Page 32 of The Press Secretary's Passion
“Well, Gil is going to have to keep looking for one,” I say quietly. “I won’t be able to bridge that gap for him.”
“What did you say?” she asks, and her voice is cold as ice.
“I said I won’t be able to bridge that gap for Gil. He’s going to have to make his own connections.”
“I don’t care what you have to do to get back in the senator’s good graces, but hear me, and hear me now—you are going to fucking do it,” she snarls.
“I absolutely will not,” I reply. “And you shouldn’t ask me to. He’s old enough to be my grandfather.”
“I don’t care if he’s old enough to be your great-grandfather,” she snaps back, and I wonder when the venom this woman spews at me regularly will stop surprising me. “And I’m not asking. I’m telling. And I’m telling you that if you have to get on your knees and suck a wrinkly old cock that belongs to a man who is old enough to be your grandfather, you damn well will do it to help your brother.”
“I think we’re done here,” I snap.
“We’re done when I say we’re done, and that’s when you agree to do what you’re told,” she says.
She continues to wax poetic about what a disappointment I am, but I don’t listen anymore. I can’t. I pull my phone away from my ear and press the red button to end the call. Then I thumb through my contacts and block her number. Then I scroll through and block my dad’s numbers as well.
I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and walk back into the living room. I look at my plate and feel what I ate churning in my stomach with the taste of sawdust in my mouth. I have absolutely no appetite anymore. I scoop up the remains of my forgotten meal and walk them to the kitchen trash. I stomp on the little pedal harder than I need to, and the lid flings open. I drop everything in except for my plate, which I walk to the sink.
I turn off the lights, and against my better judgement, I grab my phone from the counter. There are no missed calls since I blocked my parents’ numbers. Not even Ryan. Disappointment courses through me. And I scoff at myself in disgust as I take the stairs. What a sad state my life has become: wanting affection from a man who doesn’t want me and praise and approval from parents who will give none. I’m a thirty-three-year-old disappointment on all fronts.
Well, not anymore.
I toss my phone on the bed and head into my closet to strip off my sweater. I throw it toward the bench, but it hits the floor, and I do not care one bit about it. I shimmy my leggings down my legs and toss them in the same direction, and then I reach behind my back and unstrap my bra. I pull it through the straps of my camisole and then launch it to the bench.
I walk out of my closet and into the bathroom, brush my teeth, and scrub my face again. I turn out all the lights, pull the covers back, and climb in. I let myself curl up on my side and clutch the blankets just in time for the first sob to bubble up from my chest. One tear after another roll down my cheeks, and I feel from somewhere in the bedding my phone buzz with another incoming call.
“What now?”
I find it in the dark and swipe my finger across the screen. “Hello?”
There’s silence, and I wonder if the person hung up, but then Ryan’s slow, southern drawl rumbles across the line. “Baby, are you all right?”
Another sob hitches in my chest. And then another.
“Jules? Honey, I need you to answer me.”
“No,” I whisper my truth. “I’m not okay. But I will be.”
“Jules—” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I want to know what the fuck happened today to make you not okay?” Ryan’s voice is a brook-no-bullshit tone I’m sure makes other Marines jump into action.
“Nothing.” I sigh.
“Jules, the truth. Now.”
“It is the truth,” I sort of lie. “Today was nothing new.”
“So you’ve always been engaged to a seventy-five-year-old man?” he asks casually after a beat.
“You knew.”
“I didn’t know you were engaged until this afternoon,” he says. “But I knew he was interested in you. He hasn’t exactly been keeping it a secret amongst the White House staff.”
“Eww. Really?”
