The First Affair (18 page)

I watched him take apart in seconds items I had made entire evenings out of wrapping, stopping only short of potato-stamping the paper. “Oh wow.” It was the cuff links that seemed to most delight him. “Oh, Jamie, I love them. This. All of it.”

“Really?”

His face was wistful as his thumb traced the little silver spokes. “I don’t deserve you.” After a moment, he slid his hand over where mine sat on the cool ridges of the plaster bow. He squeezed my fingers, then tugged me onto his lap, dropping his chin to my forehead. I pressed his arms to hold me even tighter, nestling against the softness of his sweater. “You’re everything, Jamie. You know that, right?”

I inhaled, my face pushed into his chest, trying to memorize the feel of him—except that I didn’t have to. “We made it,” I said, lifting my face to his. I sensed the hesitancy that was the precursor to his kiss.

“You’re not mad at me?” he asked, looking like a boy.

“I just missed you.” Which is the answer he seemed to need to lay me down beneath the evergreen and sink his lips onto my skin. There was the familiar feel of my fingers slipping through his hair as he roved down my collarbone, working at the buttons of my blouse. He slid it open and nestled his warm cheek against my chest, pushing his hands under me to hold me tighter. Then he relaxed, resting his head, and I was struck by the weight of it. “God, Jamie. Everyone else needs so much, needs me to know—you’re the only place I can—I should be able to just get you. You should be mine.”

I stroked his hair off his forehead and smiled up at the elaborate molding. “I am.” I reached down to his belt, pulling him up to kiss me as tenderness was replaced with frenzy.

• • •

Later, while buttoning my jeans, I tried to feel purely elated, instead of frustrated that he still wouldn’t give over to me. I knew if he’d just let himself be inside me—come—that this would be over, the uncertainty, the longing; we’d be soldered together. I heard Jean clearing her throat as she returned to the outer office.

“So, my job.” I combed my hair with my fingers.

“Yes.” He finished tucking in his shirt.

“That’s in process?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve talked to Margaret?”

“It’s being worked on. Everything is being worked on. We all just have to keep on it.”

“By Margaret,” I sought confirmation.

“It’s an HR issue. So no, not Margaret.”

“It’s just that my student loans kick in this month. And I have to move out. So I need a paycheck ASAP.”

“Jamie, if I could give you money I would.”

“Oh, God, no,” I said, mortified, “No, I don’t want money. I’m not a—” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Just a job.”

He took my coat from me and draped it over my shoulders.

“Who in HR?” I asked as he kissed me.

“Jamie, there’s so much I’m holding in my head—Iran and North Korea—and this damn harassment setup is dragging into a colossal waste of time—”

“No, I know! I know, that’s why I was asking. Just if I knew who the person was I could, I don’t know, will that to go well or something.”

He sighed. “Chris.”

“Chris. Great, I shall cross my fingers and toes and light my candles for Chris.”

He winked.

“I can’t wait to be back.”

“It’s amazing to see you.”

• • •

“Hi, Chris?” I waited until after nine on the Wednesday following the inauguration. I had made it through a blitzkrieg of First Family pictures and Rutlandmania and now, huddled near the guard booth, I switched my umbrella to my other shoulder, my first loan bill dampening in my coat pocket.

“Yup.”

“Hi, this is Jamie McAlister.” I knew I shouldn’t do it. But I literally couldn’t afford to passively “keep on it.”

“Hi.”

“Hi, I know you’re working on this, but I was wondering if maybe we could talk for a few minutes.”

“Um—”

“I’m in the neighborhood now, actually. I thought it might be helpful if we touched base in person. I just want to be sure I’m doing all I can on my end to move this along.”

“Move what along?”

“Sorry, is this Chris Doyle?”

“Yes.”

“So you weren’t, um, informed about my transfer?”

“I was not.”

“Is there another Chris in Human Resources?”

“There’s Christine Hooper . . .”

“Right! Hooper! Right. Could you, uh, transfer me to her? Thank you so much. So sorry.”

The slush puddle rhythmically splashed the curb as cars passed.

“Christine Hooper.”

