The World: According to Graham (9 page)

“What’s with the glasses?”

Her question takes me aback. I’ve worn contacts since I completed law school. Has she never seen me in glasses? As I fill the red tumbler with water, I think back to the mornings that I’ve shared with Rachael. Yeah. It’s true. I always slept in my contacts.

“Wear them every morning until I put my contacts in.” I set the glass down in front of her and walk to the double doors to let George in. “Thanks for putting George out.”

“He wasn’t taking no for an answer. Whoever has been caring for him has spoiled him rotten.” She sounds better. Her voice is stronger and there’s a hint of humor, maybe even fondness, when she talks about George. That’s good, because he’s not going back to the kennel that he’s lived at while I have been gone.

George almost knocks me over when he comes barreling into the house. I kneel in front of him, rubbing his ears and stroking his back. I was worried that he would have forgotten who I was, but after his reaction last night and this morning, there’s no doubt that George and I are still buddies.

“You two are very cute together. He was happy to see me last night. I had to inform your assistant”—there’s the Rachael that I know and love. Venom laces the word “assistant.” Apparently, she wasn’t pleased that it was my assistant who texted her from my phone yesterday morning. Good. I like a little bit of jealousy. Makes me happy that she gives a damn—“that George is an inside dog and does not appreciate being kept outside at night.”

“Thank goodness Rachael was here to save you, big boy,” I coo.

“Veronica didn’t realize who I was and called me your cougar.”

I can’t tell from her tone or body language if the fact that she’s seven years older than me bothers her. I’ve joked about it, and she teased back. It’s not a big deal to me. I can’t imagine why she would care. However, I bet that she wasn’t too pleased to be called a cougar by my young assistant.

I will have a talk with Veronica though. She’s twenty-five, and was hired by the Sons of Liberty manager for her ASSets and not her PA skills. I’m sure she was supposed to be a distraction from Rachael, because Jake’s assistant is post-menopausal age and acts like his mother. Max’s assistant is male because Marissa did the hiring.

Standing up, I walk to the kitchen to get my coffee and breakfast for George. The conversation that the two of us need to have is sitting like a rock in my stomach. The cavemen really had the right idea. I’m bigger than she is. Why shouldn’t I just be able to throw her over my shoulder and make her see that this is the only chance that we have?

George’s food makes a loud pinging noise as the hard chunks hit the stainless steel. After I set the bowl down in front of him and give him his command to eat, I pick my mug up and take a gulp.
I can do this.

Ready . . . .

One . . .

Two . . .

Three . . .

Her phone rings from somewhere in the house. She jumps to her feet and races out of the kitchen as if this is the most important call ever. As she exits the living room, I catch a glimpse of what she’s wearing and a groan escapes my throat. I stare at the ceiling, as if hoping for divine inspiration to keep my hands to myself. She has on just about the sexiest thing that a woman can sleep in besides nothing at all. It’s my cornflower blue dress shirt from law school.

I haven’t worn it in years. In fact, I didn’t realize that I still had it. It must have been shoved towards the back of my closet. I guess she was looking for something to sleep in and pulled a shirt that she didn’t think I cared about. I didn’t give a damn about that shirt until I just saw her in it, but now it’s my favorite. It hits her just above the knees, with the slits on the side revealing her muscular thighs. My dick remembers what it felt like to have those legs wrapped around my waist, and I groan again.

Her hair swishes along her middle back as she turns the corner and I have to stop myself from following her. If having mind-blowing orgasms built a relationship, then Rachael and I would be destined to be some romantic movie success story.

I’m still standing in the same spot, lost in my vivid thoughts of this woman that has taken my brain hostage, when she dances into the living room with the phone pressed against her shoulder while she’s attempting to slide on yoga pants.

“I’m still in D.C. I can be there in fifteen minutes,” she says to whomever is on the other end of the phone.

“Change of plans . . . It doesn’t matter . . . Sure. I’m leaving . . .”

She’s leaving. Did she just say that she’s leaving me? We’ve only shared the same oxygen for about ten minutes. She’s not going anywhere.

