by Gage Grayson
I feel my face getting red hot.
“Excuse me, got herself pregnant? I don’t think conceiving a child happens to any woman just being by her own self. Even the Virgin Mary didn’t conceive all on her own—and got herself pregnant!”
“Sweet, Jesus,” Fiona exclaims, throwing up her hands. “Don’t get all uptight and Catholic on me over an expression. You know what I mean.”
We glare at each other for a long second.
“I just wanted to show you this. In fact, the D.C. Digest has written it up quite neutrally. You can imagine how the tabloids are running with this,” she informs me as she packs the newspaper away. “All I’m saying is, whatever you do, be professional. Think of his career, and think of your own.”
Now it’s my turn to heave a sigh.
Little does she know of the situation I’m in. My rational mind is appealing to my heart to not become too emotional about this. And, when I look at it objectively, the case of the young senator from California and his mistress is very different from Henry and me.
In fact, it doesn’t reflect my situation at all.
Henry isn’t married. We’re not cheating on anyone. We’re dating, and everything about this is respectable.
Am I seriously comparing the two cases side by side?
No one really knows I’m pregnant yet, aside from my doctor and Hope.
For a brief moment, I consider telling Fiona—to confide in her and ask for her advice, not just from journalist to editor, but from friend to friend.
But I haven’t even told Henry. How can I tell Fiona?
Still, the story has struck a chord in me that keeps on ringing.
“Speaking of profession,” I say trying to focus away from the story. “I have a question for you, but maybe we leave that for coffee. What do you say, should we order?”
We have gazpacho and vegetable quiche for lunch. Fiona does her best to catch me up on the office gossip I’ve missed and answer all my questions. I’m hungry for talk and information about the world outside the White House and hang onto her lips for every word.
It’s almost like old times, but as we finally arrive at coffee, it becomes clear to me that in the presence of the bodyguards, neither of us can fully relax.
“So,” Fiona says, stirring sugar into her cappuccino, “that professional question of yours...shoot.”
“I was wondering about that foreign bureau chief position at the paper. Have you filled it yet?”
Fiona stops in surprise, her spoon suspended.
“Are you interested?”
I start nodding, my head moving up and down more firmly the more I think about it.
“Yes,” I reply as a smile spreads across Fiona’s face. “It’s something I could see myself doing.”
Chapter 37
Henry
I can’t keep still.
Again, I catch myself pacing. If I keep this up, I’ll wear through this spot on the carpet in no time.
It’s just that my mind is running a mile a minute, and I can hardly contain myself. I want to share all of this with Beatrice and hear her input, but she’s not back yet.
So, I stand still and picture herself coming through the door again, her hair falling around her face, her eyes beaming, and her smile warming my heart.
My imagination keeps skipping forward, further into the future. It seems like a lot to juggle—the re-election, international politics, ongoing national affairs, and getting married to Bea.
Yet there is no try. None of it can fail. I know it’s a lot, but I can do it.
We can do it. Together.
But the path forward leads through treacherous territory, and I know not everyone wants me to succeed. There are people who want to tear us apart—some out of ill-will and others just out of love for a scandal.
Which is why every step forward has to be carefully planned and orchestrated, like walking on eggshells. It’s possible, but we have to be extra careful.
I realize I’m pacing again. I’m just eager to get going—it comes from my hands-on approach.
Since the re-election campaign kicked off officially, things have been more strenuous for Beatrice. I guess it’s one thing to cover the life of a politician so up close, and another to live as the fiancé of the president in the White House. Beatrice is doing both.
I see now how she’s constantly fighting on two fronts at the same time.
The job engages me. I thrive on being on the spot and in the limelight. It energizes me.
The same cannot be said for her, but her career in journalism has steeled her for all sorts of stress.
Lately, things seem to be taking their toll on her, though. It’s something I want to address, and I’m sure we can talk it through.
Because unfortunately, with the campaign shifting into even higher gear soon, there will be more of that stress in the future—not less.
I hear her enter the presidential suite and stop dead in my tracks.
Finally, she’s home.
From the look on her face, I’m not sure she feels like she’s coming home properly. I do my best to make her feel welcome.
“Bea!” I walk toward her with open arms.
She looks up, obviously lost in thought. Then a smile washes over her face, and she falls into my embrace.
“Did the press bother you much?” I ask, leaning back to get a good luck at her.
She looks up at me with kind and slightly tired eyes. She seems to weigh the question—and me. As if I could be asking in my own interest or if any pictures of her have been taken that could compromise us. But no, it’s because I simply have her well-being in mind.
She shakes her head in response—and possibly to get that notion out of her mind.
“No,” she adds. “You know how well Hope organizes my...escape.”
She oddly lingers on the word, but I pay it no mind.
“How was lunch with Fiona? Were you guys catching up or talking shop?”
“Fiona is fine, thanks,” Beatrice responds, but I don’t think she fully heard my question.