“Christine! Hi, this is Jamie McAlister. I’m so sorry to bother you. I know you’re doing everything you can—please know that I know that. But if you could just give me an overview of the situation I would so appreciate it.”

“Is this for a medical or dental claim?”

“This is for my job. Didn’t . . . he talk to you about me?”

“We don’t speak directly with practitioners. If this is job-related, you need to speak to Maureen regarding disability. I don’t cover that.”

The wet flakes became harder. “This is Jamie McAlister. In the Department of Homeland Security. Nobody talked to you about my transfer?”

“You would need to talk to the DOHS about your benefits—”

“Are there any other people with the name Chris in HR?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.”

“Chris Doyle.”

• • •

Water seeping through my tights, I walked to my desk and sat in my sodden coat, my papers weighted under that porcelain bow.

I didn’t know what to do next.

I dialed Rachelle, but the call went straight to voicemail.

Then Paul was over me, offering me the rest of his muffin. I stood up, steering him by the elbow right into the stairwell. “Jamie—”

“What do you know about Brianne?” I asked as the door clicked shut behind us.

“Brianne?” He coughed, spitting crumbs.

“
Was
he the reason she lost her job?”

“You’re shaking. What happened to you?”

“Tell me.” I stared him down.

“I can’t. Jesus, Jamie.”

“Tell me—I need to know. I need to.”

“Why?”

“Paul,
tell me
.”

“Get back to work.” He went to leave and I grabbed him.

“I
need
to know, Paul. I
need
to.” I could feel my lips quivering, my cheeks wetting; I’m sure I seemed hysterical. “Please.
Please
help me.”

He stared at me. A raisin fell on the floor.

Then his blinking eyes widened. He took an audible breath. “You . . . and
Rutland
.”

“Please.”

His lids held open like an awning wound too far back. “It was late,” he said without inflection. “I brought him something to sign about apples. A pesticide thing. Something from the EPA. She came in, passed something off; as she was leaving he said he wanted to bite that apple.”

It was so gross, so tacky, stupid, like something one of my uncles would say, thinking it was suave. I couldn’t imagine him saying it. And yet it was costing Paul so much, there was no reason to doubt him.

“I’m a tiny part of the case. There are hundreds of people on the witness list—”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone,” I begged him. “Nobody. Please.”

He nodded.

• • •

I went back out in the downpour, forgetting my umbrella.

“Hello, dear,” Jean answered.

“Is he there?”

“He’s with someone just now.”

“I need to see him.” The rain cut against the back of my head.

“I’ll try to schedule a call.”

“No, not a call. A meeting. I can come in whenever.”

There was the tiniest pause.

“I spoke to HR. Do you know if he spoke to someone about bringing me back? Because I called them and I don’t think he did.”

“I’m sure he’d like to talk to you directly. I’ll have him call you, I promise,” she added.

“Thank you.” My phone hadn’t even made it into my pocket before it rang.

“Jamie, the President would like you to come in right now.”

• • •

I arrived soaked, my hair dripping down my coat. Jean stood, already in her trench, a look of alarm breaking through her disciplined face. He came to his door and they exchanged a nod.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she told us, not bothering to invoke a coffee run as she departed.

He glowered. “Come in.” I walked past him into the office, his curtains drawn against the storm. “I’m fucking busy, Jamie.”

“I know that.”

“If you’re looking for attention, and I’m starting to wonder if you are, then stick with the boys on K Street. I don’t have time for this bullshit. You’re checking up on me? That is
exactly
why I didn’t give you the real name of the person.” He circled behind his desk.

“So there’s a real person?” Drops fell to the carpet around me as if I were dissolving.

“How can I trust you?”

“Me?”
A spring tightened in my chest.

“You’re cold-calling people? Putting me in jeopardy? Did you tell your
father
?”

It sprang like shrapnel. “That was a joke,” I rushed, “just his sense of humor—he’s been saying that since I was—”

“The answer’s obvious that I can’t. I can’t trust you, which is just,
uch
.” He sat heavily in his chair and dropped his head into his hands, deflating. “I can’t.”

“Greg,” I said, but he shifted his gaze to the wall, to some oil portrait of a mutton-chopped predecessor. He was pulling away from me; I could feel him making the decision right under my gaze and it was untenable.

