The World: According to Rachael

by Layne Harper

  Try what?

  Dating in public. Her attending my events, and me escorting her to hers. Building a life together that includes shared experiences, dreams, and hopes. Working together as a team, and being supportive of each other. I don’t think any of this is too much to ask.

  Without even giving it a shot, she’s decided that us—together—will be a thorn in the side of the White House. What I can’t make her understand is that maybe it will be no big deal. She’s certainly not the first person to be on the political firing lines and date someone controversial. I have more faith in the media and public in general. I believe that they can separate private lives from careers. She thinks I’m overestimating my fellow Americans.

  Rachael wants to live in the shadows. Secret meetings. Dinner in front of the TV. To pretend that we are only acquaintances when we’re in public. Even though she says it’s only for a year, I know better. After the year is up, it will be that it’s too soon after Jones’ presidency ends. She’ll want to give it six more months. Then, it will be another year.

  To use a sports analogy, she will not take her foot off of first base to steal second. She’s scared—terrified to publically admit that we’re in love.

  I’ve seen her a few times since the disastrous evening at Caroline and Colin’s place. The first time was two weeks after I left her. She called me, but only let the phone ring once. I dialed her back, and could hear the sadness in her voice when she answered. It killed me. I jogged to her place and we spent a weekend together of doing nothing but watching old Steve Martin movies and making love. Both of us knew that nothing had changed, and I felt like shit when we said goodbye again.

  The next time, I ran into her at the White House Christmas party. I knew she would be there, of course. I was invited by a friend—not someone who I was fucking, or a Betsy Ross—who is a staffer. We played a dangerous game of cat and mouse all night. However, I couldn’t take it any longer when I spied her on the dance floor with Roan Perez. My fists were so tight that I had fingernail indentions in my palms. I didn’t beat the shit out of the little prick, but God, I wanted to. That night ended with her bent over the arm of the couch in her office while I took her from behind. Once again, when it was time to go our separate ways, it felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest.

  The last time that I laid eyes on her was six weeks ago. More specifically, it was the week before we revealed that we’re the Sons of Liberty. I waited for her on her front porch stoop until she arrived home from work, which was close to midnight. I was a pussy. I told her how much my life sucked without her in it. I pleaded for her to see that love conquers all, and all that razzle-dazzle bullshit. We both told each other how much we loved each other, and she begged me to be patient. We both gave in to the pull between us, and we made love—we didn’t fuck—all night long. But as the sun rose, before I left her—again—she confirmed that our relationship status hadn’t changed.

  That’s why I am so damn confused why I’m driving two hours outside of Washington D.C. to meet her at a Cracker Barrel restaurant in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Her text was cryptic.

  Rachael: Reason #937 that boxing is better than MMA: Because I said so. Meet me for breakfast on Sunday at nine. I’ll send you the location.

  Our first tour stop is next Saturday in Seattle, Washington. Tickets sold out in fifteen minutes. Sometimes, I have to stop and shake my head that this is really happening to me.

  Here is my professional life that is crazy successful. Yet every night I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling, missing her. What I’ve learned from the three months and one week that we’ve been separated is that I can only be as happy as the unhappiest part of my life. The Sons of Liberty success is bittersweet because Rachael is not a part of it.

  Max and Jake were against the idea of me meeting Rachael. They warned that nothing good would come of me pursuing a relationship with the White House Chief of Staff. They didn’t know about the profound impact that she had made on a lost twenty-something kid. I had to see if there was chemistry between us and my God, we’re combustible. They’ve tried to be supportive since we called it quits, but I’m not blind. They’re thrilled that we aren’t together, and she is no longer a distraction. Max and Jake believe that the Sons of Liberty are better with me single.

  I pull into the parking lot and find a spot behind the restaurant. This place is packed on a Sunday morning. I grab my non-descript baseball hat off of the passenger seat, and tuck my hair up in it. It rests low on my forehead, and I slide my sunglasses on – the same ones that match hers.

