by Layne Harper
“Rachael, as crazy as you make me, I don’t hate you. You’ve had time to get over the news of finding out that you’re pregnant. I’m still reeling. I had no idea why you invited me to breakfast two hours outside of D.C., but I guarantee you that I wasn’t prepared for this.” As I talk, I notice that my voice becomes more relaxed. My shoulders also aren’t as tight. There’s something about her touch that makes me believe that we can make this work.
She shifts in her seat without letting go of my hand, and looks out of the window.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She turns and looks at me with unshed tears in her eyes. “You mean, I drop this bombshell on you, and you ask how I’m feeling? Yell at me, Graham. Call me names. Tell me how I’m ruining your life and your tour, and all the exciting plans you have. Tell me that you hate me. Tell me that I’m the most selfish, self-centered person on the planet. Tell me …” she begs.
I pick our joined hands up and lean over, kissing our interlaced knuckles. “Stop it,” I coax her in a quiet voice. “Tell me how you’re doing.”
She tries to remove her hand from mine, but I grip it tighter. She’s going to communicate with me, and I want to hear what she has to say while I’m touching her.
I glance over and see her sweet smile. “I’m super busy trying to transfer everything over to the Deputy White House Chief of Staff. I mean, he sits in on most meetings, but it’s still a knowledge transfer that’s crazy complicated. The President and I are debating what reason that I should give. I’m thinking that we’re going to say that I wanted to enter the private sector sooner for personal reasons, and just leave…”
I cut her off. “I don’t care about your job. I want to know how you are physically doing, with my child growing inside of you.” My child. Those are not words that I was expecting to say today, but I do like the way that they sound.
“Oh,” she says, and shifts so she’s facing me more. “I’m doing okay. I can’t even really tell that I’m pregnant. I haven’t gained any weight, or anything. There are a few smells that bother me, but honestly, so far this has been rather easy. The doctor said that the baby’s heartbeat is strong, and my hormone levels are where they should be.”
“You’ve gone to the doctor?” I ask, trying to keep the shock out of my voice.
“Well, sure. That’s what you do. You find out that you’re pregnant. You call the doctor. She sets up an appointment, and you go in. They do an ultrasound.” The tone in her voice is the same one she uses when I’ve heard her in interviews, explaining something to the reporter.
My hand begins to shake as I grip hers tighter.
“Did it cross your mind that maybe I would have liked to have been included in that appointment?” I’m so proud of myself. I’m calm, and resisting the urge to yell at her.
“Well, I wanted to make sure that it was a healthy pregnancy before I made any career decisions or told you. You know … with my age and all.”
That’s it. I can’t take it any longer. Here I am, once again, planning a life for the two of us—even considering marrying her—when the realization hits me. If she weren’t pregnant, we wouldn’t be together right now.
There’s a rest stop to my right, and I whip the car across two lanes of traffic to exit. One guy lays on his horn. I didn’t even come close to hitting him. I mumble under my breath, “Asshole drivers.”
“What are you doing?” Rachael shrieks, dropping my hand.
Through gritted teeth, I reply, “Getting a bit of fresh air.”
I pull the car into the abandoned roadside picnic area. With the advent of family friendly truck stops it amazes me that states still pay to maintain places like this. Although, this one looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. The blue restroom sign painted on the side of the brick is faded with neglect. There are four metal picnic tables that dot the yellow-ish brown grassy hill. Dense forest is attempting to encroach on this sad place, and I’m cheering for nature to take over. I turn the engine off. Opening the car door, I stand up and walk to the trunk.
She gets out also.
“Rachael,” I warn her. “I need a minute. Just give me a fucking minute.”
Fortunately, she has the good sense to stand there quietly.
Rage.
My heart beats wildly in my ears. I open and shut my fists as I feel my body temperature rising to a near nuclear level. She asked me if I hated her earlier. Right now, I think that I do. But I know, even in my explosive state, that the only way to hate someone is because you’ve let yourself love them so desperately.
I turn and walk away from her, leaving her still standing there with her eyes crinkled in confusion. She probably has absolutely no idea what she did that was so wrong. In Rachael’s mind, the logical thing to do before she resigned from her job was to make sure that the baby was healthy. I get that. What I can’t reconcile in my head is that she wouldn’t have told me. If the pregnancy wasn’t healthy, she doesn’t care enough about me to let me—the father of our baby—comfort her, and mourn the loss of our child together. I would have gone on with my life, oblivious to the fact that I was a dad to a baby that didn’t make it.
Then, like a punch in the gut, I wonder if Rachael has the ability to let someone be her partner.
I slump down on a cold, damp park bench, dropping my head in between my knees. The only noises I hear are of the cars whizzing by. There’s something about the white noise that helps calm me down—not enough to get back in the car with her though.
I sense her walking towards me. Lifting my head, I lock eyes with hers as I watch her approach looking a scared child. A breeze picks up, whipping loose strands from her braid across her face. The hair blocks her vision, and I want to tuck those offending strands behind her ear, ensuring that she doesn’t trip. I don’t understand these emotions. How is it possible to love someone enough that you want to take care of them, while at the same time longing to choke some sense into them? I bet that I’m not the first guy who has asked this same question.
She sits down on the bench, but doesn’t touch me. “I know that I did something really awful, but I don’t know what it is.”
Sighing, I stand up and use my arms to brace myself against the end of the table. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I expect an honest answer. No bullshitting me, Rachael.”
“Okay.” She nods, looking at me with earnest eyes.
“Would we have a future together if you weren’t pregnant? And not the kind of future where we have to hide behind closed doors. I mean a future that is out in the open, where I hold your hand in public and I proudly tell everyone who my girl is. ” I hate the question, and I almost wish that I hadn’t asked it. But I have to know. The cat and mouse game that we’ve been playing for the last couple of months is killing me. I have to know definitively if there was ever a chance for us before she got pregnant. Was she just going to string me along until someone took my place? It’s a thought that I have had once or a thousand times since she wrecked my life.
“I don’t know. That’s hard to say, because, well,” she stares down at her stomach, “I am having a baby.”
I don’t look at her when I respond. “That’s the bullshit, political answer that you just gave me. Now, give me the real answer. I want to hear it, even if it’s ugly, because for fuck’s sake, Rachael, don’t I deserve it?” My voice trails off to almost a whisper, but I know that she hears me.
She stands up and steps towards me timidly placing a hand on my bicep. She waits for a second to see what my reaction will be. I don’t jerk out of her touch, but I also don’t respond to it.
I wait.
Hanging on the edge of a cliff.
Needing to hear the words that will alter the course of the rest of my life.
She leans forward on the table, trying to read my face, but I close my eyes in protest. I’m not giving her any clues as to how she should respond. I want to know how her heart answers my question, not her brain. I’ve already heard that side
stepped answer. I hold my breath in anticipation.
Then it comes …
“Yes.”
Rachael and Graham’s story concludes in The World: According to Graham.
Dear Reader,
One more thing before I let you go … Rachael refers to her breakup with Aiden a few times in the book. Aiden’s Broken Heart is a short story that was published in February 2013 that chronicles the end of their relationship from Aiden’s point of view. It’s available for free on my website at www.LayneHarper.com or on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00J5F7L80 for $.99. All of the profits from Aiden’s Broken Heart are donated to a local animal rescue organization.
Thank you for your support!
Cheers,
Layne Harper
P.S. Please don’t forget to leave a review!