The World: According to Rachael Read online

  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.

  “Your turn. Tell me about you.” He puts his finger to his chin and narrows his gaze. “I want the good stuff.”

  I grab the paper napkin and begin to fidget with it under the table so he will not see just how much I hate talking about me. “Born in Houston. I think we lived in the same neighborhood,” I
tell him. His sister is bouncing around in my brain as I begin to recall more facts about his family. “My parents are ophthalmologists—still practicing. I’m an only child, but my best friend has a ton of sisters, so I kind of feel like I’m a part of their family. Graduated from Texas A&M University …”

  “I know that stuff. It was all over the news when you became the first female White House Chief of Staff. We agreed you’d tell me the things that I can’t Google.”

  “Fine,” I reply as I bite my lower lip and cut my eyes to the side. I’m such a private person that I don’t share a lot about me. Quickly, I wrack my brain for something to tell him. “My favorite color is green,” I blurt out.

  He motions for me to continue. “I love shoes …” I trail off giving him a sheepish grin.

  He crosses his arms over his thick chest. “Not good enough. I’ll ask the questions.”

  I prepare myself mentally, as if this is another interview with Barbara Walters. Pep talk: Rachael, you can do this. You have to let this guy in if you think you like him.

  “Would you rather have a fancy dinner with wine and champagne, or go to a hole-in-the-wall bar and drink beer?”

  I consider his question. I like nice dinners, but I don’t know if a teacher’s salary can afford them. I don’t want to put pressure on him, making him think that he has to spend money to date me. Date me? So I answer, “I like crawfish boils or barbecue. I like trying new and unique types of food. I’m not picky. It’s more about the company that I’m with rather than what or where we’re eating.” I don’t add that most of my meals are calculated social exercises to achieve a certain goal. I rarely eat for pleasure.

  Graham’s eyes, I’m learning, are truly the windows to his soul. Without him saying a word, they light up. I must have said the right thing. “I like that answer, and I agree.”

  He takes a sip of his drink and asks, “Favorite movie not starring Steve Martin?”

  “Not sure. I like horror. Next,” I prompt.

  Fortunately, our food arrives, but I can tell by the look on Graham’s face that the waitress did not save me. However, she did buy me a few moments to think what my favorite movies are. I usually respond with All the President’s Men or Forest Gump. Both are respectable movies that aren’t controversial. However, as I watch the waitress unload her tray of food on to our table, I question what my favorite movies really are. I love anything with Steve Martin, but if I were to Netflix a movie to watch by myself, what would I choose? The answer “I don’t know” scares me more than I wish to dwell on.

  “This smells divine.” I begin to prepare my burger patty by using my knife to smear the mayonnaise on the meat. I peek up through my lashes and catch Graham watching me with a crinkled forehead.

  “What?” I ask defensively.

  “Nothing,” he says as he removes the tomato and adds extra pickles to his.

  “No. What?” I demand, a bit thankful that the twenty questions directed my way seem to be forgotten for the moment.

  He shakes his head and laughs as he uses his knife to cut his burger into two equal parts. “I’m just surprised that people eat mayo. That’s all.”

  “What do you have against mayonnaise?” I ask just before I place my first forkful of burger patty in my mouth.

  “Besides the fact that it smells like feet, and it tastes like the ass end of a rhino?” His eyebrow cocks up as he responds. There’s that damn dimple again.

  I lick a drop of mayo off my finger, sucking as it exits my mouth. My eyes drift towards the ceiling. A soft moan escapes my lips. In my best Marilyn Monroe voice, I say, “I’ve never tasted a rhino’s behind, but this mayo sure is tasty.”

  Graham’s clear blue eyes cloud with what I think is lust. He leans forward placing his elbows on the table. In a deeper voice, “When you put it that way, maybe I could become a fan of mayonnaise.”

  He leans back and takes a mouthful of his burger, and I chuckle as I grab an onion ring and take a bite. They’re as good as he promised. “Your turn.” I offer him the rest of my ring.

  I almost choke on my bite of burger when he takes the ring from my hand, dips it in ketchup and then uses his long tongue to lick the sauce off. When he’s finished, he smiles. “Best damn onion rings in D.C.”

  “I’ll say,” I reply as I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

  The physical attraction between us is obvious to a blind man, but what amazes me is how comfortable I feel with him. Our bodies are buzzing with sexual tension yet we’re able to discuss movies and music like best friends catching up over lunch. I don’t think even with Aiden it felt this natural and unforced.

