The World: According to Graham (14 page)

“I’m going to need to stop and use the restroom.” I don’t really, but this truck is feeling claustrophobic.

“I’ll pull over at the next gas station that we come to.”

“Thank you.” My voice sounds meek, and my fingernails bite into the small flesh of my palm in disgust at myself for being so weak. Why don’t I put him in his place like I would with the rest of the world? He makes me—what’s the word for it? Oh yeah. Reasonable.

“Anyway,” he continues with the conversation that we should have had the day that I shared the pregnancy news, “I asked you to be a part of the announcement. I begged you that night to be my side. Do you remember that night, Rachael?”

He pauses, waiting for me to respond. I was hoping that it was a rhetorical question. I remember that night very well, I just don’t care to discuss it. It’s not something that I’m particularly fond of and definitely will not be a story we share with our child.

“You were waiting for me on my stoop when I arrived home from the White House. I was wearing a yellow suit. I’d chosen it because I woke up that morning and could barely get out of bed because I was so discontent with my life. I missed you. I was tired of feeling loss. I thought to myself that yellow would make me feel better. It didn’t. I worked that day like a mad woman. Poor Maggie. She was my tornado sidekick.”

My mind gets lost in that evening. The whole day I had a feeling that I was on the brink of a tipping point—something had to change. I was mourning a relationship that in the span of normal physical time didn’t make sense that I should still feel such attachment. Two weeks. Just fourteen measly days. That shouldn’t translate to the tremendous amount of absence I was feeling. However, this is what I’ve come to learn about love. It doesn’t follow Einstein’s rules of the universe. It doesn’t march across a linear plane of time. No. Love is otherworldly. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t believe in rules and timelines and logical next steps. My brain kept reasoning with my heart that we couldn’t feel this strongly about Graham Jackson, the guy who I only dated for two weeks, but what I’ve come to learn about my heart is that it just doesn’t listen to reason.

Graham picks up our story where I left off. He’s distant. I glance at him and see that he’s looking at the road ahead, but his eyes are glossy, as if he’s viewing the past—ten weeks ago on a brutally cold Wednesday night. “I was dressed in my lacrosse sweatshirt and track pants. Practice that day was for shit. It was like the entire team suffered from a brain-eating parasite that erased their stick-handling skills,” he says this so wistfully that it contradicts the nature of the conversation. “After practice, I took George on a long run. My mind was all over the place. Chaotic. I couldn’t concentrate on anything and everything at once. Make sense?” He pauses and waits for me to nod.

“My team was a mess, and I knew I was about to quit on them. My personal life was shit. I finished my run at a breakneck pace, came home and ran my finger over the rim of your wine glass, remembering what your sweet lips tasted like just to torture myself a bit more.”

I keep my face neutral and pretend that his confession about our similar mental states doesn’t faze me. It does. Until this moment, I didn’t know what had prompted him to show up on my stoop that evening. Since we’d stopped seeing each other, I’d listened to every one of the Sons of Liberty shows, hoping for a sign that he was as miserable as I was. His voice was strong, locker-room humor intact, and I was still referred to as Tinker Bell frequently. Professionally, he never betrayed our connection to his listeners.

In a way, this made our breakup worse. I guess there is that girly part of me, which has watched too many romance movies, that was hoping that he would send me some sort of message only intended for me. I’d hear it, and we would declare our love for each other and find a way to make it work. I guess that we did in a way. . . It was just in the form of a new life.

“I was waiting for you when you got home,” he finishes.

“You were sitting on my stoop, and I asked Lou to not do a house security sweep. He wasn’t thrilled, but he obliged.” I fill in the blank, pleased that this is a memory that we can share even if it’s a hard trip down memory lane. I had felt guilty when Graham told me about my life-changing trip to campaign headquarters when he was working there between college and law school. He said that my speech inspired the Sons of Liberty. For me, it was just another day on my calendar, nothing special.

“The moment I saw you stepping out of the back of the black town car I knew that you were mine. Not in some metaphorical sense, but that you belonged with me, by my side.”

