The World: According to Rachael (14 page)

Are you sure that you want to attend this thing tomorrow? You’re going to be photographed, and it will be in the papers. There’s no going back …

Fortunately, he replies quickly, before I question whether or not I should have sent the text.

Graham:
Reason #399 that MMA is better than boxing: A ref stopping the match is a good thing. Cuts vs. concussions. MMA has scoreboard.

Don’t back out on me now. I’ve already made my appointment for a mani and pedi, and some designer is letting me borrow a dress.

I roll my eyes.

Me:
Just making sure that you’ve been forewarned.

I smile when I read his reply.

Graham:
Thanks. I appreciate the head’s up. It’s such a burden to have to be seen with you.

Me:
I’ll call you when I’m done with my very stuffy dinner.

Graham:
Try not to fall asleep. My etiquette coach says that it’s poor form to pass out in your soup bowl.

Just as I’m about to reply, I get a call from the receptionist to say that my three o’clock is here. I stand up and open my double doors to welcome the one and only Roan Perez. The bastard looks smug as ever.

“Rachael.” His saccharine-sweet voice gives me a toothache.

“Roan, come on in,” I say closing the doors behind us. I can’t believe that I actually considered sleeping with this jerk.

He immediately chooses to sit at my conference table. Instead of redirecting him to my desk, I take the chair at the head of the table. I’m opening my mouth to begin going over the points of the immigration bill, when he says, “Have you heard of the Sons of Liberty?”

I cross my legs and lean back in the chair, as if I’m bracing myself for what he has to say. “I have listened to their show, and I have the White House communications office looking into them. Why?”

I don’t let on to Roan just how much of a concern they are to us.

“They call me Captain Caveman.” His statement is filled with such bitterness that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Today is the day that I seem to have misplaced the important filter between my brain and my mouth. “As my mom always says, ‘If the shoe fits …’”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he says, leaping to his feet. He reminds me of a bull that has just seen red and is about to charge the matador.

“It means that when you arrive with a girl on your arm, you don’t immediately ditch her for the waitress with big tits.” I hold up my pointer finger, indicating the number one. “The coat-check girl.” I show him two fingers. “The young reporter from a small town newspaper.” That makes three fingers that are now at attention.

He waves his hands around. “I get it.” Then, he smirks. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

“I’m so jealous, in fact, that I will not be going to the event tomorrow with you.” My internal self fist-pumps.

“Is that so? Find some old man senator you need to schmooze?” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in the chair. He’s so smug that I am going to enjoy saying this much more than I should.

“Not so much,” I say, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off of my navy suit. “I’m going with my boyfriend.” Technically, Graham isn’t my boyfriend, but Roan doesn’t need to know this.

I’ve been in the mix of Washington politics for multiple presidential administrations. In that time, I’ve never called any man my boyfriend publically. Aiden and I dated, but I made sure we were never photographed together.

“I just assumed you were a lesbian,” Roan says, shock pulling his eyebrows together.

I throw my head back and laugh. There was a certain picture from college that might have given people the wrong idea about me, but it was an innocent shot of Caroline and I cage-dancing together. “You and most of Washington. Well, I’m not. Call one of the waitresses, or coat-check girls, or whomever else soils your bed, because you are now in need of a plus-one.”

Roan and I abruptly end our conversation when the rest of the staff I invited arrive to discuss the immigration reform bill. But I sit a little bit lighter in my chair knowing that for once, I managed to shut the infamous Roan up, and it feels so damn good.

“Where to, Miss Early?” Lou asks as he escorts me to the waiting car.

“Home, please.”

Home.
What does the word home even mean? I ponder this as I watch the sites of Washington D.C. fly by through the rain-streaked car window.

D.C. is not my home. I think of it as the place that I work. Is Houston still my home? I haven’t been back to visit for more than weddings and funerals since I graduated high school. I’m feeling melancholy, and it has nothing to do with the dreary weather.

Lou pulls up in front of my rented townhome. I never bothered to buy here because it’s where I work, not where I live. Make sense?
It doesn’t to me, either.
I unlock my front door.

