Page 21 of The Press Secretary's Passion
“It’s no problem,” Jake says. “Shall we?”
“Of course.”
Grace and I follow Gus and Jake out to the car, and he opens the door. We all file in before Gus closes it behind us. He climbs in the passenger seat, and the driver takes off.
I sit silently in my seat while we ride. The sun is setting, and it glows a beautiful muted orange and pink through the tinted windows of the car. I see Grace turn to me a couple times out the corner of my eye, but I don’t react. I just pretend like I don’t notice her.
I hold in my sigh of relief when we pull into my driveway—just barely. I somehow manage to hold it together and not fling open my door and run screaming from the vehicle and into the night—again, just barely.
Gus steps from the front passenger seat and opens my door for me.
“Thank you,” I say to him quietly before turning to the other occupants of the backseat. “Thanks for the lift. I’ll see you Monday.”
“I’ll call you if I hear any news,” Grace says gently, and the way she watches me makes me nervous. I know she sees more than I want her to. I’m good at holding in my emotions. I have to because of my job and who I am. But with Grace, it’s like everything is laid bare. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask and pray she doesn’t call me out while I stand on the curb in front of my best friend’s husband, who just so happens to be the president of the United States, and his secret service agents.
“Just wondering,” she says, eyeing me suspiciously.
Gus shuts the door behind me and walks me to my front door. I pull my keys out of my purse and let myself in.
“Thanks again, Gus.”
“Any time, ma’am.”
The heavy front door shuts behind me with a thud. The click from the latch sounds throughout the quiet room, and I stand there, staring at the cold marble floor where Ryan fucked me and left, as I wait for the sound of the president’s car pulling safely away.
I had thought, for the briefest of moments, that maybe he could be mine. I was so hurt and angry after he left me. And when he came back to me again and again, I still knew he wasn’t for me to keep, and I let him have me anyways.
And as always, I was angry afterward.
But now I’m scared.
No. I’m not scared. I’m terrified. I’m terrified I’ll never see his smile when someone says something he finds amusing, even if it’s almost never me who does it because I frustrate him beyond belief. And I’m terrified I will never see the hungry look in his eyes when he wants me, that I’ll never feel the way he makes my body melt into his hard one.
But most of all, I’m terrified I’ll never get the chance to tell him how sorry I am that I disappointed him, that I couldn’t be all he wanted me to be, because I learned the hard way a long time ago that I can only be me and no one else.
Finally, I drop my bag on the table under the big gilt-framed mirror in the entryway. There’s a large copper bowl at one end, and a tall crystal vase full of fresh cut flowers at the other end. My purse, I often set in between. I fish out my phone from its depths, make sure the ringer is on as loud as it goes, and set it down.
My hands shake and my legs feel weak. My heart is racing, and I don’t feel so good. I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time. Now isn’t the best timing for one, but they never seem to come when the time is right anyway.
I don’t want to take medication, because I need to be alert when Grace phones with news, so I make my way into the kitchen and hold the kettle under the tap to fill it. I place it on the burner to heat while I pull down a mug and drop my favorite tea bag into the cup with the string and tag hanging perfectly down the side.
What I could really use is two Xanax and half a bottle of chilled chardonnay, but that’s not going to happen.
When the whistle on the kettle blows, I jump and then turn off the burner while trying to force my heart rate to slow down. My hand shakes as I tip the kettle to pour the water into my mug, and I have to brace it with the other. I’m sure I look like a ridiculous adaptation of an actor on a cop show.
I set the kettle back on the stove and wait for my tea to steep. It’s hot. I could never drink anything that was steaming hot, so not only will it need to steep, but it will also need to cool down after that. This, I know, will take some time.
So I pace.
I have to move my body when there is this much nervous energy bouncing around inside me like a bunch of demented pinballs in a broken machine that won’t reset. So I walk all around the ground floor of my home.
I check my phone what seems like a million times, and there is not one message or missed call about Ryan. There is one from Grace though.
GRACE: Are you all right?
ME: Fine, why wouldn’t I be?