I walked around the desk, right up to his bent head. I wanted him to seize me as he always had, but he didn’t move. I didn’t feel any sense of his will. I slipped my leg between his . . . he let me. I lowered to my knees. Still no response. I ran my forearm along his thigh, his legs opening as I brought my lips to his ear. “You can,” I murmured as I arrived at the growing stiffness straining the wool of his trousers. My fingers deftly worked his belt. I watched myself do this, removed, wondering what I would do next. His eyes met mine. “You can,” I said again. “Put your trust.” I held his pained gaze. “In me.” I lowered my head and his fingers wove into my hair.

• • •

Minutes later I sat in his lap, coat still on, my legs wrapped around him in the shadows. He brought his palms to my cheeks and kissed me deeply.

“Get this mystery person to hurry up,” I said into his mouth as the patter of sleet softened. “I mean, solve world peace, and then, please bring me back.”

“Thanks for setting me straight.”

“Is that what I did?”

He laughed. And then pretended to faint back on his chair. His face clouded and he opened his eyes. “Someone’s going to snatch you up.”

“I’m snatched.” I nuzzled him.

“Seriously, you’re going to meet some virile kid without my baggage and you’ll forget you even knew me.”

“I prefer brooding intellects.”

“Not football players?”

“No! My first boyfriend was a librarian.”

“A librarian?”

“I mean, he wasn’t, like, a dork. He revitalized one in the Lower Ninth Ward after the hurricane wiped it out. Then he took over in Naperville and started this literacy—”

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know, it was, like, sixth grade.”

“You were twelve.”

I pushed back from his chest. “Well, at first. I mean, it wasn’t—Mike was funny and sweet and it wasn’t like—” But he was looking at me strangely. “I should probably place my soda order before Jean gets back.” I climbed to my feet, wanting for the first time to get away from him.

He nodded, standing to buckle his belt, lost in thought.

“So, we’re good, and you’ll call me and I’ll be back here soon,” I said as if I were reviewing a grocery list with my grandma.

He gazed at me with unprecedented care.

“Jamie.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

I nodded, trying to shrug. “Just get me a job, already.” I found a smile and at some point realized I’d left.

Chapter Eight

January 23

It’s such a flaw in our design that at the moment one’s thinking is at its most scrambled and murky, emotions are staggeringly clear. Walking home from Greg’s office that night, it was like my thoughts were boxing on steroids. I had to DO something, FIX something, STOP something from getting worse. A car honked and I froze in its headlights. Racing out of oncoming traffic, I silently screamed at myself that Greg trusted me—trusted me so much that he’d finally
let himself go
. WE WERE OKAY. We were okay!
I
was okay! He was finding me a job.
I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay
 . . .

But my gut could give a fuck. I arrived at the dark apartment, too nauseous to even smoke, or call Rachelle. Falling back on a coping strategy from when my parents would be out searching parking lots for Erica, I paced the apartment’s periphery. When that wasn’t cutting it, I pulled off my socks and stepped out onto the snow-covered balcony, letting my feet burn into numbness. Ideas fragmented before I could follow them to conclusion, my insides shattering in concert.

I have no idea what time it was when I finally remembered Mike was here, in D.C., all of a cab ride away. Even though I had never responded to his overture, I picked up my phone.

“I need to see you.”
Seeing the text send made my chest loosen perceptibly. I stood in the dark hallway, sensation pricking back into my red feet.

A few seconds later the phone glowed with his response.
“Where are you?”

“The Washingtonian off Virginia.”

“Meet you in the morning. 7:30.”

As if the key in my back had finally unwound, I crumpled atop my bed into a black sleep.

• • •

In the morning, I hurried to get my dog-walking done before Mike arrived. It was a blustery day, snowflakes blowing laterally in a way that reminded me of soup commercials. On the patch of shoveled grass across the street, there was a shivering man from the Nairobi Embassy in a quilted barn jacket that couldn’t have been doing anything to insulate him. He inquired about my service as his Rhodesian ridgeback tried to play with—or devour, or play with,
then
devour—my charges.