  I left my morning shadow. I’d like to say that it’s part of my plan to avoid recognition, but it’s not. She thinks my stubble is sexy and is more affectionate when I have it. I know…I’m pathetic.

  We’ve been on the cover of four magazines, and our faces have been shown almost nightly on the news. All three of us have quickly learned to downplay our appearances in public. Unfortunately for Max, there isn’t a prayer of him hiding that crazy red hair.

  As I walk around to the front of the restaurant, I scan the parking lot looking for her. My watch says that I’m a few minutes early, but Rachael usually is also. She’s not playing checkers on the front porch, so I make my way into the restaurant’s gift shop. The place is filled with junk—knickknacks, figurines, sweets—is that clothes?

  As I make my way to the hostess stand, I see her out of my peripheral vision exiting the restroom. She’s wearing jeans and a baggy jade-green sweater. Her hair is down in a braid over her right shoulder. Rachael looks nothing like the polished woman that is frequently photographed by the President’s side. In fact, she looks like a local college kid who stopped by for some pancakes. I guess we both wear disguises.

  I wave to her to get her attention, and when she sees me, a smile parts her heart-shaped cherry-red lips, and her large green eyes light up. Her fair skin is radiant. I love to leave marks on it, to see how beautifully the pink contrasts against the alabaster white. My dick twitches, reminding me how fucked in the head I still am.

  Standing there like a fool, I wonder how I should greet her. A kiss on the cheek and a friendly hug? Offer her my hand? Or sweep her off of her feet and carry her out of this restaurant and back to my house, never letting her out of my bed until she realizes what a huge mistake that she’s making?

  Fortunately, she chooses for me. She walks up and gives me a hug that doesn’t allow for any of our body parts to touch except for hands on the back.

  “Hi. Love the stubble,” she says enthusiastically, and I’m relieved that I didn’t shave. “I was worried that you weren’t going to show.”

  “I told you whenever and wherever, remember?” It comes out way harsher than I meant it. Her face falls, and I long to tuck her against my chest and tell her that I’m sorry and that I didn’t mean it that way. That I love her, and I’m just frustrated. She knows what we have is something most people never find, and that’s compatibility on top of incredible passion.

  We’re next in line at the hostess stand at an absurdly crowded restaurant, but all I can hear is my pulse pounding in my ears. Just the close proximity to her makes me crazy. I would love to shake some sense into her—more like fuck some sense into her. I want to scream, Feel this Rachael? Quit denying what we have.

  She looks up at me with those large eyes through her thick black lashes and says, “Maybe this was a mistake.”

  It feels like I’ve been kicked in the nads by a horse. No, Rachael, this isn’t a mistake. We aren’t a mistake. In fact, we’re really damn good together. Those are the words that I wish that I could say to her, but I can’t. Each and every time we’ve met up since we ended our relationship has been worse than the last. I can’t open myself up another time to have her shut me down.

  “It’s your call. I’ve driven two hours to the middle of nowhere, and I’m a bit curious as to why, but if you think it’s a mistake, I can spend the rest of my Sunday packing.” My words are cold, and I hope that I’ve cal
led her bluff because I’m way too curious as to why she arranged this meeting, especially this far removed from D.C.

  “How many?” the older, grey-haired waitress asks me.

  “Two.”

  She grabs two sets of silverware that are rolled in a napkin, and Rachael and I follow her silently through the crowded restaurant.

  She seats us by a window in the back corner. I’m not sure if I’m grateful for us to be tucked away, or if we need the constant reminder of the crowd to keep us in check.

  The waitress takes our drink order and walks away.

  “Where are our menus?” I ask, assuming she forgot them.

  Rachael silently reaches behind the ketchup bottle and hands me a brown, greasy, paper-bag looking menu.

  “Thanks. How did you know where they were? It’s not like you frequent Cracker Barrel restaurants.” God, I sound like an ass.

