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He makes my days—the long hours, the endless shifts, the constantly changing threat assessments—feel amazing, because each morning, he looks at me like that, and that reorders my whole fucking world.
And then there are the reactions I pull from him. How he laughs, tipping his head back against the sofa as a smile lights him up. How he holds my gaze and makes me want to stay, as if I can stop time and live inside the Oval forever.
I ask him for stories of his own. He tells me how he moved overseas right after law school, bouncing around the globe as a human rights lawyer. He helped excavate mass graves in the Balkans and Rwanda and Cambodia. He’s testified at the International Criminal Court.
He tells me that every time he pulled a bone out of the ground, he made a promise to that lost life that he’d do something to stop those horrors from happening yet again. Eventually, he says, he realized the only way to change the world was to change the people who were making the decisions for it.
He went home to California. He burned from the inside out, passionately advocating for the individual human dignity of every life. He won the mayor’s office in a landslide.
He spent weekends in soup kitchens and homeless shelters and built houses with his own hands. He created job training programs funded by city businesses in exchange for tax breaks, fighting inequality with an “Everyone helps everyone together” approach. Community policing became more than a fancy phrase, and the police and the public worked together to build trust. Law enforcement officers volunteered in schools and shelters and community centers, substitute taught in classrooms, worked shifts in the city’s emergency rooms.
I hear about the people he’s collected. Half his cabinet came from California and have been with him for decades. The loyalty he creates is inspiring. It would be hard to believe if it weren’t working so deeply, so perfectly, on me.
Why—how—is he single? Why do I get chunks of his free time? Why isn’t he spending his mornings with a beautiful wife and gorgeous children? Walker dated a small army of women when he was mayor, but no one has been linked to him since his first term as governor.
One Friday, I ask, “And you never met anyone you wanted to marry?” Merde, I want to swallow my tongue. What right do I have to interrogate him? “That was way too personal. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not too personal. That door closed a while ago, for multiple reasons. I’ve never been close enough to anyone to think about marriage. The higher I climbed in politics, the more I realized the people around me wanted what I could do for them rather than who I was.”
“Your team adores you.”
“My people believe in my vision. That’s a world apart from finding someone to share my life with. For that, I want to be loved for who I am when I’m not the president.” His gaze shifts back to me. “You’ve never mentioned someone special.” His voice rises, a question.
“No woman was interested in signing up for this ride.” My voice is half laughter, half derision, the way all single men talk about their failing love lives.
“Why not?” He sounds genuinely confused. A frown furrows his forehead.
“It’s hard to build a relationship with someone who’s never home. They see the badge and the gun, and maybe they’re interested in the idea, but then they get a taste of the duty schedule and they book it for the hills. If I’m not standing post for twelve hours in a row, I’m flying off on advance trips for weeks at a time. That’s not the life that women want to sign up for.”
“They don’t know what they’re missing.”
We’re in our places on the sofa—our places, because we spend so much time together—and the minutes are bleeding away. Matt arrives in the Outer Oval, puttering around at his desk. He’s singing along with something I can’t hear through the walls, probably still wearing his earbuds.
“It’s time, Mr. President.” I stand.
He stands with me. We’re so close our forearms brush as we button up our suit jackets. Even through layers of fabric, his touch is enough to undo me.
Reflections of my dream from two nights ago slice my thoughts: a man’s hand on my arm, a man’s fingers sliding along my skin, the touch so hot it burns. Bare chests pressed together, strong arms wrapping around my waist, a puff of breath over my lips. Starlit eyes, impossibly blue.
The dreams are coming more frequently now. Each time I wake from one, I close the door on them forever.
Or so I lie to myself.
We’re staring at each other as our time runs out and three quick raps sound on the Oval Office door.Matt enters with the president’s agenda and says, “Good morning, Mr. President. Good morning, Agent Theriot,” no longer surprised to see me here first thing.
“Morning, Matt.” I give him a nod, though my attention is locked on President Walker. He’s taken the agenda from Matt, but he hasn’t looked at it. Instead, he’s watching me as if the world can wait.
Matt slips out, and it’s just Walker and me in the Oval as the West Wing comes to life.
I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, but that’s become my mantra these days. “There’s one more thing, Mr. President. I won’t be here next week.”
Surprise flicks across his features. “Vacation? You’ve more than earned one.” He smiles. “Have to say, I’m jealous. I’d love to get away.”
“Sadly, not a vacation. Every agent on the detail rotates out for refresher training twice a quarter. It’s my turn, and I’ll be at Rowley—the Secret Service training center—all next week.”
We have to stay razor sharp on our skills. Every six weeks, we’re back on the courses, qualifying on driving, weapons, and scenario drills. We have to be at the absolute edge of our limits, always.
I’ve known for weeks that this has been coming, but I haven’t wanted to look too closely at the way it’s set my mind on edge. I’m wrestling with impossibilities, too frustrated and annoyed to examine what’s moving beneath these currents inside me.