I release her to let her arrive fully, and she walks around the suite, picking up things here and there, then setting them back down. She seems erratic, but I’m still brimming with all the excitement of my mind racing through future events, so I jump right in.
“Bea, I think we have a lot of things to go over together. I know the campaign is my thing, not yours, but we’ll have to enforce an even stricter regimen of coordinated public appearances together. We definitely want to send the right message on this. Maybe we can sit down soon and sync our calendars, since there are a lot of upcoming events.”
She breathes a sigh across the room and nods mechanically, but without looking at me. Something is beginning to feel off.
“Then, there’s an upcoming meeting with Hope and the others about the eventual announcement of our engagement.”
I pause and look at her, but she doesn’t respond—like she’s retreated into her own little world.
“And then, at a later stage, I believe we have a wedding to plan.”
This finally gets her attention. She stops, turns, and looks at me.
I can tell by her eyes that something heavy is weighing on her mind. She raises a hand, pleading me to halt.
“Henry, stop. Hold on a moment. I know your schedule is always full, and you have to plan way ahead, but I also have something to tell you. We need to talk.”
“Of course.”
I close the distance between us in a handful of steps and take her hands into mine once I’m able. I look down into her chocolate eyes, searching for what it is that occupies her mind. She holds my gaze, but wavers.
“This is all a bit much. You might have guessed that the re-election campaign is putting a bit of a strain on me.”
I nod. “Yes, I noticed.”
“I’m afraid of any missteps. I’d still be, even if we weren’t engaged, but as it is...things are moving very fast. For me.”
She looks
at me and tilts her head, apparently unsure how to go on. I squeeze her hands and try to encourage her.
“Go on, Bea. Speak your mind.”
“Your job and your campaign are a lot by themselves, but here you are, talking about the wedding. That seems like a lot to me, in very little time.”
Again, she stops, and I manage a smile, though I’m unsure where exactly she’s going with all this.
“Henry, I love you. You have to know that.”
“I do know,” I say gently, “and I love you, too, Bea.”
A brief smile flickers over her face, but she withdraws her hands from mine and softly moves a strand of her hair out of her face before she fixes me again with her eyes. And this time, she firmly holds my gaze.
“I love you, Henry. But I’m not sure...” She breathes in sharply. “But I’m not sure if I’m the right one...for the job.”
She makes a sweeping motion with her right hand around the entire room.
I open my mouth to speak, but she raises a hand.
“Please, let me say what I need to say.”
What is she talking about, the right one for the job? What job—of First Lady? My biographer?
My wife?
All these questions race in my mind, but I can see it in her eyes that if I interrupt her, she might not be able to finish what she has to say.
“You know I don’t want to commit any errors. I don’t want to do anything that could interfere with your job or harm your career. That’s really important to me.” She continues, giving a tiny nod of her head for emphasis. “And to be honest, I miss being in the field. I miss my own job. I’m a reporter; I have to write.”
Her chest heaves as she inhales sharply again.
I already see where this is going now—and I don’t like it.
“I’ve wrapped up all the documentation for your biography, you know. All these ends are tied up. I’m very grateful you’ve made this possible, that I’ve had that opportunity. Thank you for that. But Fiona offered me my dream job again.”
She looks at me with hopeful eyes.
I find I can just stand here and nod.
“And I want to take it. I’m going to take it.”
She removes her engagement ring and gives it a long and forlorn look, slowly moving it between her fingers.
“I’ve spoken to Hope. I’ll do whatever you, Hope, and Lawrence need me to do in order to protect your career and your re-election campaign.”
Her voice falters.
My jaw is clenched so tightly that I feel like I’m about to break my teeth.
She takes my hand and places the ring on my palm. She closes my fingers around it, tears welling in her eyes, and leaves.
I stand rooted to the spot, as if bolted to the floor.
The click of the door closing behind her as she leaves sounds more like a clap of thunder than the gentle noise it is.
I open my hand and look down at the ring. The sight causes my stomach to twist into knots.
When I look and see myself in the mirror, all the color is gone from my face.
And before I realize what I’m doing, my fist shatters the glass.
Chapter 38
Beatrice
“I can’t believe you!”
“Excuse me?” I gasp.
What I can’t believe is that a member of my own staff would just blurt out something like that. I know we’re under a tight deadline and all, but that seemed really out of nowhere.
As I suspected, however, Mort already looks embarrassed. His hand is tightly gripping the edge of the random desk where he’s standing, and his knuckles are actually turning white.
“I can’t believe this,” he corrects himself, almost mumbling at the floor.
“It’s not that big a deal,” I intone in my best reassuring voice. “It’s just a photo that came out a little blurry.”
The tension in the Digest office bullpen is high, and I’m in the center of it all. All things considered, I feel actually very calm, even if I feel myself being a bit more judgmental towards my staff than I’d like to be.
Seriously, this guy couldn’t be older than twenty-five. How is he named Mort?