Turning towards him, I try to read his body language. His eyes are fixed on the road and his jaw is set in a rigid line, which is a contradiction to his hunched shoulders making him look like an old man. I think he’s as gutted by the rehashing of this night as I am. “We made love . . .” His voice trails off.

I pick up where he stopped. “It was so much more than just making love. At least that’s what I felt.”

“Really?” he asks, cocking his eyebrow and turning for the first time to look at me. “You felt it also?”

I nod. “You . . . ummm . . . you . . .”

“I what?” His smirk is cocky, and I swear the temperature in the car rises ten degrees. I lean forward to adjust the air vents.

Sticking my chin out, I reply, “You dominated me.” And boy, did he.

Glancing at his lap, I see the denim is straining to contain his erection. I lick my lips, longing to reach over and unzip his pants, freeing what I so desire from its tight constraints. My mouth fills with too much saliva at the thought of tasting his beautiful cock. I want to suck him until he grabs my hair tugging it with desire, see his eyes rolling back in his head as I get a rare opportunity to top him.
But he will not let me touch him,
I remind myself. We’re stuck in his self-imposed purgatory.

“Had you ever played with zip-ties before?” His eyes are hooded and his voice is raspy.

I swallow the extra liquid and reply, “No, Graham. Only you. You’re the only lover that I’ve ever trusted to tie me up.”

His eyes close briefly, and then he slaps the dash so hard that it startles me, and I jump. “I wanted to fuck some sense in to you. I wanted to show you what our life could be like if you would just publicly support me.” He takes a hand off of the wheel and runs it through his dark hair. “I wanted you by my side.”

My head falls with shame. If I could go back in time, I would have agreed to Graham’s plan that he had formulated for us to have an open, public relationship. He outlined the fine details for me while my arms were fastened to my headboard and my feet spread.

“Why did you deny us again, Rachael? How could you, after everything that I told you? I bared my soul to you, and you still were able to say that nothing had changed.”

I shake my head back and forth. His words cut me to the quick. I hate this. I hate myself for not being braver and bolder. I hate that it took getting pregnant to make me see how foolish I was being.

“Graham, I could spend the next twenty-four hours giving you reasons why I made that choice that night. I could throw out catch phrases like ‘valuing my privacy.’ But after many sleepless nights, what I’ve come to realize is that I’m terrified of this.” I motion back and forth between us. “I’ve never felt this. And even though you’ve told me over and over again that you love me and feel the same way about me, I guess there’s a part of me that doesn’t feel worthy of it.”

I pause for a moment and then decide to forge ahead with a dark confession about me that I had discovered through our difficult breakup. “Look. Only Caroline really knows the depth of this.” Then I backtrack. “This is not a pity story or an excuse. I believe that at some point you have to take ownership of your character flaws and can’t blame them on others. But I do think that you need to understand something about me. My family is not like yours.”

We whiz past a truck stop on the right-hand side of the road. “Don’t forget I need to use the restroom.” Now, I actually do.

“You’re finally opening up to me. We aren’t stopping.” It’s the dominant voice that he uses in the bedroom that my body instantly obeys. “Continue.” He motions.

Shifting in my seat, my hands ball into fists and I push them against my thighs. I hate talking about my past. I’ve been out of my childhood home longer than I lived there. I’ve accomplished so much. Reliving it reminds me of just how cold they were, and it’s not a pleasant trip down memory lane. “My parents are ophthalmologists. They pioneered a new surgical technique for correcting vision issues. This was back when I was little. They were never home. I mean, we had a nice house, and I never wanted for material things, but they were never available. It was my nanny who attended my school open houses and hosted my birthday parties. My nanny taught me how to drive, helped me buy my first bra, and pick out a prom dress.”

I went to high school with Graham’s sister. I remember how his mom volunteered in the school library and how envious I was of her family support. “Unfortunately, my parents didn’t even keep the same nanny for long periods of time, so I never bothered to bond with any of them because they were gone too quickly.

