The World: According to Graham (11 page)

My heart melts. The hurt that I’ve felt since his “I need time and space” comment and his rejection leaves me in a rush, and it’s replaced with a determination to see this look on his gorgeous face every single day for the rest of my life.

“I do.” I giggle. I’m not a giggler. If you took a poll of the people who I’ve spent the last seven years working with and asked them if Rachael Early giggled, you wouldn’t find a single one who would answer yes. Graham makes me giggle.

“I love it,” he says with awe.

“I’m sure that I’ll like it better now, since I don’t have to hide it with tight pantyhose.” Why can’t I just gush with him? This is a personality flaw that I’ve got to work on.

His phone rings again, and once again he ignores it. “Ready to see my plan?” he asks hopefully.

I nod, and he grabs my hand leading me to his way of thinking.

“What is that?” She gasps as her face contorts into a very unpleasant expression. She looks as if I just forced a Sour Apple Warhead into her mouth. There are a lot of things that I would like to slide between those beautiful full lips—making her look like this is not my objective. She grasps my hand so tightly it tingles from lack of blood flow, but I don’t dare pull away.

Her touch and trust after my rejection in the kitchen is nothing short of a gigantic step for her. I want this to work so desperately that she can do whatever she wants to me as long as she just agrees. God it was hot watching her come on my thigh. That’s an image that I will not soon forget.

“That’s our home,” I exclaim, as I turn and give the side of the travel trailer a tap. I got this idea a little more than a week ago. It was a three-in-the-morning inspiration. We have nothing else to do as we drive this across the country to meet up with the tour but talk. Hours and hours of no distractions, just us working through our shit. Plus, George doesn’t have to be kenneled, and if she gets really, really pissed at me, what’s she going to do? We’ll be in the middle of nowhere.

“What . . . how?” She stammers as she drops my hand and begins to fidget with her hair.

Turning, I admire my stroke of genius before flashing her my best smile. “Well, I found a guy not far from here that retrofits these.”

“What?” Her forehead crinkles in confusion.

“Retrofits,” I repeat. “I had the Sons of Liberty equipment moved into the second bedroom and had it turned into a recording studio. I’ll still be able to tape the show while we’re on the road.”

“On the road?” She pauses and then walks towards the entrance to our new home away from home. “We sound like parrots,” she remarks.

She opens the door and proceeds up the steps and into the living room, kitchen and dining room. They’ve all been condensed into a tiny space. The kitchen starts next to the door and extends along the wall until it hits the door to the bathroom. It’s really got everything that we need: a small refrigerator, two-burner stove, microwave, and sink. The living room and dining room are on the opposite wall. A table that can be converted to a bed is screwed to the floor and bench seating surrounds it on three sides. There’s a flat-screen TV that is mounted to the wall on the other side of the entrance door, and just behind it is the master bedroom.

I follow her up the stairs, watching her examine the small space. Déjà vu almost brings me to my knees as I remember feeling this way once before when she was checking out the Sons of Liberty’s studio. Her face is expressionless. Years of training, I presume, have taught her to shield her emotions.

“What’s back there?” She points towards the back of the travel trailer.

“That’s the second bedroom that’s been turned into my studio.”

“And there?” She motions to the closed door next to the kitchen refrigerator.

“That’s the bathroom. It has a standup shower, sink, and toilet. Want to take a look?”

She shakes her head, turns around and points to the closed door behind her. “And that’s?”

“That is the master bedroom. I had the guy that I bought it from switch out the mattress to the nicest one they make.” I don’t know why I told her that, and I feel like an idiot. I guess I just wanted her to know that I was thinking about her when I was planning this.

She walks over and sits down on one of the bench seats. “So what’s your plan, Graham? This obviously wasn’t cheap, and you’ve thought it through. I’m a planner. A strategist. I need to know your end game here.”

I join her at the table but sit on the opposite side. Her mood is somber and serious. She’s got her game face on—the one that has been photographed incessantly. This feels more like a board meeting than a conversation with the mother of my child. “End game is that we find a way to make this work, and you and I are lovers, friends, partners and parents together.”

“And why do we need this,” she says, gesturing around the trailer, “to make that happen?”