  “You have no clue what I do in my spare time now, do you, Graham.” It’s a statement and every bit as harsh as my tone. Her eyes shift to look out the window, and when they focus back on me, she says, “Look. I didn’t invite you to breakfast for us to fight. Can we call a truce for the next hour?”

  “Why did you invite me, Rachael?” I want to add, “Because the last time we were together you made it pretty damn obvious that you had not changed your position on me being your dirty little secret.”

  The waitress sets down my cup of coffee and Rachael’s glass of cold milk, and asks if we’re ready to order. I haven’t looked at the menu, but it really doesn’t matter what they bring me. This meeting has nothing to do with breakfast choices.

  “I’ll take a Denver omelet.”

  “What sides, sir?”

  “Your choice,” I reply.

  “Ma’am?”

  “He’d like a side of the hash brown casserole. I’ll take an order of pancakes with bacon and scrambled eggs. Thank you,” she says, as sweet as maple syrup.

  When the waitress leaves, Rachael picks up both of our menus and returns them to the spot behind the ketchup bottle.

  “How are you, Graham?”

  What a loaded question. Do I go with the professional angle, where my life can’t be any better? Or do I tell her that I can’t so much as look at another woman? That I tried to have a one-night stand with some girl at the Irish pub, and that my dick didn’t work and I had to blame it on all the booze that I’d had? Do I tell her that she walks through my dreams every night? That the only happiness I’ve felt is during the three times we’ve been together, just to fall into a deep depression when she walks away? I mean how many more times can I have my heart stomped on by her high-heeled shoes?

  “Never been better. You?” I reply not elaborating.

  Her eyes become wet with tears, and she looks back out of the window. Her mouth opens and closes as if she’s about to say something, but then she changes her mind. “Have I done this to you?”

  “What?” I ask, perplexed, as I arrange my silverware as a means of distraction.

  “You. You’re so cold … angry.” She looks into my eyes and I see a sadness, apologetic look in them that I’ve never seen before. “I’m sorry, Graham. I’m so sorry that you hate me this much.” Her voice chokes at the end.

  I reach across the table and grab her hands. I can’t stand seeing her upset. “Don’t you understand, Rachael, that there’s a fine line between love and hate? Right now, I’m so angry that you’re letting your job, and one that’s ending soon, stand in the way of us being together.”

  She snatches her hands off the table. “Aren’t you doing the same thing?” She shakes her head back and forth as if to clear the thought. “I didn’t invite you here to argue with you.”

  The waitress sets our plates down and quickly leaves. I assume she senses the tension in the air and doesn’t want to be any part of this. I don’t blame her.

  I cut into my omelet, and push the bowl of hash brown casserole towards her side of the table. “That brings us back to the question of why you invited me here.”

  I shove a bite into my mouth and chew, not tasting it at all.

  She silently eats two more bites of her pancake and a slice of bacon before she rests her fork on her plate. Her eyes are filled with what looks like regret when she begins to speak. Instantly, my stomach knots, knowing that I’m not going to like what she has to say.

  “I’m resigning from my post at the White House, effective the end of the month.”

  I swallow hard, and take a sip of water to help the un-chewed bite go down. Surely I didn’t hear her correctly. There’s ten months left for her to serve. Why would she quit with such a short amount of time left? There’s a small part of my heart that dares to hope that it’s because she has chosen me.

  My mouth must be hanging open, because she coaxes, “Close your mouth, Graham.”

  I do, and I take another sip of water. “Why?” There’s a large part of me that’s cheering for her answer to be, “So I can travel with you, and be a part of what you’ve built which was inspired by me.”

  She grabs the napkin from her lap and wipes her mouth before throwing it on her plate. Her face is unreadable. “I’m pregnant.”

  Air exits my lungs, and for a brief moment the world starts to grey. Obviously, I didn’t hear her right. Pregnant? Is it mine? How in the hell did she get pregnant? Fuck. I must have misunderstood.