“Let me put it this way. When I was hired as the White House Chief of Staff, I called Caroline and Colin, and then I told my parents eventually a week later. They still don’t know that I’m pregnant. In the seven years that I worked in the White House, my parents didn’t visit one time. There’s not a doubt in my mind that they love me. They are just too consumed with their careers, with each other and their life, to be parents.”

Graham’s features soften, but when he takes his eyes off the road to look at me they aren’t filled with pity. Fortunately for me, they are filled with understanding. My fists loosen in relief. “So you think that because I was going public as one of the Sons of Liberty that I wouldn’t have time for you anymore?” He gestures behind us. “Does that prove to you that I will always be here for you and the baby? Does my phone being turned off and me giving you this time prove how much I want you?”

I bite my lip and nod, trying my damnedest to keep the tears at bay.

“So was all that about ‘not wanting to associate with me publicly because it might reflect poorly on the White House’ bullshit?” he asks in a hushed tone.

My heart clenches at his words, and I shake my head. “No. That’s still a concern of mine.” I swallow and continue. “Look. I have a lot of concerns. What it boils down to is that I’m terrified of this.” It’s like current of energy seem to flow between us. “I’m terrified that I don’t have a purpose right—”

“Stop it.” He cuts me off. I dart my eyes towards him, admiring his rigid body. He’s serious, focused on this conversation, and my heart swells with love and admiration for this man. “Oh, you have a purpose. Never let me hear you say again that you don’t have a purpose, because that just pisses me off. Your purpose right now is to grow our child. Your purpose is to let me worry about the effect of our relationship on the White House, and how to keep you safe. It’s now my job to make sure that you feel loved and wanted, and let you know how much I want to be your future.”

No one has ever said they would take care of me. Not my parents when I was a child. Not President Jones. No one. I learned at a very young age to be self-sufficient—to take care of myself. I depend on no one—a one-man island.

There’s the girly side of me that longs for his words to be true. I would like to have my only concern be growing our baby, but I’m a skeptic. Don’t tell me, show me through actions. Yes. This grand gesture with The Cougar and taking time from the tour is showing, but will this last? I’m frankly terrified of trusting anyone to take care of me, especially the man who needed time and space when I told him the news.

“I see a rest-stop sign up ahead. Please pull over.” My voice quivers, and I look at my hands resting on my knees. They’re shaking. Crossing my arms over my chest, it’s clear I need distance from Graham. The cab of this truck is too tight. My body aches for him to punctuate his sentiments with action, to bend me over the couch like he did at the White House Christmas party, to pin me to the wall like he did in the hotel, or to tie me up again. Something. Anything to make these feelings go away.

“Ready to stop for the night?”

“Yes,” I reply too loudly. I’ll do anything right now to make these feelings go away. They make it hard to be Agreeable Rachael.

“How’s it going?” Max asks when I finally turn my phone on after I have “The Cougar,” the only thing that Rachael will call the travel trailer, set-up. It makes me grin every time she says it. She’s in the kitchen microwaving something for dinner while I’m headed to the closest grocery store for some fresh fruit and vegetables.

“It’s going.” Max and I are ready to beat the shit out of each other one minute and best friends the next. I guess the shunning of me is over, because he took my call. Thank God our friendship works like this, because I need his advice. “I think that I may have scared the shit out of her.”

“That’s great. Should we expect you sooner?” His voice is biting in a teasing way. “How long will it take to fix this fuck-up?”

“Look, I need advice. If you can’t help me, then put Marissa on the phone.” I pull into a small grocery store in Blacksburg, Virginia. It’s the closest large town to the campgrounds where we are staying the night.

“I’m listening. No need to involve Marissa in your crotch problems.”

Marissa yells from somewhere in the distance, “Call me anytime.”

My chest unclenches just a bit knowing that they still have my back. “So in less than twenty-four hours of us being together, I told her that I loved her and essentially asked her to marry me.”

“What?” he screams so loudly that I pull the phone from my ear, giving my lobe a rub.

“I mean I didn’t ask her. I just defined our new jobs. Hers is to take care of herself and my baby. Mine is to worry about everything else.” I decide to hang out in the truck until this phone call has ended. No need to have the conversation recounted on TMZ by someone trying to make a quick buck.