Before I can stop myself, I’ve snatched the phone out of her hand and ended her call. “Now . . .” She finishes as if she had to say that last word in the sentence.

I hold the phone high over my head and give it a jiggle, anticipating the wildfire that I just ignited.

“What do you think that you’re doing?” she demands, standing in front of me in my shirt with her yoga pant leg only pulled up to the knee on one leg. Her face is flushed with anger and her eyes are slits. A little
V
forms between them.

Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness, I get a nudge that this maybe wasn’t the best idea that I’ve ever had. Quickly, I dismiss it. I started this war so I might as well win it.

I smirk. “Saving me the time and energy of explaining that you’re not going to work. Yesterday was your last day. Today you are unemployed.”

“Don’t remind me.” She taps her foot against the tile, not bothering to reach for her phone.

She begins her speech with “she may not be paid by the White House any longer, but she will always take the White House phone calls” and ends it with something about national security and me being an asshole.

All I hear is the teacher from the Charlie Brown cartoons.

In the middle of her tirade, I turn around and walk back into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. Apparently, this was not the best move either because she follows behind me, continuing her speech, only now it’s about how I don’t listen to her.

Whatever.

I continue to ignore her while I casually fill my mug. She’s drawing closer to my back. I know this because she’s getting louder, lecturing me on how I don’t have the right to dictate something or another, when I’ve finally had enough.

I spin around quickly and grab her under her arms, lifting her off the ground. She screeches like a hyena, demanding that I put her down. Her face is pink and hair flying as she balls up her fists, attempting to hit me. I dodge her punches and raise her up, placing her on top of my refrigerator. I note that during some part of her fit, she’d removed the yoga pants and is back only in my shirt. Works for me.

“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing, Graham Jackson? Get me down from here,” she demands. She’s looks just like Tinker Bell when she’s mad: rosy red cheeks, brows drawn together, lips thin as slits
,
arms crossed over her chest. Even when she’s furious she’s gorgeous. Her alabaster-toned legs cross at the ankle and contrast beautifully against my black refrigerator. Stepping back, I admire just how fuckably luscious she is when she’s making bodily threats against me.

Turning around, I walk to my coffee mug, attempting to camouflage the smile that is cracking my cheeks. A thought crosses my mind that makes me have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
How much money could I make by selling tickets to see the great Rachael Early helpless on top of a refrigerator? Millions. I could make millions.

Leaning against the counter, I take my first sip of coffee and face the wrath of my pissed-off Tinker Bell.

“Quit smiling,” she seethes. “None of this is funny. The White House needs me and I’m stuck up”—she gestures wildly at her perch—“up here.”

“So you are,” I reply as I take another sip, smirking at how damn cute she looks.

Her arms unfold and she lets out a
hmmmph
.

This is a Mexican standoff, except that I’m winning. She’s pregnant, and if she’s anything like my sister was, she’ll eventually have to use the restroom, and she can’t get down without my help.

Her phone is still in my hand. I place it dramatically on the counter, as if I’m presenting a precious jewel. A little part of my brain says that I should turn it into a puppet and make it do a hilarious dance, but then I think better of that plan. No need to poke the bear.

I take my time finishing my cup and rinse it in the sink before placing it on the drying rack. As I turn back around and walk towards the coffee pot to unplug it, I freeze. The wine glass is washed and resting on my drying rack.
What the fuck?

“I told her that this was off-limits.” The first time I met Veronica and we discussed her job duties, I showed her the wine glass on the coffee table. I made it perfectly clear that it was not to be touched. Now it’s resting in my drying rack with all hints of the red lipstick removed. I’m going to fire her. There wasn’t much I actually asked of her. The damn wine glass was important.

“I washed that,” Rachael states. She must have caught me examining it. “It had been sitting there a while. I couldn’t rinse the red wine stain from the bottom.” She doesn’t realize that during some lonely, shitty nights, that wine glass—her wine glass—was the physical proof that I needed to remind me that whatever we had was real.

