The World: According to Graham (12 page)

Her eyes shoot to the ceiling, sparkling with unshed tears. I may have actually persuaded the great Rachael Early to see the world through my eyes. This accomplishment has to win some sort of medal. When she finally looks my way, I wait with breath trapped in my chest, hanging on the precipice of what she’s going to say. This is it. I just laid my best lines on her. If they don’t do the trick, then I’m going to have to go with Plan B, which is a felony.

She smiles and takes the hand that is resting on her stomach in both of hers. I think I have her. I wait like a lovesick puppy for the strokes to my head. Then she delivers this. “Those were a lot of words. As a girl, they are exactly the words that I want to hear. Unfortunately, my time in Washington has hardened me against words. I like actions. That’s why I’m going to agree to this crazy idea of yours. I’ve thought about it. The fact that you’re skipping out of whatever contractual public appearances that I assume you’ve agreed to, which I’m sure is pissing off everyone around you, plus you’ve gone to all of the trouble to outfit that hunk of metal into a recording studio and place for us to sleep? Well, those actions show me that I should at least give this a chance.”

My face falls. Yes. I’m happy that she’s agreed to join me, to give us a chance on making us work while I’m on tour, but I don’t particularly care for the verbal lashing. She continues, “However, remember this. I am going on this trek across America because I’m choosing to go. I’m choosing you, Graham. I’m risking all that I’ve worked for. My reputation, for you. Backlash on the President . . . for you. You didn’t coerce me. If at any point I don’t think that it’s the best for me or the baby, then we’re on the next plane to Texas. And I mean it, Graham. If at any point I feel like I’m a pawn in a political game that you’re playing, or if I think there’s anything going on with your assistant, I’m out of there so fast that your head will spin. Got it?”

“I can live with that,” I reply, stroking the back of her hand.

Yay! No felony charges today. The rest of the trip? I’m not sure. I guess we’ll take it one day at a time, but she’s agreed to join me, and she’s not running away to Texas.

“Hi, this is Rachael Early. May I please speak to Candace Wilson?” I tap the desk with my long fingernails. Pregnancy has been a real treat for them. They’ve never looked better. I don’t think that I’ve remembered to thank Graham yet for my desk, closet—well, this whole set- up. It’s pretty amazing—even though he did it to anchor me to him. I remind myself to thank him when he gets back from buying? Renting? Procuring whatever it takes to haul my new home away from home.

“Rachael.” The masculine voice booms on the other end of the line. If you didn’t know that Candace was female, you’d think you were speaking to a man. She had a stroke when she was in her twenties that paralyzed her vocal cords. The sound that comes out is raspy and deep as if she’s smoked a couple of packs of cigarettes a day her entire life.

“Candace. I hope I caught you at a good time.”

“I’ll always make time to talk to my favorite new author.” I’ve known her for years. She’s a publishing agent for many politicians and former presidents. We’re kindred spirits in that we both play well in male-dominated worlds.

Her words make me smile, even though she can’t see me. “Not yet. I’ve been unemployed for exactly one whole day. But I’ve never been known to let grass grow under my feet. Would you mind forwarding me the book contract that we discussed? It might make for some interesting pool-side reading.”

Her deep laugh matches her voice. “Absolutely. Why the change of heart?”

I’m not sure what to say.
Candace, I’m taking the biggest gamble of my life by agreeing to travel cross country with a man who talks about disgusting things for a living so I thought that the book would be a great insurance policy.
Or
I’m about to be single mom and my kid will need diapers, food, and clothes.
Instead of those gems, I reply, “You know. Always have to keep my options open.”

“That’s my girl.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Headed to the Caribbean for a little R and R?”

More like the Poconos.
“Something like that.” I fake-laugh.

“You deserve it. Have a Mai Thai for me, and I’ll touch base with you next week.”

“Perfect,” I reply as I end the call.

Being an author is not something that I’ve really ever considered. However, I’ve had a job since I was sixteen. Before then, I taught swim lessons to the neighborhood kids for spending money. I didn’t walk away from my career because I was burned out or needed “time and space.” I require something to occupy my mind, especially if I’m cruising America’s heartland.

