The World: According to Rachael (7 page)

I agree.

“What in the hell am I doing?” I grumble to myself as I stand in the spare bedroom of my townhome, which now functions as my walk-in closet. I’m staring at my clothes, trying to decide what one wears on a first date that begins with a late lunch and then goes on to a movie.

My relationships over the past seven years have been strictly sexual in nature. The guy and I had an agreement. We’d meet at a mutually agreed upon location—never his place or mine—and spent a couple of hours pleasuring each other, and then we’d go our separate ways. I know how to dress for that, and have a drawer full of lingerie to prove it.

Finally, I decide to go casual-cute. I pull a pair of brown corduroy chinos from a hanger, a maroon silk blouse, and grab my four-inch heeled designer leather boots that I wore last night. Once I’m dressed, I stare in the mirror, realizing that I’m biting my top lip. This is a nervous tell of mine that I’ve worked extremely hard to lose.

Nervous? What do I have to be nervous about?
He’s a high school teacher. You’ve dined with world leaders and not had butterflies.

I shake it off, and walk into my bathroom. I pull the tie out of my hair, releasing my locks. My goodness my hair has gotten long so I add a reminder to my phone to make a hair appointment.

Ultimately, I decide to leave it down. I rarely wear it this way. My tight chignons are part of my signature look. This date is uncharacteristic and my hair hanging down my back is the exclamation point on me stepping outside of my comfort zone.

I keep my makeup light. It’s Sunday lunch, after all, so I opt for blush, mascara, and clear lip gloss.

Overall, I’m pleased with my appearance. I don’t resemble the professional, well-put-together woman who usually stands in this bathroom getting ready. I look like a J Crew commercial, which makes me laugh.
Should I be tossing fall leaves in the air?

At promptly two o’clock, I lock my front door and greet Lou. Graham had offered to pick me up, but I explained that I had an agent assigned to me, and a car that the taxpayers provide. The President really encourages me to use it, and in fact gets downright testy if I don’t. Graham seemed to have understood.

On the way to the restaurant, I debate canceling.
This is ridiculous
. I need to be preparing for this week—the beginning of our last year in office. Not going on some date with a guy who has no political ties and who can’t advance the work of the administration.

As I’m pulling my phone from my purse, I scroll through my contacts. His number doesn’t come up because he didn’t give it to me last night. I’m conflicted as to how this makes me feel. On one hand, I’m relieved. On the other hand, I know that what I’m about to do is not necessarily the best use of my time. That leads me to ponder when was the last time that I used my time frivolously? With horror, I come to the conclusion that I haven’t done anything for myself other than my morning boxing workouts since Senator Jones became President Jones. My eyes crinkle at the corners as my lips form a smile. I even wiggle a bit against the leather seat. Guess the writing is on the wall. I’m going on a date.

The restaurant he chose is an out-of-the-way diner that specializes in chicken salad, burgers, and the best damn onion rings in Washington D.C. according to Graham. Lou and I walk in together while he does a careful sweep to make sure that no one is lying in wait to harm me. I know the drill. I stick by Lou’s side until he’s comfortable with my surroundings.

I gaze around the restaurant looking for the guy who has managed to get under my skin. All I see is a family with a toddler who has smeared ketchup in his hair, a counter full of people studying their phones, and an elderly couple sitting next to each other, sharing a menu. She points to different items and makes suggestions. He smiles adoringly at her and hangs on every word that she says. I can’t keep the goofy grin from cracking my cheeks as I stare a heartbeat too long at them.

It looks like we’ve beaten Graham here. I’m thankful. The idea that I have a chaperone on a date makes me squeamish. Lou has accompanied me to plenty of hotels. It never embarrassed me like this “date” does.

I take a booth in the back right-hand corner of the restaurant. While Lou sits nearby at the counter, but is far enough away so as to not intrude.

Glancing at my wristwatch, I note that it’s
2:23 p.m
. This is new for me. I’m not used to waiting. Everyone waits on me. A moment of panic washes over me. What do I do with myself while I wait for him? I decide to pull out my personal phone and play on it. This is also a foreign concept. I never have time to kill. Do I download a game? I look toward the counter of people staring at their phones and attempt to see what they’re doing. They all seem to be furiously typing. Are they answering emails?

