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On the other side of the kitchen island, Brennan is teaching Sheridan how to make bacon-wrapped goat cheese asparagus. We’re eating good tonight, it seems, despite my dire warnings.
While my pan simmers, I watch Brennan and Sheridan as they make a mess out of the goat cheese. Based on what’s happening over there, Sheridan might never have seen the inside of a kitchen. He’s flushed and trying not to laugh. Brennan is laughing, and they both look as relaxed as I’ve seen either of them since the cargo hold.
It’s almost enough to make me look away from the splint on Brennan’s hand or the bruises still discoloring his cheek, chin, and eye.
But not quite.
When they’re finished, I pass out victory beers for us all, and we clutter up the kitchen while the asparagus bakes and the mac and cheese simmers.
Sheridan and Brennan get along as well as they did when we ran the Mall. This time, Brennan makes Sheridan laugh with his stories of California politics and the absurdities of the West Wing. He does his impression of McClintock again, and it’s just as funny as the first time I heard it, running at his side on the South Lawn track.
McClintock and Brennan have buried the hatchet. McClintock was scarred by Brennan’s abduction and near slaying, and he’d cried when he took Brennan’s hand at his hospital bedside. They’ve found peace between them.
We keep the good times rolling through dinner. Brennan and Sheridan are such different men, but they come together like equals. It’s never awkward. Never stilted.
Brennan knows everything about Sheridan and me. How Henry shaped us, drew us together, dragged us apart. He listened last night as I choked through my confession of what happened in that cramped bathroom. “I thought he knew where you were. And, in that moment, I realized I would do anything to get you back. Anything, Brennan. I would have pulled the trigger on a lot of choices in there, even if they cost me Sheridan.”
“But you didn’t pull the trigger.”
He meant it metaphorically. I meant it literally. I scraped my teeth over my bottom lip and let my gaze crater to the floor.
“Reese.” His hand cupped my cheek, and he turned my face up to his. “Mon cher.” I smiled. He kissed my forehead, my nose, my lips. “You are a good man. One of the finest I’ve ever known.”
I told him about the basketball court, too, and how Sheridan’s kindness was the only thing that kept me sane as I crawled the walls of my regret. He’d smiled and said, “I’m glad he was there for you.”
“But who was there for you?”
I already knew the answer. Guilt sliced me from belly to sternum.
“That’s the past.” Brennan kissed me again. “What matters is now and what we do with today. Tomorrow is a dream. The past is forgotten. Today, I love you.”
“You’re a far better man than I am, mon cher.”
“I disagree.”
We played the “No, you are,” and “I love you more” game until our kisses claimed our words, and the rest of the night we spoke with our hands and our bodies as we made love.
It doesn’t matter what he says, though. The truth is objective. Brennan Walker is the best man I’ve ever known and ever will know.
Watching him bring another smile to Sheridan’s face at our kitchen table only solidifies that conviction. He’s got Sheridan talking about the basketball league he and Nuñez organized within the detail. Sheridan owns that, and those games are wholly his. Henry never brushed against those, at least. Sheridan can hold on to his memories untainted.
“Do you play?” Sheridan asks Brennan.
“In high school, but I mostly warmed the bench. When I worked overseas, there were a lot of casual games. Basketball is one of the universal sports. No matter where I was or who I was with, everyone knew how to play.” He grins. “Most of the time our hoops were baskets on the ends of brooms stuck in the ground. It was easy to dunk.”
Sheridan laughs, again. I’m drunk on the sound of their voices and their laughs. Their happiness has lit fireworks in my veins, and I’m content to sit back and watch. Hold Brennan’s hand and smile.
This is not the life I deserve, but it is the life I’ve been granted.
“Maybe we could play a few games?” Sheridan asks.
“When this comes off—” Brennan waves his splinted hand. “Absolutely.”
After dinner, Sheridan insists on helping with the dishes, and he dries as I wash while Brennan sits on the kitchen island. It’s late when we’re done, late enough that Brennan should be alone and neither Sheridan nor I should be anywhere near the Residence.
But this is our White House. We know every person inside these walls, all the way down to their molecules. The rat is gone. And for the moment, we—and Brennan and I—are safe.
It’s almost eleven by the time I escort Sheridan down from the Residence and across the East Wing. We’re alone, and we pop out on the same small parking lot we used when we smuggled Brennan out to run the Mall.