My Secret Service agent sweeps my home, ensuring that there are no bad guys hiding with a knife in my shower while I head upstairs to my closet/bedroom to change.

I’m not sentimentally attached to this place.
Dwelling.
That’s what this is. This is my dwelling that houses my bed and my very expensive shoe collection.

Lou yells that he’s leaving and I hear the front door slam and the lock turn. I change into my flannel pajama pants and Henley red shirt. Caroline gave me these last year for Christmas. She insisted that we all take a family picture under the Christmas tree in matching PJs. Everyone received a pair on Christmas Eve. It was expected that we all wear them to open presents the next morning. I’d rolled my eyes and cracked jokes about submitting our pictures to the Awkward Family Photos website. Secretly, I loved it.

As I make myself a cup of hot cocoa, I text Graham to see if he’s home. I’m feeling so lonely tonight. I would love for him to insist on coming over and snuggling on the couch with me while we watch some home decorating show and make fun of the bad décor choices.

The message I send doesn’t betray my melancholy.

Me:
Got home early from my dinner. What’s up?

Nothing …

Nothing …

Nothing …

I plop down on my worn sofa with my hot chocolate and turn on the TV. Flipping through the three hundred channels, none of which I actually watch, I decide to view the political talk shows from last Sunday, and catch up on any interviews that I might have missed during the week.

I check my phone every couple of minutes—probably every thirty seconds—hoping that he’s texted, and my phone just hasn’t let me know.

Still nothing.

At one in the morning, I give up. Turning off the TV, I make my way upstairs. I stop by the bathroom and brush my teeth, slap on some moisturizer, and then slide under the covers. As I’m reaching for the light switch, a bright light illuminates my bedroom, and instantly a clap of thunder sounds right over my room. The lights go out.

I’m blaming it on my depressed mood, but tears begin to run down my cheeks. I slip under the quilt and curl into the fetal position, sobbing. I’m not afraid. Heaven knows, I’ve spent many days and nights without electricity. Plus, there’s a Secret Service agent right outside my front door if I need him. No. This is nature holding up a mirror and giving me a good look at my future. Dark and lonely nights are all I’m going to have once the President’s term is over. I’ll be a has-been. The day I turn off my office lights for the last time will be the day that my phone quits ringing.

No more calls from the press trying to swing an interview. No more Senators angling for five minutes of the President’s time. No more dinner with legislatures, persuading them to see the bill through the White Houses’ eyes.

Desperately, I work to get my emotions under control. Using my minimizing-everything technique, I tell myself that I’m going to be in high-demand once I’m no longer the White House Chief of Staff. Universities will be fighting over me, and I’ve even been approached off-the-record about being the Washington Bureau Chief for a cable news network. In fact, I have a meeting with them next week. I’ve kicked around the idea of moving back to Houston and running for mayor, and then governor of Texas. Hell, I’m the first female, and youngest Chief of Staff. I’m the only one who has lasted in the position through two terms. I have good approval ratings. Every year I’m asked to give commencement addresses, and I’ve even been asked by a major publishing house to write a book.

The doubting Thomas side of my brain asks the question,
what would you write about?
How you’ve succeeded in a male-dominated world by giving up everything else in your life? That could fill up maybe ten pages.

My pity party reaches a fever pitch, and then my phone dings. I grab it like it’s a lifeline.

It’s him.

Graham:
Sorry that I missed this. Out with my two best friends from college. I’d have loved for you to meet them. Headed back to my place to get my beauty sleep for tomorrow. Stay dry and dream of me.

I don’t respond. I clutch my stupid phone to my girlie chest like it’s some sort of teddy bear that smells like him.

Instead of crying myself to sleep, I drift off to dreamland with a smile on my face.

“What about a pixie-cut?” Raphael asks as he runs his fingers through my long shaggy hair. “It’s the
in
cut right now. Besides you only wear your hair in severe knots anyway.”

I make time to get my hair cut once a year. Fortunately because of last night’s rain, my golf outing with the president was canceled. Raphael worked me into his hectic Saturday schedule because he loves me.