I’ve heard about a game called
Angry Birds
. I purchase it, and start hurling birds at pigs. It’s actually kind of fun. Hmmm …

Fortunately, Graham doesn’t keep me waiting long. As if my cute boy radar goes off, I look up from my phone, where I was trying to decide if I wanted to pay for help on a level, to watch him enter the restaurant. I get an unguarded moment to observe him before he spots me. His looks are disarming. I’m not sure of his height, but he fills the doorway, blocking out the sun behind him. His hair is so dark the overhead lights of the diner cast it in a lavender hue. I remember seeing an Elvis Presley movie that had been color corrected. Graham’s hair reminds me of the King’s. His clear blue eyes scan the restaurant, and when they spot me, they twinkle. A small smile parts his full lips, and I find myself smiling back probably like one of his lovesick students.

He’s wearing casual clothes also—a pair of jeans and a button-up red shirt with a navy sweater pulled over. The guy could easily be modeling Ralph Lauren menswear instead of strolling towards me in this local diner.

“Good afternoon,” he says as he slides onto the bench across from me. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long?”

What I want to reply with is, “Being kept waiting was refreshing,” but that makes me sound very odd. Instead, I say, “Been here for about ten minutes. No big deal.” NO BIG DEAL! If one of my staffers kept me waiting ten minutes, I’d probably hand them their head on a silver platter.

“Good. I decided to take my black Lab, George, for a run this morning, and we lost track of time. I figure it’s Sunday. It happens,” he says nonchalantly while he picks up a menu from the table where it had been left by a waitress. “This place has great onion rings.”

I find myself watching him while he peruses the laminated plastic in his hand. It’s like I’m at the zoo for the first time, seeing an exotic animal from a different continent.
Have I forgotten what normal feels like?
“It’s been a while since I’ve eaten here, but I do remember the onion rings, and you mentioned them last night.”

He looks up from the menu and gives me a mischievous smile that makes his dimple pucker. “Here’s the deal.” He discards the menus, and takes my hands in his, giving them a light squeeze. “I’m going to kiss you before this date is over. We both go all in, and split a basket of rings so we have shared bad breath, or we abstain. Your choice.” He shrugs his broad shoulders and drops my hands as he picks the menu back up.

His words make my lips tingle, as if they’re remembering a kiss that hasn’t happened yet. Graham’s mouth is full and a gorgeous shade of strawberry-red as if he’s wearing lip-gloss with a hint of stain in it. Suddenly, I have a craving for a fruity milkshake. “I say we go all in. I mean YOLO, right?”

He throws his head back as a loud belly laugh, like the one last night, erupts from his mouth. “Did Rachael Early, the White House Chief of Staff, just say YOLO?” He stops laughing, and with a serious note in his voice but without losing his boyish grin, he says, “You surprise me, and by the way, that saying is so last year. Just ask my students.”

He’s smooth. Real smooth. I relish in the fact that I made someone—or is just that it’s him?—laugh. I don’t think that anyone has thought I was funny since Aiden. I made him laugh frequently. He used to tell me that I was the funniest person he knew.
Stop it, Rachael,
I admonish myself.
Quit comparing your ex-boyfriend to your current date.
I choose a self-deprecating response. “You know what the media says about me. ‘Rachael Early, the bleeding edge of pop culture.’”

“Yes, that’s exactly what they say,” he says with a slight smile and warm eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that he felt sorry for me.

The waitress comes to the table and we place our order of cheeseburgers. I get mine without a bun and a side of mayonnaise. He adds jalapenos to his and makes it clear that he wants only mustard. Then, he asks for a basket of onion rings. We both get lemonade to drink.

After she’s gone, I lean back against the padded booth and say, “Okay Graham Jackson, tell me about you.”

“What is this, a job interview?” He smirks deepening his dimple.

“You and I both know that I’m going to read your Secret Service file when I arrive at work tomorrow morning. I’d rather you tell me about you than have to read your history in a blue binder with a presidential seal. Plus, the binder is oversized and heavy. Really too large to snuggle up in my favorite chair with.”

“Fine. I’ll give the five-minute version of my life’s story, but I want yours next. And it has to be the stuff that I can’t find on Google.”

