The World: According to Rachael (26 page)

He raises his eyebrows at the word “ride” and stalks towards me with desire in his eyes. I push him away. “No. I want to go dress shopping.”

He pouts briefly before he picks up his phone and starts typing.

When I’m ready, we head out to the waiting car.

Shopping with Graham is like everything we do together—very pleasant and filled with a bit of adventure.

We stroll hand in hand through Bloomingdales while Tom follows us, staying about twelve feet behind. Our first stop is the men’s department to purchase a fresh pair of underwear and a shirt for Graham to change into. We pause at the graphic T-shirt table, and laugh as we read some of the sayings.

Graham ultimately winds up choosing a light-blue sweater that he pulls over his white button-up shirt. I love it. He looks sophisticated and sexy. The blue of the sweater brings out his eyes, making them appear translucent. I just wish his eyebrows weren’t drawn together. Tension lines mar his stunning face on a day when I’m having so much fun.

Next, we head up to the ladies department. I begin to meander through the hung-up dresses stopping every now and again to remove one from the rack so I can examine it closer. “What’s your mom’s favorite color?”

“I like that one,” he says as he nods towards the black dress that I’ve draped over my arm. “It’s green, like yours.”

“Oh.” I hang the dress back up.

“Why aren’t you trying it on?”

“Because I really wanted a green dress. The fact that it’s both of our favorite colors makes it a done deal.” His head cocks to the side in confusion, but he doesn’t argue with my logic or try to convince me to just buy something. If it’s possible, I might like him a little more. I admire his patience. It’s not a trait that I possess.

Two stores and three hours later, I find just what I was looking for. It’s a Kelly-green trench-coat dress. When I try it on, I know that it’s the one.

“Graham, what do you think?” I ask as I twirl around in front of him.

He looks up from his phone that he’s been typing on every time I’m occupied. His smile touches his eyes. “It’s perfect,” he says as he walks to me, placing his hands on my shoulders and kissing my forehead where it meets my hairline. “You look gorgeous.”

Beaming, I walk back into the fitting room to change.

Graham and I kill another hour shopping before we head to the bar to meet everybody. I snuggle into his side when we’re in the car, “Are you nervous for me to meet them?”

He tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Not in the least. What’s not to love?”

I place a kiss over his heart. “Thank you. That’s so kind.”

“Are you nervous?” he asks, pulling away from me so he can see my face in the shadows of the streetlamps and passing car headlights.

“A bit.” I swallow. “These guys are obviously important to you. They visit every weekend.” I take a stab in the dark that these are the same people. When he doesn’t correct me, I continue, “I want to like them, and for them to like me.”

Graham stiffens and looks out of the car window. “They don’t have a choice.”

We spend the rest of the car ride in silence.

We arrive at a bar that I’ve never been to before, which doesn’t mean much. My social life consists of fundraisers, galas, and dinners at expensive restaurants when I’m schmoozing a Senator. In fact, I can’t remember the last time that I went to the bar with friends … I think the last time was before Langford ran for president. The realization further shades just how drab my life had become pre-Graham.

As soon as we step out of the car, he grabs my hand, bringing it up to his mouth. He kisses our locked fingers as if he’s reassuring me, but I get the impression that it’s more reassuring him. “They will adore you just like I do. Just be yourself.”

I nod and allow him to lead us into the bar once Tom has done a sweep. Poor kid looks overwhelmed. I’m sure when he read the dossier on my boring life he thought he had won the lottery. Now, the first time he’s assigned to me, I choose to go to a bar on a Saturday night.

Bar is really a misnomer. It’s an Irish pub. The clientele is young, business-like and professional. It has a lively atmosphere, reminiscent of college. Numerous dartboards line one wall. There are a few pool tables that are surrounded by groups of people, vying for playing time. Most of the place is dominated by pub-height tables with bar stools. There are neon signs hung on the walls advertising various Irish-sounding beers, and a dark wooden bar runs the length of the wall perpendicular to the dartboards. There’s music being piped out over speakers discreetly hung in the ceiling. It sounds like a mix of top forty, but it’s difficult to hear over the roar of the crowd.

