The World: According to Graham (3 page)

Lou looks away and scurries out the front door. Smart man, that Lou is. Lou and I have never discussed my relationship with Graham, but you can’t spend as much time together as we do without a working knowledge of each other’s lives. “Rita, if you’ll excuse me for a moment. I’m going to go upstairs and make a call.”

Rita, who is about my age, with unnaturally red hair and whiskey brown eyes, gives me an uncomfortable smile and walks into my kitchen to begin inventorying my cabinets, or at least I think that’s what she’s doing by all the banging sounds.

I’m fuming mad. If I was the Tinker Bell cartoon character that the Sons of Liberty call me, my face would be apple red and steam would be billowing out of my ears. I stomp up the stairs, snatching my phone off the bathroom counter and hit send when I locate his number.

“Hello,” Graham says with a hint of apprehension in his voice.

“Hi,” I spit into the phone. I don’t want pleasantries. I want to rip his head off.

“Are you okay? The baby?”

“Baby is fine. I’m not even close to being okay though. What’s up with you changing the shipping address for my things?” I pause for a second and hear what sounds like sheets rumpling in the background. “Were you asleep? How can you have texted me fifteen minutes ago and be asleep?”

He laughs. The bastard actually laughs at me. “Oh. I didn’t text you. Veronica did.”

Is he intentionally trying to ruin my day? “Who is Veronica?” I demand as I take note that I’m standing in my bathroom with the door shut like a teenage girl hiding her phone conversation from her parents. Why do I care if Rita hears me arguing with Graham?

I don’t have time to contemplate my motivations because Graham interrupts my thoughts.

“She’s my assistant.” At least he has the decency to sound a bit apologetic when he delivers that gem of information.

“So Veronica is your assistant who has access to your hotel room where I am assuming your phone is while you are sleeping.”

Graham and I are not back together by a long shot, but I am having his child. I assumed that he wasn’t seeing anyone else at the moment, as he is taking his time and some space to process all of this. In my humble opinion, it’s difficult to do that if your space is inserted inside of Veronica.

“You make it sound so dirty.” He chuckles.

I walk over and sit down on the closed toilet seat lid.
Geez, I’m fighting with my Baby Daddy while I sit on the toilet. How did my life become this?
I decide to drop the subject of Veronica and focus on what’s important which right now which is my closet. Graham and I are spending tonight and tomorrow in D.C. before he leaves for his next tour stop and I head for Texas. We’ll have plenty of time to discuss her then.

“Why is Rita under the impression that the contents of my closet and personal belongings should no longer be shipped to Texas and instead moved to your place?” I almost laugh at myself. I sound so professional. It’s a strange question to ask the man who I know that I still love.

The line is silent for a couple of heartbeats. Then he responds neutrally. “That’s where I told her they should go.”

“I figured that much, genius. But riddle me this. How am I supposed to access my underwear if they’re in D.C. and I’m in Texas?” I stomp my foot while I’m perched on a toilet seat lid. I actually stomp my high-heeled shoe as if I’m twelve again. The sound echoes off the vacant bathroom walls and tiled floor reminding me of a spook house. And then, just to further my pre-teen temper tantrum, I tap said foot until he responds.

It takes him a few breaths, but when he does, all I get is “There’s been a change of plans.”

I’ve really been trying to quit saying cuss words. I’m going to be a mom, and moms shouldn’t drop the “F” bomb like it’s going out of style. However, Graham Jackson has me so mad that
fuck
is really the best and only way to respond to him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You don’t get to change the plans. You don’t have the right to change where my belongings are being shipped to.” I stand up and begin to pace in my no-longer-mine tiny bathroom. My heels click, click, click against the tile while my hand is planted firmly on my hip. “You aren’t even speaking to me, except to check on the baby while you take your time and space. So fuck you, Graham Jackson. You aren’t changing anything. You haven’t earned that right.”

This conversation is much bigger than just where my panties will reside. This is about me telling him I’m pregnant and him essentially ignoring me. This is about me finally giving him everything that he’s wanted and then him turning a cold shoulder.

I check my watch, noting that I should have left five minutes ago. It’s my last day. Hopefully no one will be too upset that I’m late.

“Look, Rach. I may not have handled things well lately . . .”