Yes. I’ll just mentally brainstorm book ideas, reflect on my time at the White House, and try to be as agreeable as possible so Graham and I can work through our issues. The idea makes me feel useful.

Graham should be back soon so I throw my clothes for the road in a duffle bag. I’ve done this road-trip thing before. President Jones, Shelby, the boys, me, Evan, and some staffers lived on a bus for weeks on end during both presidential campaigns. Instead of packing a combination of yoga pants and business suits, this time I aim for many more pairs of yoga pants and stretchy tops, jeans, and two nice dresses. My shoes are limited to track shoes, one pair of boots, two pairs of flats, and neutral heels.

I look at my bag and feel nothing but despair. Calling Caroline and telling her my change of plans sucked. I had been looking forward to spending time with her and her family, although she was ridiculously proud of me for taking this step and she encouraged me to pursue the book idea. I don’t think I could have made the phone call to Candace without her support. The decision to write this book was knee-jerk at best. I just blurted it out. There had been no forethought or planning. I’ve never written anything more than research papers in college and reports when I was more junior in my career. I don’t know the first thing about being an author.

Before I can stop myself, I let the brick wall that I’ve erected around my feelings towards this idea crumble just a bit. Fear is the first feeling that escapes. It tightens my chest, making my heart race. Then self-doubt rears its ugly head. I’m not a writer. I didn’t even write my own bio for the media. Evan carefully crafted it. How long should a book be? Do I start with chapter one, or do I write what flows? What happens if the words don’t come?

Unfortunately, the river of self-loathing takes out the wall around my insecurities when it comes to Graham. Before I can get my act together, the moving wall of water inside my head comes gushing out in torrents of gasping sobs. I drop to the floor and pull my knees to my chin, burying my head in my hands. I’ve never in my life been so scared. I don’t know how to be this new version of me. I don’t know how to be somebody’s partner, and I certainly don’t know how to hold my tongue and be pleasant all the time. I don’t know how to be a mother, or unemployed, or forty. I don’t know how to support Graham and his career.

This isn’t the life that I asked for. No. All I wanted from Graham was good sex. Why did I have to fall in love?

Slowly the tears turn to just a trickle, and I’m able to see the forest through the trees.
Get a grip, Rachael.
I’m scared. No. That’s not right. I’m so terrified that I can’t trust myself to make a good decision for me or my baby. I’m the stupid girl in the horror movie that Graham and I enjoy making fun of who hides in the closet when the man with the chainsaw is after her instead of jumping out of the window. I’m the . . . And the word sears my brain so hard that I actually stop crying and begin to panic.

“I’m . . . I’m helpless.”

I fly to my feet and bolt for the bathroom across the hall. I’m not sure if I’m going to be sick or what’s going to happen. I just know that I need cold water on my face STAT.

The chill is a grounding agent, reminding my body that I don’t have the luxury to lose my shit. Graham is going to be home soon. He expects to find the happy-go-lucky version of Rachael that has decided to embrace this crazy journey. He can’t find the insane, self-loathing girl that has a purple face and swollen eyes.

George wanders into the bathroom to keep me company while I turn the shower to cold and strip off my clothes submersing myself under the numbing stream.

“Helpless,” I repeat over and over again as I catch the cold water in my mouth and spit it out. “I’m helpless.” My bank account is at a place where I can survive for a little while. I’m certainly not destitute, but I don’t have enough in savings that I could support two people for long. What are my skills? Yes. I ran the White House. Okay. Those are somewhat impressive skills, but do they translate to a life outside of Washington? I don’t know. Will the Republicans accept me back if I even try to play in Washington politics again? Family values are a huge pillar of the party. Does a single mom have a place? I don’t know that either.

I’ve allowed myself a good fifteen-minute pity party.
Suck it up, Rachael. One foot in front of the other. Trust in Graham that you can make this work.

I now do what I do best. Walls are repaired around my self-loathing, and I take control of my life. The soft towel blankets me with a false sense of comfort as I walk across the hall to my new office. After logging into my email, I find the contract from Candace. Before I even get dressed, I sit down and give it a quick read-through. The terms look good and the projected advance pay is enough that I could buy a small house for the baby and me. That’s what matters. Survival. I print it on the new printer provided by Graham and sign my name to the dotted line. Then, I scan it in and email it back to Candace with a little note. “Can’t wait to get started.”