“It has been sitting there a while,” I reply tightly while I examine the glass, holding it up to the light, realizing that it can’t be unwashed. It’s clean. What’s done is done. Maybe this is a metaphor for our relationship. I turn and meet her eyes. “Exactly four months.”

Yes. This is my sign to let the past go and focus on our future together. I have to forgive Rachael for the hurt that she’s caused, and she has to forgive me for demanding her to embrace our relationship publicly and for needing time and space. The washing of the wine glass from her one and only visit to my home is a baptismal of sorts—a cleansing of our sins.

I place the wine glass near the sink and make a note to pack it in the travel trailer.

“You might try baking soda. I’ve heard that it takes out stains like that.”

I lean forward, gripping the edge of the counter, and my back and shoulders tense painfully. I don’t know why I’m so angry. It’s not her fault she washed the glass. I guess I just want her to acknowledge that the wine glass was important. I want her to get it—maybe to see that she hurt me deeply also.

“That was your wine glass.”

“What?” she asks, raising her left cheek and giving me a look as if I’ve lost my marbles.

“That was your wine glass,” I state more clearly.

“No it wasn’t,” she says, rolling her eyes while her feet kick back and forth against the refrigerator door. “It was Veronica’s. After she called me a cougar, I decided that any trace of her annoyance had to be wiped out. Besides, Graham, you should really do a better job at cleaning. It was kind of gross. And while we’re on the subject, she is an issue for . . .” She trails off.

I’ve never in my life wanted to simultaneously kill and fuck someone at the same time. I grit my teeth and stalk toward the refrigerator where she looks so damn sexy, helplessly trapped on her perch. “That was your goddamn wine glass that you drank out of when you came over here the only other time you’ve been to my house, you annoying woman.”

“Then you really should have washed it sooner. My point is made. And by the way, keeping a wine glass with my lipstick on it is a bit creepy don’t you think?” She huffs and tightens her arms across her chest.

Her comment makes me want to throttle her. “Do you know how many nights that I stared at that glass? Do you have a clue how many times that I ran my finger over those red lip prints, wishing that I had the real thing? Damn, Rachael. Did you ever once consider how much I was hurting, or were you too selfish to think of me? Was this about you? Has this always been just about you?” I pause and turn away from her, not wanting to see the hurt look on her face. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

I’ve never been a big fan of silence, so I decide to change the subject. “I didn’t know that you had morning sickness.”

“Well, if you had talked to me recently, I would have told you. Instead you needed your time and space.” God, the mocking way she says “time and space” makes me want to spank her ass until its bright pink and then fuck her until she can’t walk.

I grab a bar stool and sit down so I’m facing her, but far enough away that she realizes that I’m not letting her down until we chat. “I’ve texted or called every single day to ask how you are and you reply ‘fine.’ Were you lying to me?”

Her eyes squint. “No. I wasn’t lying to you, asshole. I just didn’t feel like discussing the intricacies of the changes happening to my body with the guy who needed ‘space and time to think,’” she says, making the stupid quotation marks with her fingers which I absolutely hate.

“Intricacies,” I repeat, as I think about what she said. I get it. The news that she was pregnant was shocking. I maybe didn’t handle it as well as I should have. The reality is that I haven’t handled anything having to do with our relationship well. Unfortunately, I can’t change history, but I can move us forward.

Now is as good of a time as any. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Really, Graham? You want to talk to me now? Get me off the refrigerator and then we can chat.”

“No.”

“No. No. What do you mean no? You can’t hold me against my will!” she points out like I’m an idiot.

“Oh, but I can.” I smirk. “I’m bigger than you are.”

I hate him so much right now that I could claw his eyes out. Bastard! How dare he? Who does he think he is? On top of a refrigerator? Really? Can this be any more sexist? It’s like a bad
I Love Lucy
episode. I should have known that the guy who could found the Sons of Liberty and talk about such sexist trash on the radio would be the one to put a woman on top of a refrigerator. I hope he meets an untimely demise by getting stomped to death by women wearing spiked high-heeled shoes. And unfortunately for me, this Neanderthal is my baby’s daddy.