Read The World: According to Graham Online
Authors: Layne Harper
Max is right. I release the table and fall back against the hard wood chair. It’s this argument that keeps me up at night, that makes my chest tight and that has made a bottle of bourbon my best friend. The timing of her news could not have been any worse. I had quit/been asked to resign my coaching and teaching position at the private college prep school that I was working at when we revealed our identities. Even though I knew it was coming, it was damn hard to say goodbye to the students and sport that I loved. However, the media attention was too great of a distraction. As our agent says, we’re on fire. Every media outlet wants a piece of us. The Sons of Liberty have done what the original Sons of Liberty did two hundred and fifty years ago. We’ve incited real change in this country.
We’ve brought politics to the people who didn’t give a damn who was in office before they began listening to our radio show. We’ve shown our age demographic that you don’t have to be old, rich, with grey hair to make a difference. It’s the most thrilling experience of my life.
Unfortunately, my brainchild also stopped the most promising and real relationship I’ve had in its tracks. Rachael does not approve, and refuses to be associated with me because of the tactics that the Sons of Liberty use to reach males under the age of thirty-five. We use shock-jock humor. I’ll admit some of our topics are crude, disgusting, and degrading to women. She can’t see the greater good approach to what we’re doing.
We broke up two weeks after we began dating. Fourteen days is a ridiculously short time to know someone. I slept with her three times after we ended things. She’s pregnant. We weren’t even texting each other, and she managed to get pregnant. She’s told me that the baby is mine. Although, I didn’t need to hear those words exit her mouth. The baby was mine as soon as she said, “I’m pregnant.” But I get why Max and Jake are so pissed. They don’t understand the connection that Rachael and I have. Max has been with Marissa since early college and doesn’t remember what it’s like to fall in love, and Jake probably doesn’t fuck the same girl twice. They don’t get the attraction—the connection that we share.
I turn to Jake and try to plead my case. “I’m not going to miss a single tour date. I’m just going to skip out on the public appearances and sponsor dinners during the week. I’ll leave on Sunday after the show and be back on Thursday, but I’ll be there for every radio show. We’ll just record from different time zones.”
As Jake shakes his head, his floppy blond hair falls in his eyes, reminding me of a shaggy dog from old cartoons. His voice is soft, regretful. “Sorry, man. I agree with Max. This is bullshit. She doesn’t have a job any longer. You want to make this work with her, she can join us instead of you running to her.” He pauses for a second, looking away from both Max and me. “Don’t forget that this tour isn’t making money yet. If anything, it’s hemorrhaging. We’ve only done three live shows. We’re still working out all the tour kinks. Now isn’t the time to go play house with your baby mama.”
My best friends, my fraternity brothers, my business partners think that this is the biggest mistake of my life. Why am I still considering doing this?
And I know. The answer has been clear to me since the day that we sat in a Cracker Barrel restaurant and she gave me the news. She said “yes.” She confirmed that whatever feelings I have for her, she feels the same about me. How can I not do whatever it takes to make this work?
“Hopefully, it will only be for a couple of weeks,” I quip. “I mean look what happened the last time we were together for fourteen days.”
No one laughs. Max rights his chair and sits back down at the table. Neither guy will make eye contact with me, and for some reason that hurts more than their lack of support.
I sigh and drop my head. My heart is being pulled in two directions. My career needs me more than ever. We’re still trying to find our on stage mojo, and we’re losing money with every show, but that’s why we’ve hired a manager. Hopefully, he can do a better job of managing the crew than I’ve been doing. The Sons of Liberty are on the brink of greatness. And the woman that I love is growing our child. I don’t want to miss out on a single moment of it—of any of it.
“It’s just for a couple of weeks.” I don’t recognize my own voice. I’ve never sounded so defeated. The stakes are high. I’m betting everything that I can keep the Sons of Liberty going and convince Rachael to join me on tour.
“You’re not getting my blessing,” Max states as if he’s declaring war on Russia. “I will not lie for you or make apologies.” Then he pulls the dagger out of his pocket and shoves it into my heart. “Just remember that I actually have a wife and kid also. Their future, my family’s future, trumps your piece of pussy.”
“Don’t call her that,” I growl as I fly to my feet, ready to beat the shit out of Max. I become feverishly hot and blood pounds so loudly in my ears that I can’t hear anything other than my own rage.
Max jumps to his feet also, not even coming close to matching my height. The wooden four-inch thick by three-foot wide tabletop is keeping the two of us separated, but it won’t for much longer if he talks about her again. “Fuck you, Jackson. I hope she’s worth it,” he says gesturing wildly around the room.
Jake stands up and walks out of the hotel suite without acknowledging either one of us. The door slams loudly behind him. Tension crackles the air. Max isn’t backing down and neither am I. This might be a huge mistake, but I’ll be damned if I let Max talk about the mother of my child that way.
He glares at me. His green eyes blaze with fury. I don’t need his blessing to leave the tour, but I sure as shit would like his support. Fist fighting with Max is not something that I want to do, but I have to prove to him just what she means to me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, giving me the perfect opportunity to look away and break the tense situation. As I fish for my cell, Max walks briskly away from the table and into the bedroom in the suite, slamming the door behind him.
At this early hour, I wouldn’t be surprised if security doesn’t show up with all the slammed doors and the knocked over chair.
The phone buzzes again. I know it’s her. It’s about the time she should be calling, madder than a swarm of hornets. I take a deep breath and exhale before I answer, preparing myself for the wrath of Hurricane Rachael, mentally reviewing the notes that I’ve made for this call. Rachael’s reputation is not lost on me. For hand-to-hand combat with her, I have to be prepared.
“Hello,” I answer, trying to sound as if I haven’t been expecting this phone call.