“It means it’s unusable, though. Doesn’t it?” Mort’s still mumbling downward, and now he’s childishly, sheepishly shifting the tip of his shoe against the carpet.
Ah, whatever. Mort’s a fine name.
“In the grand scheme of things, Mort, it doesn’t matter. Not one bit. Focus your energy elsewhere.”
I pat the growing bump on my stomach.
Just not for you.
Names are a subject my mind’s been returning to more and more frequently these days.
“Right,” Mort responds, tapping the empty receptionist desk before wandering to, hopefully, take my advice and push toward getting some of this shit actually finished.
The edginess, the stress, and the ambient anxiety is still very much apparent in the air. Yet, my mind is not nearly as into the work or the fast-approaching deadlines as they very likely should be at this point.
That’s another common thought-motif for me these days. Where I am, and what that means, and how I should be acting.
And how I should be feeling.
I step out into the wide berth of empty space that seems to be surrounding me now; the atmospheric tension has grown to the point where people are fearing me.
Fearing me—because I’m the goddamn Bureau Chief.
Which means, I should be perpetually proud, excited, and super fucking motivated.
“It’s just a never-ending story.” Even Mort’s gotten into the stressed-out yet humbled act, approaching me with two armfuls of accordion folders. “Just boundless.”
“At least, you’re not afraid me,” I comment. “Or are you? And what’s with all those folders?”
“Isn’t this shit all supposed to be in computers now?”
He answers my question with one of his own. “What is it, twenty years ago?”
“What story are you working on?” I’m hoping for a straight answer, but I know not to get my hopes too high.
“The one with all these editorial stock photos that still need to be digitized,” Mort answers miraculously.
“The hotel deal,” I say, pretty much to myself.
I’m developing a habit of thinking out loud as a way to get a handle on the vast universe of stories, details both important and trivial, journalistic issues, writers, photographers, the build of every new issue of my periodical...
My periodical.
At this point, it’s who I am.
“You’re obviously deep in thought,” Mort shoots at me sharply. “I’ll sort through these and get back to you about the deadline shortly.”
“Thursday morning,” I mutter quietly.
“Of course,” he responds, uncharacteristically serious. “I’m just talking about status.”
“Yep.”
I begin walking away while the word is barely past my lips, leaving it behind me. For just the briefest moment, I feel bad for leaving one of my top writers hanging in the middle of what was probably an important conversation. Mort can handle himself, though, and it’s becoming more and more difficult these days to tell how important any conversation is.
I’m relieved to hear Mort walking away with his usual careless confidence as soon as I begin making a beeline back toward my office.
Of course, I have no idea what the hell I’m planning to do once I get there, besides maybe get some quiet and gather my thoughts.
Halfway to my office, I stop, as I realize there is a giant glass pane in front of me that I just noticed now.
I thoughtlessly, yet tenderly, pat my belly bump once more.
Get some quiet, huh?
I was never really sure what that phrase meant, and up until very recently, it was never something I saw myself doing or needing to do, especially when things got hectic, and my work needed me.
But, fuck, a few minutes of quiet is sounding very appealing to me r
ight now—or, maybe I’m starting to take just more than my own feelings and needs into account.
“Beatrice? Miss Barlow?”
Fuck, the way some of these new junior writers approach me gives me paparazzi vibes.
“What is it, Leola?”
“I’m sorry,” she begins.
“Don’t...I mean, it’s okay. What is it, Leola?”
Leola looks way younger and more naive than the new grad school graduate that she is as she stands in my path with her hands insecurely on her hips.
“I’m on like four different stories, Beatrice. Is there one I should be focusing on?”
“The hotel deal, with the oligarchs.” I don’t feel great about my answer, but since it’s the last story someone mentioned to me, it’s the first one I can think of.
“Talk to Mort,” I instruct Leola before walking around her, continuing the path to my office.
A few minutes of quiet, whatever that means, and I’ll hopefully be back on track.
That wide berth everyone seems to be giving me takes hold again for the last few steps to my office, and I’m grateful for that.
Fuck, I don’t know what’s happening to me today.
Being the youngest person to hold this position at the Digest by a long shot, I should absolutely have the sharpness and energy to get through at least the first few hours of the workday, without needing a few minutes of quiet time, or whatever the hell it is I think I need right now.
Nonetheless, I gladly lock the door behind me as soon as I walk into my office, and I breathe an actual sigh of relief.
That relief feels premature, however, as I realize I feel that nagging sense of unease, even more acutely now, that I’m not surrounded by everyone else’s stress.
What’s causing that, anyway?
I don’t know—but I do know that I better find out before heading back into the melee of the office bullpen.
A loud knock on my door propels me forward, in the direction of my file cabinets.
“Just a moment,” I call out to whoever is on the other side.
“I can stay out here all day,” Leola’s voice announces from outside my door, “but I do have some news for you.”
“Just a moment,” I repeat, opening the cabinet’s top drawer for no goddamn reason I can infer.