaces them with his own on my cheeks, tilting my head so I see into those blue eyes that tell me everything about his soul. “You can love me, Rachael. You won’t let yourself.”

  I keep silently imploring him to say something else like, “You’re right Rachael. We’ll wait until you no longer serve the President, then we’ll go public.”

  Unfortunately, he stands up and finishes packing, but he’s not done verbally lashing me. “You think that it will be easy to stay a secret. You’ll take other men to charity functions and other red-carpet events. Do you think that I could stand another man with his hand on your back? Do you know what that would do to me?”

  Numbly, I shake my head. I guess I thought that it would just be acting. That’s what I’ve done all these years. I’ve played the role of Rachael Early, White House Chief of Staff. That’s one of the things that the role requires.

  “I’ll leave you with this parting thought. How will you feel when I’m being photographed with another woman—her hands on my chest, leaning into my side, playing with my hair? Is that how much you love me, that you could sit back and watch that happen?” He slams the two suitcase halves together, zipping it with much more force than necessary.

  I should stop him, but I can offer no balm to soothe his wounds. I know that he’s right. I feel like I’m stuck in one of those movies where the character spends the first one hour and fifty minutes seeing the world one way. Then, the last ten minutes of it, the audience and the main character discover that it took place in her mind, or that she’s dead, or some other absurd Hollywood plot twist.

  My universe shifts on its axis, and I don’t know what to do. My problem just stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door. He is waiting for me to agree to something that I can’t do. I can’t bring such scrutiny to the White House. Every press conference, Evan will be forced to answer questions about things that the Sons of Liberty said on the radio show. I can just hear it now. “Does the White House secretly endorse candidate so and so for president? Why do I ask? Because the Sons of Liberty endorsed him this morning and since one of them is dating the Chief of Staff …” I shake my head at the thought. No. The President’s last year is just too important. I can’t be the cause of anything to mar his legacy, and that includes protecting him from the press finding out about his disease.

  The bathroom door flies open, and Graham walks to his suitcase, but he pauses and then turns towards me, offering his hand. I grab it and rise to my feet. His eyes. God, those eyes. They probe my soul. I stand there, looking up into the dark blue abyss. Pleading with him to see that this is the only way. Right now, the only way that we can be together is behind closed doors. In a year—just one short year—we can be as public as he wants.

  He grabs my shoulders and I tilt my chin up so our eyes lock. “Say something, Rachael. Stop me from leaving. Tell me that we can continue moving forward. Tell me that you’ll still meet my family. I want to hear that you’re going to stand by my side and support me when we tell our listeners who we really are. Tell me that you’re going to be in the front row for our first live show. Be my partner in this. Take the heat at the White House. Do it because you want me more than you want your job. The same job that ends in a year.” He’s imploring me with his eyes.

  I want to agree to everything. I want to throw my arms around his neck and tell him that yes, I’ll do all of those things. But I can’t. Maybe when President Jones and I have the word former added at the beginning of our job titles I can do all the things that he asks.

  My silence speaks for my heart as I drop my eyes, and Graham knows it. He kisses my forehead. “Well, then this is goodbye.”

  Suddenly, I remember the crazy curvy road through the dark woods to leave Colin and Caroline’s place. “Stay tonight.”

  “So we can drag this out more? I don’t think my heart can take it,” he replies sardonically. He picks up his suitcase and walks out of the bedroom through the front door and to his waiting car.

  “Please,” I beg. “The road through the woods is so curvy, and it’s dark. I’ll sleep on the couch. You take the bed.”

  He puts his bag in the trunk and slams it shut. “I’d rather take my chances on the road.”

  It’s a chilly night. The wind is blowing against my face that’s hot with tears. He’s really leaving me.

  I can’t stand to watch him pull away so I turn around and walk back into the guesthouse, letting the door close behind me. A minute later, I hear his rental car roar to life, and headlights briefly brighten the dark guesthouse as he makes a U-turn.

 
I say in disbelief to no one in particular, “He just left me.”

  I walk outside to the balcony that overlooks Lake CharCol, and grab my forgotten bottle of wine and glass. I take a swig out of the bottle like Graham did, and for the first time in my life I have no idea what tomorrow has in store. All I see is blackness. I’m right back where I was before Graham Jackson stormed my life. Alone. Except now, I’ve drunk from the golden challis. I’ve had a taste of what I’ve been missing.

  Can I go back? Can I give up the idea of waking every morning next to him? Do I have the ability to let go of my dream to have his baby?

  I repeat over and over again in my mind, You were fine before Graham, and you’ll be fine after him. I pull another swig from the bottle. Now, I just have to make my heart believe it.

  Epilogue

  She’s like a ghost that moves through my life. Her red lipstick-stained wine glass still rests on my coffee table. Her image dances on my television screen. I can’t open a newspaper without reading her name. I see her across a crowded room. Our eyes lock for just a brief second before one of us realizes that we’ve both made a choice, and unfortunately, our choices mean we can’t be together.

  Me? I refuse to be her secret. I am not going to be one of the men that she used for pleasure and nothing else. Hell, I didn’t even make love to her until I got know the real Rachael—not the Rachael that she shows to the public.

  I love her. I want a life with her. What I want most of all, though, is for her to acknowledge that what we have is important. Important enough to at least be on the same level as her career.

  I know what I’m asking. I know that I’m asking Rachael to go against the nature of her personality. I don’t need her to resign her position. I haven’t asked her to marry me. I just want her to try our relationship with the same determination that made her White House Chief of Staff.