We pause when we step inside the door. Graham is scanning the crowd, looking for his friends when, after a few seconds, he raises his hand and gives a slight wave to two guys and a pregnant girl.

They look about Graham’s age, and I remember that he mentioned once before that the people who were visiting him were his fraternity brothers. As we approach the table, all three sets of eyes take me in. Fortunately, I have a lot of experience with appraising looks so I keep a neutral, bland face.

Graham gives my hand two quick squeezes before releasing it in lieu of wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me against his side. “Hey everyone,” he yells over the commotion. “This is Rachael.”

I smile as warmly as I can, despite my rapidly beating heart. I want this to go well so that maybe his eyebrows will return to a neutral position. Everyone grins back, but no one jumps to their feet to shake my hand.

We take the two seats left at the table and Graham casually rests his hand on my knee. “Rachael, this is Jacob Cartwright. He goes by Jake.” He motions towards the very handsome guy seated to my left. Jake looks like a Calvin Klein model. His light-blond hair is cut in a shag that makes him appear as if he’s just stepped out of the California waves, and his tanned skin in November further drives the surfer look home. I half expect him to say “Dude” when he speaks.

Instead, he sounds very professional. “Pleasure to meet you Rachael. You are just as gorgeous in person.” He shakes my hand in a firm yet respectable grasp.

The other guy leans across the table and says, “Don’t fall for his charms. He’s a player.”

Jake shoots him a dirty look, and Graham howls with laughter.

“I’m Max, and this is my wife, Marissa.” I nod my head in acknowledgement.

He points to her swollen abdomen. “That’s my spawn,” he says proudly as Marissa slaps his chest.

“Quit calling my baby a spawn.” The table chuckles.

Max has shockingly red, curly hair. Instead of minimizing this feature, he’s definitely embraced it. It’s perfectly styled, framing his face in such a way that it could easily pass for a wig. He’s handsome in a different kind of way than Jake or Graham. He has a charismatic presence that dominates the table.

Marissa is a perfect complement to Max. She has waist-long brown hair that skims the side of her face. I can tell she’s tall, because she’s Max’s height while sitting. She’s dressed stylishly in an A-line fitted T-shirt that skims her thin pregnant form. Her shirt reads,
Due in March
in tiny print across her perky round breasts.

“Congratulations,” I tell Marissa. “What a happy time for you guys.”

“Not for Max,” Jake chimes in. “He’s not sure he’s the father.”

Max had just taken a sip of beer, and nearly chokes on it.

Marissa, who seems to be comfortable with this crowd, replies, “I guess we’ll see when he’s born. If he has a Bozo the Clown red hair, there will be no need for the DNA test.”

Graham leans over and whispers in my ear, “They’ll keep this going all night.”

The waitress disrupts this conversation from going any further. I order a Sam Adams on draft, and Graham makes it two. We also order a plate of nachos because he swears, and his three friends confirm, that this Irish pub in D.C. has the best Mexican nachos on the planet.

“Forget to shave this morning?” Jake asks, slapping Graham’s cheek.

Graham ducks and laughs. “Rachael thinks my stubble is sexy.”

Max adds, “Maybe if you’re a lumberjack.”

I reach up and caress Graham’s cheek, and then lean over and give his jaw a kiss. “I like it. Maybe it can be a weekend thing.”

The subject is changed, and conversation flows nicely around the table. Graham shares a couple of stories about his students. One story is about an answer that his student gave to a question that he asked in class. The question sparks a lively debate, and I feel comfortable enough to chime in with my opinion.

After a little while, I realize that my heart-rate has returned to normal, and I am enjoying myself. I look at Graham, who’s laughing at something Jake said, and see that the lines between his eyes are relaxed and his eyebrows are back where they belong.
Maybe he was just anxious about me meeting his friends. That’s why he’s seemed so on edge.

The nachos arrive, and they live up to the hype. I note that Graham has a flair for knowing the best junk food in the district. First onion rings, and now nachos. How can he eat like this, but look like that? He places the plate in the middle of the table, and we all snack on them while we drink our beers.