“Ya think?” I interrupt taking a good look at myself in the mirror. I look like me—same platinum-blond hair, the same too-large-for-my-face green eyes, but I’m not sure where the tough-as-nails version of me has gone. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have even given someone a chance to explain, let alone put up with Graham’s time and space. Why I’m doing it now baffles me.

He ignores my snide comment and continues, “But please just trust me. Have your stuff go to my place. Veronica overnighted Rita the key. We’ll talk about it tonight.” He says this in his bedroom dominate voice. “Please,” he adds, in a kind tone.

I sigh and lean against the bathroom counter top, wondering who the hell I’ve turned into. The Rachael Early that eats Senators for breakfast would never acquiesce so easily. However, I’m late on the last day of my White House employment and frankly have lost my will to fight when it comes to him.

“Fine.” I can ship my things just as easily from his house as mine. It will cost more, but right now, there’s no fire left in me.

There’s a very pregnant pause.

Then, quietly, he says, “Have a great last day of work,” and adds, “I’m so proud of you.”

Damn pregnancy hormones make my eyes well up. I tilt my chin to the ceiling and fan my face, attempting to keep the tears at bay so they don’t ruin my mascara. “Thanks. I needed to hear that this morning.”

“Knock ’em dead, kid. I’ll see you in a little while.”

I smile, in spite of my hormonal, messed-up state. “Have a safe trip.”

“Love you, Rachael.”

Then the phone goes dead. Staring at the device for a few heartbeats, I wonder if we’ll ever reach a point where we can just have a normal phone conversation without my heart rate going to stroke-inducing levels?

I say to no one in particular, “I love you too, but I don’t like you very much at all.”

Fortunately, Evan Atkins has my back and tipped me off that I was going to have to ceremoniously leave my office and walk the halls of the West Wing one last time while everyone lines the walls and clapped.

“They’re ready for you, Rachael,” Evan says with glee. He is smiling so big that I’m surprised his face hasn’t split in two.

I stand up and walk around my desk. “Who came up with this asinine idea anyway? Can’t I just grab my purse and stroll out of here like I do every night?”

He smirks. “You did. It was your idea three weeks ago. You said it would look great for the presidential historical video.”
Damn pregnancy brain.

Evan is dressed in a navy suit with a navy and green striped tie. His dirty blond hair is tousled, as if he had a nooner instead of lunch. “I believe the reasoning was that you are the first ever female White House Chief of Staff, and seeing how beloved you are by the staff will do wonders for smashing the glass ceiling.”

I stare up into his soft blue eyes. I really love him. He’s the brother that I don’t have. I ball up my fist and punch him in the arm.

He yelps and grabs his tricep, as if I actually hurt him. “What was that for?”

I smile sweetly. “For not telling me that my idea was horrible.”

He pulls me to him and gives me a tight hug. When we step back, he places his hands on my shoulders and has such a serious look on his face that I bite the inside of my lip to keep the tears away.
Don’t ruin my makeup
.

Evan looks into my eyes and in a very solemn tone, says, “You know, I tried to talk the President into letting you mud wrestle the female Senator from Florida. Thought we could drink beer and place bets. Maybe eat a little pizza. Smoke a few cigars. He thought it would be a shitty match up. Said you’d take her in about three seconds.”

God, I’m going to miss you.
I punch him again. “You’re such an asshole.”

Laughing, I rub my knuckles. I forget that Evan has arm muscles. He’s one of the things that I’m going to miss the most about my job. Even when days were really awful, Evan was good for a quick banter. We’ve made jokes about some horrible things—jokes that I would never repeat—but humor is our way of coping. One day, he told me, “Kid, you either laugh or cry.” That about sums up the seven years and two months that I’ve served the President as his White House Chief of Staff, and, more importantly, as his friend. Fortunately, I’ve chosen to laugh more than I’ve cried. I consider that a huge success.

No one has been in the trenches with me like Evan has. We share a history that can never be explained.

Who am I going to talk to when I’m alone in Texas or living in a cottage in some pretentious college town, debating the merits of a monarchy system of rule?

I put my hands on my hips and give him my sassiest look. “I’m not telling you goodbye. I’m going to be on your ass every day after I watch the daily press briefing. Let’s be clear—the yahoo might be taking over my office, but I’m still the White House Chief of Staff. Rachael Early is irreplaceable.”