I sigh and drop my head back against the wall. Closing my eyes, I rehearse the words that I’ve spoken so many times inside of my head. She gives me the time I need and when I open them again, I take a deep breath and share my plan with her. “Rach, we were so busy ripping each other’s clothes off that we forgot to build any sort of base for a life together.” I pause to gauge her reaction. Nothing. So I continue. “There is no denying the sexual chemistry that we have between us.”

Her eyes cut to the floor for a split second, and I know that after my rejection of her in the kitchen she’s doubting my words. Quickly, I rush to reassure her. “You make me crazy. Your sexy little body was made for me. I could make love to you non-stop for the rest of my life and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

A small smile plays across her lips which causes me to relax just a bit. “But, when we conceived this child I had laid it all on the line for you. It was my last attempt to make you see that you needed to give us a chance and you rejected me.” I swallow hard, “again.”

“I know that you said that even without a baby that you wanted a relationship with me, but I’m just not sure that I believe you.”

Her jaw clenches and her back goes so straight that it looks unnatural. “I told you, Graham. I said ‘yes.’ What else do you want for me to do? Should I—”

I cut her off. “You should agree to take this journey with me. Let’s work on a friendship. Rachael, you didn’t even know that I wear contacts and glasses. It’s a small example of how much there is for us to discover about each other. Don’t go to Caroline’s. Join me and the Sons of Liberty.”

Her eyes dart back and forth. “I’m going to start showing soon. I can’t join you at one of the most heavily attended media events happening in this country and not expect to keep this baby off the radar. CNN has as correspondent at all of your shows for goodness sake.”

“We have this.” It’s now my turn to gesture around the trailer. “You can live in it with George. I can sneak you into my hotels through back entrances.” I can’t help myself. “You should be used to doing that with your politicians.”

She smirks just a bit, but it’s good enough for me. “Look. I hope that you realize that your pregnancy shouldn’t have to be a secret. I hope that soon you’ll allow me to scream it from the rooftops that I’m in love with Rachael Early, and she’s carrying our child.”

Her smirk is replaced with the clenched jaw and panicked eyes so I reassure her. “I’m not asking for that immediately. I just want you to agree to take this journey with me.”

“What does this journey entail?”

At least she’s open to listening. “I want us to travel together across the country to catch up to my tour. We’ll spend the night in this and spend the days getting to know each other like we should have done in the first place.”

“And once we catch up to the tour?”

“We’ll play it by ear. We can drive to the next location. You can stay on the travel trailer or in the hotel. You can work on the book that you just mentioned writing. We’ll figure it out as long as we’re together.”

Her face betrays nothing, but her thumb rubs over her forefinger on her right hand. I think this is an anxious tell. I dive in, hoping to bring her out of her own head. “Say yes to being a part of my world.”

I study her body language. Rachael is getting more anxious. Her lip slips between her teeth, and she looks as if she was just handed a death sentence.
That’s not good.
“It’s now your turn to give me some time and space.” She jumps to her feet and swiftly exits the trailer.

Standing up, my first instinct is to follow her out, but I pause at the doorway, watching her walk away from me. She stomps up the driveway. I don’t know how it’s possible for someone who weighs nothing to make so much noise when they walk. It’s as if she can control gravity, along with the rest of the political universe.

Closing my eyes for just a moment, I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to fight off the stress headache that is threatening. When I open them again, she’s paused halfway up the driveway. Her hands are firmly planted on her hips, her shoulders back and her chin up. “I’m not sure if you intentionally chose this model because of the name ‘Cougar’ written all over the exterior, but bad, bad choice Mr. Jackson.”

What is she talking about?
I walk down the stairs and back up enough from the trailer so that I can take in the entire exterior. Sure enough, I read the logo that is painted quite prominently on the side. She’s right. It does say “Cougar.” Laughter begins to bubble up from my toes and erupts out of my mouth in hysterics. Somehow, I managed to purchase a travel trailer that is the Cougar model. The irony is not lost on me. I laugh so hard that tears are rolling down my face, and I use the back of my hand to wipe my cheeks.

Can’t I catch a break?