He’s right. I only wear my hair styled up and away from my face. It’s not like anyone notices if I have split ends. “How often will I have to get it cut?”

“Every six weeks, my love.” He grimaces at his own words. “You know, I wouldn’t mind coming to you.”

I shake my head. “No. Leave it long. I don’t need a short hairdo that requires maintenance.”

Poor Raphael looks so defeated. He picks up a brush and runs it through my very long locks. In fact, even I’m surprised that my hair now reaches my waist. “So what are we doing today then?”

I beam at him in the mirror. “I have an event tonight. Give me my annual cut, and I want to wear my hair down.”

Raphael kicks up one eyebrow and smiles. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

An hour later, my natural platinum-blond hair has been trimmed to just below my bra strap, and is perfectly board-straight with a part down the middle. Next, I decide to be crazy and ask Raphael if anyone is available to do my makeup.

He’s been my hairdresser for eight years. I’ve never asked for more than the fastest haircut possible. In fact, he’s accused me of being allergic to spas.

“We’ll make someone available,” he says as he scurries off to the receptionist desk.

About five minutes later, he returns with a gorgeous girl ten years younger than me with unnaturally black hair and bright green eyes. “This is Sabrina. She’s our best makeup artist.”

Raphael turns to Sabrina. “This is Rachael. She’s the most powerful female in the country. Don’t make her look like a cheap whore.” He throws his head back in laughter.

“This was not a good idea,” I reply as I almost bolt out of the chair.

Sabrina gently places her hands on my shoulders and reassuringly says, “Please don’t worry. I’ve done makeup for many professional women. Raphael is just being a brat.”

I shoot Raphael a dirty look, and follow Sabrina to her station. An hour later, I’ve been transformed. Sabrina is an artist that uses skin as her canvas and powdery colors as her medium. My already large eyes have a distinctive almond shape, which somehow manages to narrow my nose. I look like me—just a more stylish, and put together version of myself.

“I love it,” I gasp as Sabrina looks at me expectantly. “Seriously, Sabrina, this is your talent. Thank you.”

She walks me to the checkout area, and wishes me good luck tonight.

Normally, I start getting ready for an event about an hour before I have to leave. Since, I’m already dolled up, I have some time to kill. Not wanting to mess up Raphael and Sabrina’s hard work, I pull out my headphones and decide to listen to the highlights of the Sons of Liberty’s past shows that Evan’s team compiled for me. It reminds me of an old-fashioned mix tape.

The first clip is about ten minutes long, and it’s the Sons of Liberty celebrating their victory. They take full credit for two of the four sitting governors getting voted out of office.

The next clip makes me cringe. It’s the Sons of Liberty discussing which female journalists wear their suits the best. It’s locker-room talk at best. I think the word “boobs” is referenced one hundred times. “Tits” is mentioned at least sixty times. And the term “milk jugs” even makes it into the mix.

The final clip has my mouth hanging open in shock. They’re talking about me. I’m referred to only as Tinker Bell. The conversation is between Solomon and McDougall, and they’re debating whether or not I’m a lesbian and if I’m dominant in the bedroom. They even discuss changing my name to Christian Grey. I don’t bother listening to the rest. I grit my teeth and remind myself that this is also part of my job.

I check to see how much is left. Only two more hours of highlights to go.

I remove my ear-buds, focusing on getting dressed for this evening.

Shelby has been kind enough to share her stylist with me. Angela is one of her sorority sisters from college who went on to become a clothing designer for some major houses. Taxpayers pay her to ensure that the First Lady always looks her best. While Angela is purchasing Saint John Knits for the First Lady, she keeps an eye out for things that would look nice on me.

Gratitude is not a word that I throw around often, but Angela saves my sorry behind on a weekly basis. If I had to actually purchase the clothes that I have to wear to these events, I’d have three cocktail dresses and two formals that I rotated between. About once a month, Angela appears like the Fairy Godmother in my office, and turns me from a drab workaholic into a princess fit for a ball.