“Hi,” Rachael says with enough venom that I almost laugh. Did she just overhear my conversation with the guys? I look around suspiciously as I exit Max’s suite, without slamming a door, I might add, and head back to my hotel room.
“Are you okay? The baby?” I pretend to not know why she’s calling. I’m not making this easy on her.
“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 slide my keycard into the lock on the door and enter my dreary, generic room. It’s a nice enough space, with a large bed, swirl-patterned maroon carpet, and modern artwork hanging on the walls. I slip under the sheets and pull the duvet up as if it can shield me from her fury.
“Were you asleep? How can you have texted me and be asleep?”
I laugh, knowing that I’m adding fuel to her fire. I think I derive some sort of sick pleasure out of poking her with a stick. “Oh. I didn’t text you. Veronica did.”
“Who’s Veronica?” she demands.
“She’s my assistant.” I glance at the hotel room clock that is exactly one hour and ten minutes incorrect. I never bothered correcting it. Realizing my clothes aren’t going to pack themselves, I walk to the closet, pulling my pants from the hangers and tossing them into my suitcase.
“So Veronica is your assistant who has access to your hotel room where I am assuming your phone is while you’re sleeping.”
“You make it sound so dirty.” I don’t mention that Veronica had joined us for our very early meeting this morning and used my phone to text Rachael the reminder. Maybe she’ll focus on Veronica and forget that I hijacked her things, but I know there’s not a prayer of that happening.
“Why is Rita, my moving coordinator, 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 muster the cockiest voice I can and reply, “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?” She’s caustic in how she delivers that line. I imagine her forehead pulled into a deep
V
and her hand resting on her slight hip.
“There’s been a change of plans,” I state evenly, my voice not betraying the rush of blood through my body.
“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. 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.”
Yes. She’s furious, but I detect something in her voice. Hope? A small degree of happiness? Does Rachael like that I’m taking control just like she wants me to do in the bedroom?
Change of tactics . . . “Look, Rach. I may not have handled things well lately, but please just trust me. Have your stuff go to my place. Veronica overnighted Rita the key. We’ll talk about it tonight.” I’m off-script, but I think this is good. “Please,” I add.
She sighs loudly, and I imagine her rolling her eyes. “Fine.”
That’s it? She gave in that easily. This is what she wanted. Rachael has been wanting me to prove to her how much this relationship means to me. Okay.
I’ve got this.
“Have a great last day of work. I’m so proud of you.” She’s agreed to part of my plan. I mentally high-five myself. Take the victory and move on.
Then, she breaks my heart. My tough-as-nails ball-breaker gets choked up. “Thanks. I needed to hear that this morning.”
My jaw relaxes and my shoulders fall back to their natural position. And I smile. I don’t know the last time that I’ve legitimately smiled. “Knock ’em dead, kid. I’ll see you in a little while.”
“Have a safe trip,” she wishes me, barely above a whisper.
Then I break all my rules and tell her “Love you, Rachael” and hit end on the call. My heart can’t take any form of rejection right now, so I don’t wait for a response.
I spend the next thirty minutes analyzing every word spoken. If I don’t stop this cycle, I’ll go crazy so I throw on my workout clothes and hit the gym in the hotel. In the middle of my run, it dawns on me that I’m feeling something I haven’t felt for a long time. In fact, it’s been four months since I experienced this emotion. It’s happiness. A smile spreads across my lips, and I increase the speed on the treadmill.
Maybe my plan does have a snowball’s chance in hell.
Since the last time Rachael and I had sex and then she rejected me, I’ve been so angry. I was the happy-go-lucky, easygoing guy before I met her. I had casual relationships—I certainly didn’t fall in love. She was and is my game-changer. Now, we’re bringing a new game-changer into this world. That doesn’t seem so daunting right now.
Everyone is mad at me. The guys think I’m making an epic mistake, but I know that I’ve got to give us a chance. Two weeks . . . I just need two weeks to make her see our future my way.
My ceremonial walk down the staff-lined hall was hideous. I felt like a float during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Everyone clapped and smiled, which was the opposite of my emotions. The world thought I was leaving for a glorious new job opportunity in the private sector. Not a total lie. I am leaving the White House to take on an exciting new career—one of dirty diapers, sore breasts, stretch marks, and sleepless nights. Geez . . . this is so hard.
Burying myself deeper into my favorite chair in the President’s private office, I’m so glad that I did my walk for history’s sake and then changed into cashmere lounging pants and a hoodie. My baby bump is quite thankful that the control-top pantyhose are now a thing of the past.
“One more minute, Rach . . .” the President says.
“Take your time,” I reply as I pull out my smart phone. I’ve mastered
Angry Birds
and have moved on to
Candy Crush
.
As I slide my phone to on, I notice that I missed a text from Graham, or Veronica, or whomever else has access to his phone at the moment. “Flight delayed. I’ll text when I know more.”
I reply back, “No problem. I’ll be here a bit longer.”
I don’t expect a response, so I close my messaging app and open my email. Just as my mail is loading, his text fills my screen.
Graham:
Reason #1112 that MMA is better than boxing: Matches are frequent enough that fans get to know the fighters.
That’s it. That’s all there is. I actually open the text up to see if maybe the rest of his message was cut off my screen. Graham and I have barely spoken since I told him about the baby. After me essentially admitting that I would have wanted a future with him even if I wasn’t pregnant, he shut down. Instead of us going back to his home to discuss our next steps, he dropped me off at my townhome repeating his excuse of “I just need time and space to think.”
I thought this morning we were back in a good place. He told me he loved me before he hung up.
Those words lit up my heart.
Unfortunately, they also were like a lit match in a pitch-black room. I’ve spent the time since I told Graham about the baby preparing myself to raise this child alone. Hearing that he still loves me has given me hope that he might come around to the idea of us trying to co-parent this baby.