“Deal.” I offer him my hand to shake on it. His large hand engulfs mine. His touch is soft, but strong.

A lot of men don’t know how to shake a petite female’s hand. I hate a squeezing grip. It reminds me of how players on the opposite team shake hands before the game. It’s used as a form of intimidation, and no one can make me feel unworthy.

I also dislike when men barely shake my hand, as if it’s so delicate that it might crumble in their strong grasp. I instantly dislike those men until they prove me wrong.

Graham’s handshake is perfect. It’s confident. It says, “I’m okay with who I am.” But it is also tender. As our hands separate, his fingertips brush the underside of my wrist, which sends shivers through my body.

If his touch has this effect, what will his lips do to me?

He’s relaxed in the booth. Not slouching. His posture is good. He appears to be comfortable. Before he speaks, he grabs his glass and takes a sip of the lemonade. I have no idea when the waitress delivered our drinks, but I also have a glass in front of me.

I pick up my red-frosted cup and bring it to my lips as he begins. “Alright Miss Early, here’s me in a nutshell. ‘It was never easy for me. I was born a poor black child …’”

I almost spit lemonade out of my nose. “I love that movie. Steve Martin is one of my favorite actors. I got to meet him at a fundraiser, and I was star-struck. For once, I didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘I love you.’ Not my finest moment,” I gush.

He leans forward so there’s nothing separating us but eighteen inches of too-thick air. “I’ve used that line so many times when I’ve been forced to talk about myself. You’re the first girl who hasn’t looked at me like I’m crazy.”

Before I can stop myself, I feel my stupid alabaster cheeks flush. Pride? Do I seriously feel pride that I’m the only girl who knows the old Steve Martin movie
The Jerk
?

This is pathetic, Rachael.

“You can’t distract me with movie quotes. Start talking, Jackson.”

He leans against the booth and stretches out his long arms along the back of the seat. “Born in Texas. Dad owns an accounting firm. Mom is a mom. I have one sister who is older than me and very bossy, but I still love her. She gave me my niece, who is also very bossy, but she makes up for it by being the smartest, funniest, most athletic and beautiful child that’s ever lived—not that I’m biased,” he says with a rueful smile.

He continues, “Went to Virginia on a lacrosse scholarship. Went to George Washington Law because I wasn’t ready to return to Houston after college and crunch numbers. Worked as a lobbyist for three years. Hated every moment that I was awake. Quit. Took the teaching and coaching job, and I love what I do so much that I look forward to going to work every day.” He pauses and his eyes cut to the ceiling. “Oh. And I adopted George from Lab Rescue about a year ago, and I have a pet turtle named Sam that lives in my classroom at school.”

I check my watch. “That was way less than five minutes. Now, I get to ask questions.”

He motions as if deferring to me. “Ask away. I don’t want you to have to read that big heavy binder to find out about me.”

“I’m from Houston also. What high school?”

“Same one as you.” He’s kind enough to leave out that he was probably in junior high when I was a senior.

“Really?” I am a bit surprised. It’s not too often that I meet alumni from my high school in D.C.

“My sister was in your class. Kelly Jackson?”

“Yes.” I gasp. “Kelly and I had physics together my senior year. How is she?”

His face softens like butter at the mention of her name. It’s so endearing that I smile. “She’s really awesome. Survived a breast cancer scare a couple of years ago, but she’s really doing well now.”

Kelly and I weren’t best friends, but I did know her. I can see the family resemblance now that he’s mentioned it. Her brother looks like how I remember her—she had long, dark locks, big, blue eyes. She was a nice girl. A little shy, but she was really bright. The news of her having had cancer is alarming for so many reasons. She’s a young mother, but it hits particularly close to my own mortality that she’s my age. “Oh, Graham. I’m so sorry to hear that she was sick. I’m glad that she’s doing well.”

“So are we.” He smiles, but it seems forced. A sadness that is very deep inside of him clouds his usually clear eyes. The air becomes swamped momentarily with grief, and I don’t have a clue how to make it better.

Fortunately, Graham does it for me. “There was a second there that I thought I might have to move back to the Lone Star State.”

He makes a mock horror face by imitating Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” and it causes me relief to know that the grey cloud has lifted. A giggle escapes my lips. “Anything but Texas.” I laugh.