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Sheridan’s thoughts must be mirroring mine, because he says, “Reminds me of when we did that run with him.”
“Little bit.” We’re hovering in the shadows of the East Wing entrance, not ready to say goodbye yet.
Henry was with us then.
But the memory isn’t cutting as sharply now. He was there. He’s not here now. He made his choices, and those choices removed him from our lives. Now his ashes are in a box in the director’s office.
“We should do that again,” Sheridan says. “That was a good night.”
“It was. And we will.” We share a smile, like we’ve both put something away. “Hey, just a heads-up. I’ll be by the apartment this weekend. I’ve got to do laundry, pick up dry cleaning, do some stuff.”
“Of course. It’s your place.”
“It’s our place.”
He flushes.
“Are you free? We could hit the court, too.”
Another Sheridan smile. “Yeah, definitely. And bring him, if he’s free?” Sheridan nods to the White House.
He’s stuck in that place where, now that he knows Brennan, now that he’s laughed with him and made dinner with him, it feels too distant to call him POTUS, yet too familiar to call him by his name. Brennan will catch his awkwardness soon, and then he’ll tell Sheridan, “Call me Brennan,” and Sheridan will turn as neon as a bayou beer sign flickering over the marshy waters.
Sheridan’s grin turns wicked. “He can cheer you on while I’m destroying you.”
“Oh, you have big dreams.”
“Bring it. Let’s see what you got.”
“You’re asking for it now.”
“I’m confident.”
I shove him, gently. He’s laughing, shoulders loose, head tipped back, and he drops down the steps of the East Wing entrance with a contented sigh. “See you tomorrow,” he calls.
“Later, ’gator.”
I watch him head into the night, his hands in his pockets, face turned up to the stars.
We’re going to be okay.
* * *
I walk backinto the Residence and stop in my tracks.
Soft blues are playing, the mournful, soul-melting kind. My favorite. Candles are lit, four or five scattered on the tables in the West Sitting Hall. There’s a glow coming from Brennan’s bedroom, too, as if there are more lit inside.
And Brennan is waiting for me. He holds out his hand. “Danse avec moi, mon amour.”
We dance until the candles burn out, murmuring sweet nothings into each other's ears. Promises for tomorrow, for the day after, for all the days to come. He runs his thumb over the band of my ring, kisses my hand and my fingers. I hold him close, brush our lips together. Our noses, our foreheads, until we’re as close as we can be without being inside each other.
“Mon cher, tu es l’amour de ma vie.”
“And you are the love of my life,” Brennan whispers back, before he kisses me more softly, more sweetly, than he ever has before.
* * *
I’m lyingin Brennan’s bed, naked, tangled in his arms. I draw shapes on his chest, lazy hearts and suns and egrets. My ring catches the light. Months ago, I’d have hid this. Worn it on a chain around my neck. Now? Let the world see I am taken.