He leans down as if he is going to share a big, juicy secret with me. “I know, Rach. Trust me. We all do.” Evan grasps my shoulders and gets in my face as if I’m a prize fighter, and he’s giving me a pep talk. His eyes shine with mirth when he says, “All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other, smile pretty for the multiple cameras that will be capturing your every move, and look like this is the best decision you’ve ever made instead of your funeral.”

I quip, “I know how to put the fun in funeral.”

Maggie, my assistant for more years than I care to think about, cracks my office door open and says, “The President is on his way down.”

I exhale and run my hands over the sides of my hair to make sure that my knot is still smooth at the nape of my neck. Maggie smiles as her eyes fill with tears.

Evan slips wordlessly past us and out the door giving Maggie and I are moment to say goodbye.

“Maggie, I’d cry too if I had to work for Michael.” She laughs at my joke about her new boss. Everyone hates Michael. I bet even his own mother thinks that he’s a douche, but he’s been the assistant White House Chief of Staff under me for the past seven years, so it only makes sense that this office becomes his.

Maggie places one hand on her hip and says, “You know he’s never once commented on how cute my kitties are.” Framed pictures of her cats decorate her desk, and every day she shares one “funny” store about them. She’s a little odd, but she’s loyal, hardworking, talks a mile a minute, and makes inappropriate comments when it’s just her, Evan and me. Oh! And her coffee is so good that it could make a grown man weep.
God, after I have this baby maybe I could convince her to brew me a pot.

I walk to her and give her a kiss on the cheek and a big hug. “You’re the best, Mags. I’ll stop by next time I’m in D.C.”

She whispers in my ear, “Send me pics of the baby.”

I look at her with my mouth hanging open and my eyes wide.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. I heard you sick in your office, and you’ve quit drinking my coffee. I hope the father is the guy who sent those horrible red, white, and blue flowers.”

Okay. That makes me smile. Graham’s patriotic floral display was just the right amount of gaudy, hideous and perfection rolled into one gigantic demonstration of American pride.

Is my pregnancy the worst-kept secret in Washington? I’m beginning to think so.

“This is bullshit, Graham,” Max says as he pushes his chair back from the dining room table in his hotel suite. It tumbles over with a surprisingly loud thud. It’s early in the morning—like so early that in our college days this would still be considered nighttime. The window curtains are open behind him, highlighting the pre-dawn sky.

Max’s bright red hair has gotten more over-the-top since we began our Sons of Liberty tour. Our manager forced us to meet with a stylist who created “looks” for each of us. It’s very boy band circa 1997. Jake is the California surfer meets thrift shop T-shirts. Here’s a guy who grew up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and went to the most expensive boarding schools on the continent who is dressed like a Venice Beach bum. I’m the all-American schoolboy with perfectly gelled hair, turned up collars, and loafers. If you ask me, I think I look like the preppy asshole in all teenager angst movies.

As for Max? The poor stylist. I’m sure that she’s still suffering from nightmares. She helped Max embrace his Maxness. His hair is bigger and brighter. His shirts look as if they could hang in a modern art museum, and Max is reveling in our newfound fame.

“It’s bullshit because I need to get my fucked up personal life figured out? Really, Max?” My voice is calm—cool. The white of my knuckles gripping the edge of the table are the only indication that I’m anything but.

Max runs his hand through his curls, making them stand straight up. With the pre-dawn grey light seeping through the windows, he almost appears angelic, as if God has Bozo the clown angels. He presses his back against the hotel window. “No, it’s bullshit because you started the Sons of Liberty. This is your baby, and you’re pissing away the biggest opportunity of our lives for a girl you dated for two weeks. YOU. DON’T. KNOW. HER.” He steps forward, leaning on the table, and pronounces each word as if I don’t speak English or am hard of hearing. My grip tightens, preventing me from beating the shit out of him.

He continues, “I get that she has some sort of vice grip on your dick, but let’s be honest, man. You don’t even know if you’re the father. You were not together when she mysteriously wound up knocked up. And be real. She’s not nineteen. She’s like almost forty and supposedly got pregnant when she told you she was on birth control. She knows where babies come from. Sounds a bit suspicious to me.”