I could walk up the driveway into the house and fight with her. We could have an all-out battle complete with name calling, slammed doors and hurtful accusations. We’ve been there and done that already. I’m tired of arguing. The drama has to end. Therefore, she’s doing this my way, even if I have to kidnap her.

When I walk in the house, I don’t bother to look for her. She’s not in the living room or kitchen, so I reason that she’s most likely in the space that I created for her. That’s good. I’m happy that she sees it as a safe place.

After locating my travel bag, I dig out a pair of jeans and a royal blue long-sleeved T-shirt. I skip the shower, reasoning that I’m about to fill a trailer with everything we’ll need for the next couple of weeks. No point in getting too clean to just get dirty again.

Next, I start loading. I grab George’s dog food and other supplies, and haul them out to “our home.” Next, I carry out cleaning supplies from under my sink and grab pantry food staples.

As I make the trips in and out of the house hauling clothes and other things that we need, I keep hoping that she’ll come to me on her own—that I’ll find her in the kitchen helping to pack. Realistically, I know that’s not going to happen. I fell in love with someone who doesn’t back down or give in. She didn’t become the White House Chief of Staff by being a pansy.

She might give me a hard time for saying that I need time and space after the pregnancy bombshell, but there’s no doubt in my mind that she needs it also. Rachael is holed up in my house weighing her options and considering what she should do. When she’s rational, she’ll see that this is a good choice for us.
Or she’ll take your child and move to some small remote part of the world and never let me be a part of their lives while some other guy tucks your son into bed at night.

“Fuck!” I yell to the emptiness in my house and my heart. I set off looking for her. This is a battle for us—for the three of us.

I’d like for us to get at least five hours out of D.C. today. That’s not going to happen if we don’t get on the road.

My house isn’t big so it’s not hard to find her. I was right. She’s in her space sitting at her desk with her back to me. Her feet are propped up on a moving box, and she’s leaning back in her chair looking out of the window.

She’s so gorgeous that I forget to breathe. Her hair is flowing down the back of the chair and her profile is relaxed—serene. She looks just like the fairy that she hates being compared to.

I’m not sure what to say. Do I apologize? I’m not sure what to apologize for though. For wanting a relationship with her? That seems ridiculous. Do I plead my case? It hasn’t worked in the past. So far, our relationship has been on Rachael’s terms only. I’m ready for a fifty/fifty split. Hell, I would even take sixty/forty if she would just not fight me on this.

“I can hear you breathing,” she says, as her hand immediately covers her stomach. This gesture makes my heart clinch. I get the impression that she does this as if she’s protecting our child from me. I may not have been the most supportive new father, but I would never, ever hurt her or the baby.

“I can hear your brain churning up all the reasons that you aren’t going with me,” I reply as I walk towards her. When I draw close enough, I take the back of the chair and spin it so she’s facing me. Then, I drop to my knees so we’re eye level. “I don’t want to hear those reasons. I’m going to tell you why you are.”

I grasp the hand that is shielding her stomach and bring it to my lips, planting kisses along the underside of her wrist until I locate her pulse. A soft moan breaks the stillness of the room. A plum vein pushes against her alabaster skin—God, the things that she does to me . . .

Gently, I rest her hand on the arm of the chair and lean down, kissing her stomach through the well-worn dress shirt fabric. Being so close to our child causes my breath to catch in my throat, and I know in this instant that I’m doing the right thing. When I find the courage to look in her eyes, I see that my gesture has warmed them. She no longer looks as if she wants to break my neck or stomp on my favorite appendage. This gives me the courage to say the words that I haven't been able to.

I swallow hard. “You love me, Rachael. You may not agree with the topics discussed on my radio show. You may not approve of my political views all the time. But, you love the way I make you feel in here.” I lean forward, kissing her chest right above her heart. “A month ago that wasn’t enough to make you fight for us. But things have changed.” I place my palm over her stomach, hoping that she gets my message that it’s my job now to protect the life we made. “We really only spent two weeks getting to know each other, and four months fighting this pull that we have between us. Give us the chance to see if we can turn this into a real relationship. One where we love and respect each other enough to call ourselves a family.”