  We spend the rest of lunch discussing nothing in particular. I talk about inconsequential things with him like silly stuff that happened at work, and it’s so refreshing that I can actually come up with mindless conversation when I didn’t think it was possible. Graham decides that we should skip dessert and the movie, and go enjoy an unseasonably warm day outside. I don’t care. I’m not ready to go back to normal life yet because I’m enjoying how this feels way too much.

  As we exit the restaurant, both of us slip on aviator sunglasses. They’re the same pair of Ray-Bans. His are the male version, and mine the female. “We have on the same style of glasses,” I note.

  He stops and turns so he’s looking directly at me. I feel him probing me with his eyes, and my natural instinct is to deflect—look away, make a joke, change the subject, keep walking, anything to protect myself from being examined. After a couple of heartbeats, he leans down and places a sweet kiss on the tip of my nose. “Excellent taste, Miss Early.”

  My breath catches in my chest. It was a peck. No more than the way a mom kisses her son, or an uncle kisses his niece, but I felt his lips caress the twin bumps at the end of my nose, and I tingled with excitement.

  We’ve begun to walk, but for the life of me, I can’t remember giving my legs permission to move forward. He offers me his elbow, and I lace my arm through it, enjoying the touch of my hand on his solid forearm.

  Lou follows at a safe but respectful distance behind us, as Graham and I walk to a lovely park near the Smithsonian. I told Graham a bit about Lou last night when he asked me out. He’s been such a fixture in my life for the last seven years that I can pretend that he isn’t around.

  “Don’t look now,” Graham says doing an exaggerated head turn over both shoulders. “We’re being followed.”

  It’s such a cheesy joke, but I laugh like it’s the funniest thing that I’ve heard. “Ignore Lou.” I gasp between giggles. “I do.”

  We start discussing the crazy warm weather that has blessed D.C., and we contemplate what this means for our winter. We keep a casual banter going that turns into us playfully arguing over whether boxing or MMA is a superior sport.

  Finally, I feel like this is a conversation that I’m equipped to have. I defend boxing and he makes thoughtful counterpoints on why MMA is better. Even though he’s clearly wrong, I enjoy having a nice debate. I like that he’s very intelligent, knows how to formulate an argument, and doesn’t resort to silliness like “just because” or “so what.”

  We agree to disagree. Graham changes the subject to his students, and shares with me a story about one of the essay responses on a test he recently gave. I find myself noting just how average this feels.

  Average is not something I’ve ever strived for, but there’s something to be said about spending a Sunday actually relaxing. Since Aiden and I ended our relationship, I haven’t felt average or normal or any other adjective that fits. We broke up, and I threw every bit of myself into the campaign. It dawns on me that I created this new normal for me, and it’s a normal that is not necessarily good.

  “So I call the kid into my office and have him retake the test,” Graham continues as we stroll down the sidewalk. He pauses because I’ve fallen behind. “Rachael, are you listening?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I’m listening. You had the student retake the test …” I prompt as I narrow t
he gap between us.

  “Never mind,” he says as we enter through the wrought-iron gated entrance. It seems that everyone in D.C. had the same idea that we did—enjoy this gorgeous weather. There’s a large group playing Frisbee. Couples and families are picnicking. There are so many blankets spread on the thick carpet of grass that some of them are touching.

  “Looks like great minds think alike,” I state as Graham smoothly transitions from my arm laced with his elbow to him holding my hand.

  “What do you think? We could still catch that movie.”

  I shake my head. “Do you know what time it is?” I have a watch on my wrist. I don’t know why I ask the question other than I just wanted to try out another normal question.

  Instead of letting go of my hand, he raises both of our arms to check his watch. I giggle. I don’t think that a giggle has escaped my lips in—well—maybe ever.

  “It’s a little after four o’clock.”

  “I should probably get home. This is a busier than usual week for me.”

  “How far are you from here?”

  “Less than a mile.”

  “Mind if I walk with you?”

  What a loaded question. Is that another way of saying, “Can I come up for a drink?”

  I don’t invite anyone into my home for numerous reasons. Unless my housekeeper just left, it’s generally a wreck. My overly-used furniture doesn’t scream welcome to my home. It is more a place that holds my belongings, and a roof with four walls to sleep in rather than an actual home.

  We walk out of the park and turn onto the street that leads to where I live. After a couple of seconds, I say, “You know, Graham, I’m not sure that this is a good idea. Lou can make sure I get home okay. It is his job.” Those pre-date butterflies have turned into bats that are battling to get out of my stomach. I’m terrified of this turning into something more. With this strong of a connection, I’m not sure if I have the ability to keep it to just sex.