  Before I can ask any of those questions, she picks up her butter knife and stabs me proverbially in the heart. “Don’t worry. I’m not burdening you at all. This will not affect your tour, or radio show, or book deal, or anything else. I’m resigning so the world will not know that I’m having a baby when I’m not married.” With a rueful laugh, she says, “I don’t think an unwed, knocked-up Chief of Staff presents the right image for a party that prides themselves on family values.”

  She continues, “I plan to drop off the face of the earth for around a year. Then, I’m going to take a professorship at a university. I’ll give the baby my last name. And I swear to you that I will never tell him or her who their father is. I’m not asking for money or …”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I growl at her while I slam my hands down on the table. Our plates and silverware make a loud clanking noise. Is this woman insane? She just told me that I’m going to be a dad, but that the baby will not have my last name. She actually said she will not tell my child who his father is.

  The restaurant patrons surrounding us look our way to see what the loud noise was. I catch the waitress as she walks by and ask for our bill.

  Gripping the edge of the table, I lean forward, making sure she hears every word that I’m about to say. I only care that we’re making a scene because there is the chance of us being recognized. “Grab your purse, stand up, and follow me out of this restaurant. We have a lot to discuss, and I’m not doing it here in the middle of these fine folks’ Sunday breakfast. How did you get here?”

  For the first time since I’ve known Rachael, fear registers in her eyes. “Lou brought me.” Her voice is small, and not above a whisper.

  “Good. Tell Lou to drive back to D.C. You’ll be riding with me. He can wait for you at my house.” I don’t recognize my own voice. My face is burning red with anger, and I’ve never wanted to put my fist through a wall so badly.

  The waitress slips a check on our table and scurries away.

  “You know that Lou can’t do that,” she states, and crosses her arms over her chest.

  “You also were on birth control, and are now pregnant. Work your magic and make it happen,” I demand. That might be the meanest thing that I’ve ever said, and I instantly feel like a gigantic asshole.

  Mad. I’m fucking furious.

  Scared. I can’t be a dad.

  Confused. How did this happen?

  Happy! I’m going to be a father.

  She pulls out her phone and says to Lou, “I’m going to ride back with Graham.” There’s a pause. “Yes. Everything is okay. I’ll meet you at his house. Wait a second, and I�
�ll text you his address.”

  When she hangs up, she looks at me with sad eyes. “I’m sorry. I know that you’re thinking the worst possible things about me right now. Just know that ultimately, I’m so sorry. I don’t want this to interfere with your tour. I know that now is just about the worst time ever to have this news sprung on you. I just couldn’t let you find out I was resigning from a news reporter.”

  “You just told me that I’m going to be a father, and you were worried that I was going to be upset that I found out you were quitting from the media?” I shake my head. “Lady, you need to get your priorities straight.”

  She has the good sense to not respond.

  We stand up, and she grabs the check off the table. I follow her through the restaurant, staring at her petite pixie-fairy body, imagining what a pregnant Tinker Bell will look like. Even in my fucked-up emotional state, my body reacts at the image of her carrying my child.

  My mind jumps to the next logical question. Should Rachael and I get married? If she’s worried about being an unwed, pregnant Chief of Staff, we can rectify the unwed part of the problem. Even though we have many, many days of difficult conversations ahead of us, for the first time I have a bit of hope that maybe we will find a way to make this work. A baby is as good of a reason as any to fight for this relationship.

  She pays for our breakfast that we didn’t eat, and I don’t bother arguing with her. In silence, we walk to my car. My mind reels with all the things that I want to say to her—to ask her. She’s obviously had time to process this. I’ve had about twenty minutes.

  Once we’re on the freeway headed back to D.C., she speaks first. In a small voice, she asks, “How much do you hate me?”

  Her question throws me for a loop. Hate her? Hate her for what? Being pregnant? It definitely is both of our responsibility, even though she said we were protected. For resigning from her post and going into hiding? Yeah. That bothers me. But I don’t hate her.

  I reach over and take her delicate hand in mine. At first her grip is tentative, as if she isn’t quite sure what to think. I run my thumb over her fingers, and she tightens her hand in mine with an intensity that surprises me.