Marissa excuses herself to go to the restroom, and I decide to join her. Graham doesn’t let me leave the table without a kiss, which makes Max and Jake catcall whistle.

Marissa hits Max’s arm and says, “Just because you’ve already knocked me up doesn’t mean you can’t still be sweet like that.” She motions toward us. Max rolls his eyes and then dramatically pulls her in for a Hollywood style kiss. Everyone laughs at their antics.

We both stand up at the same time. She’s really tall, and I’m very petite. I feel like her kid sister as I walk next to her to the ladies room. I pass by Tom, who is standing up to follow me, and I make a stopping motion with my hands. I would like some alone time with Marissa.

Fortunately, the music is not as loud in the restroom hallway so as we wait our turn, we’re able to chat.

“You know the guys are just teasing Max about not being the father,” she reassures me as she rubs her cute baby bump.

“I assumed.”

“Max and I are the first of our college friends to have a baby. I mean, Jake might have a few kids populating the earth that he doesn’t know about, but I think that you’re safe with Graham.”

We shuffle forward in line. “How did you guys become friends?”

“College. The boys were all in the same pledge class for their fraternity.” Then conspiratorially, she says, “Jake and I went to prom together in high school, more as friends than anything else. He introduced me to Max and Graham.”

“Not awkward?”

She laughs. “Not at all. Jake and I were not serious, and personally, I don’t think monogamy is in his vocabulary.”

Interesting
. I want to ask her some questions about Graham, but I think that it’s tacky. Silence washes over us as I try to come up with a quick response to her statement, but my mind draws a blank.

Fortunately, she lets me off the hook. “Graham is a really good guy. It’s nice to see him with someone who makes him smile.”

“Thank you. I’m glad to hear that.” And then, because I can’t help myself, “He just seems like he’s under so much pressure right now.”

“They all are,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I mean, talk about a great problem to have.”

I have no clue what she’s talking about and just nod in agreement, hoping she’ll elaborate. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.

“Oh! My turn,” she says as she walks toward the now empty stall. “I’ll meet you back at the table.”

I turn her phrase over and over again in my head as I enter the next empty bathroom stall.
“Talk about a great problem to have.”
What does that mean? How is it a good problem that all three of the boys share it? From what I learned from Graham, the guys are in different lines of work, with Jake being a commercial real estate broker in New York, and Max an investment banker in Atlanta. Those two might have something in common, but Graham is a teacher. I don’t see how the three could share a business opportunity.

Could it be personal? They seem to be great friends. Maybe they’re going in together to purchase a vacation home, or invest in a business. But why wouldn’t Graham have mentioned it to me? We certainly share a lot about our jobs with each other.

As I wash my hands under the warm water, I come to the conclusion that I have to know what this “good problem to have” is. If I even want to contemplate having a life with Graham, I need to know the secrets that he is obviously hiding.

Marissa beats me back to the table. The group doesn’t see me approaching, and all four of their heads are close together in what seems like a tense conversation with Jake looking around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. I hang back behind a very tall inflatable beer bottle and watch, giving them a moment to work out whatever is causing the tension. Marissa keeps putting her hands up in a defensive position and shaking her head while she turns her body toward Max. Graham runs his fingers through his hair in what looks like frustration. His waves just flop back in their long and unruly order. Jake is obviously the one who is leading the conversation. He keeps leaning into the circle and using his hands to talk in an aggressive manner. I can’t see Max’s face.

My self-doubt asks if this heated conversation is about me. I review everything that I’ve said tonight, and nothing stands out that could be considered controversial. I haven’t had too much to drink. I’m not being obnoxious. I thought tonight was going rather well.

Hang on! If this is about the “good problem to have,” and Marissa hinted at it to me … maybe they’re having this serious conversation because now they think that I’ve learned their secret.

It occurs to me that I’ve been gone too long and that I need to rejoin the group. I’d rather act like nothing happened than be spotted spying on them. It would make the rest of the evening awkward.

I roll my shoulders back and stick my chest out in a confident posture. I slap a fake smile on my face, strolling toward the table as if I hadn’t just been a witness to something quite troubling.