What a lie. I’m a joke. Yes. This gives me options that aren’t dependent on an existence with Graham. Yes. Knowing I’m no longer trapped in a relationship if we can’t make it work does relieve a bit of my anxiety.

This book is my Plan B. It’s my ticket to independence and will give my career validity, even if I never play in the political world again. The thought makes me sad, but also gives me the opportunity to take a deep cleansing breath, which I haven’t been able to do since I missed a period and peed on a stick.

The feeling of helplessness has been pushed to the recesses of my mind for the time being. Now, I just need to make sure that it stays there.

My happy face is plastered on and I’m ready to tackle this new life that I’m calling Rachael 2.0.

Forty-nine missed calls and it’s barely noon. “Fuck,” I mutter as I turn my phone back to silent. I didn’t bother to read the one-hundred-and-two texts or eighty-five new email messages. We have a manager. The guy takes his percentage of our paychecks, but I’m not sure exactly what he does. Can he or my over-paid assistant really not handle any of this?

I send Hank a text. “My phone is blowing up. Everything okay?”

The dots appear, letting me know that he’s immediately replying. “Sponsors are pissed. Wanted three SOL, not two. I’m trying to deal.”

I wait, assuming that there’s more. We don’t have that many sponsors to be pissed. When I get nothing back, I send another message. “Reassure them that it’s only for a couple of weeks. How’s everything else?”

The phone rings. It’s him. “Hank,” I answer. “I’ve got just a few minutes.”

“What? To busy hittin’ it to talk about your fuckin’ career?” he replies.

I roll my eyes, but I don’t respond. Hank doesn’t know about the baby, and I’m in no mood to explain myself or my actions again. I remind myself once again that I’m paying him and not the other way around. “What’s going on?”

“Well, let’s see.” He pauses, as if he’s mentally calculating. “I had to fire the pyro guys because I caught them smokin’ pot under the stage. Tryin’ to find replacements, but who knows. The band that’s opening for ya is not agreein’ to the lighting cues. Someone placed the gun control people next to the gun owner’s rights folks. I’ve called in extra security. What else you want to know?”

Yup. I’m pretty sure this is why we have a tour manager, so I don’t have to deal with these problems. “Call the union. They can send some temp pyro experts. That was part of the contract that we negotiated. Inform the guys of ToGetHer that we understand that they’re an extremely popular band, and we’re so honored that they’re playing for free at our show. Work with lighting to accommodate them, even it means sacrificing a bit of our lighting. We can change our stage cues. It’s harder for them.” I pause and swallow. “Remember you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And yes. Extra security sounds necessary.”

“We’re already crazy over budget, Revere. Where is this money supposed to come from?” Hank asks.

“Give me a few days to figure it out.” I end the call and lean back against the hood of the truck that I just bought to haul The Cougar travel trailer. My stomach feels as if I swallowed a gallon of bleach. So far, the tour is way over budget. The guys and I don’t start earning a paycheck until we’ve paid back the advance from the promoter to get the concert off the ground. The Sons of Liberty are responsible for everyone’s paychecks—venue rental and the forty-three people that we employee to make the show happen every Saturday night. This is a stress like I’ve never experienced before. I went from a teacher and coach to essentially the CEO of a company, and I don’t have a bit of experience unless you count my law degree, which is worthless, but I can proudly say that I can interrupt legalese in a contract.

On the flip side, ticket sales are through the roof. We’re sold out in every city so far. Plus our merchandise sales have been healthy. We’re bringing in wheelbarrows full of cash, but it’s quickly being deposited and going back out of the bank accounts.

We hired Hank to manage the tour and us. He came highly recommended from our agent and concert promotion company. The guy has managed several huge tours—The Rolling Stones, Cher, and U2.

But what we’re doing is different. We aren’t a concert. We’re an all-day festival. The gates open at ten in the morning. Local bands start playing at noon. We welcome every local political action group to set up a booth to promote their cause. We don’t charge for this. The only thing that we require is that a group that represents the other side of the issue also be present. This is where the gun control versus gun owner rights gets a little sticky, and we have to hire extra security.