AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ChapterTwelve
Brennan
Then
Airplanes pass beyond the Washington Monument, dots from their wing lights flashing against a cotton candy sky. Spring is on its way, and an unseasonably warm evening brought me out to the Truman Balcony.
I’m in a T-shirt and my running leggings, sprawled on a chaise lounge overlooking the South Lawn. There are two lounges out here, but of course, I’m alone. I threw my hoodie and my water bottle onto the other one.
I’m trying to keep myself focused, keep my mind right, but the whole weekend has passed and Reese never texted.
I have no right to be bothered. What are we to each other, really? Colleagues, at best. Two people whose duties bring them in proximity.
One man hopelessly crushing on the other.
A week apart will help calm my mind. I try to keep my fantasies contained, hem them into the walls of my bedroom, but during the day, my attention wanders from my binders and briefs, and suddenly I’m replaying our conversations or remembering the shape of Reese’s smile.
There is a quiet loneliness inside of me. It’s always been there, but since I met Reese, it has grown larger. Deeper. It reaches out more often, like ice-cold fingers drifting up my spine.
Tonight is supposed to be about returning to my center. Finding myself again and settling my thoughts. Remembering the promises I made, and why.
Sérgio Vieira de Mello’s biography is beside me. He was a complicated man, but he was my hero, and a man who made me truly believe that one person’s hope turned into action could change the world. The fires of his too-short life lit my own need to seek answers that will solve the mountains of intractable problems tearing apart our world. There are solutions, if we’re only brave enough to find them beyond our anger and our pain.
I found my solution years ago. What is one man’s loneliness, set against the world’s hurt?
For a few hours, I need to be me. There’s no presidency out here. No briefs or binders, no secure BlackBerry, no statements or speeches to read through and edit. There are times when I wish I could strip off this office, hang it up, and let myself be a man for a day. Or a night.
One night where I could ask Reese to dinner.
Stop. Eyes closed. Inhale.
Not this life, Brennan.
Another chapter, or maybe another series of asanas—
Buzz, buzz.
It was a fool’s optimism that had me bring my personal cell with me outside. Reese has had my number for over sixty hours, and he hasn’t texted once. What’s the likelihood the next few hours will unfurl any differently?
Buzz, buzz. Another text.
It could be from Matt, or from any of the small handful of people who keep in contact with me personally. My private and professional lives have always been rigorously divided. Work has a separate phone—a BlackBerry, secured by the NSA, impenetrable to hackers or foreign governments—and I have a lonely little Android, the screen gleaming from the chaise beside me. The background is a picture I took from Baker Beach, nothing but fog and crashing waves and the unknown stretching into infinity.
I don’t recognize the number that’s texted. Area code 202. Washington, DC. Please, not a reporter who uncovered my private number.
Please, let it be him.
The first text is short and to the point.
Hey. Followed by, This is Theriot. Reese. Just got checked in here at RTC.
Four minutes have passed between his last message and now, and as I read the words for the eighth time, three little dots appear, dancing below his message.
Reese: Anyway, have a good week.
Hi, I text back. I’m glad to hear from you.
Reese:Oh, hey. I thought you might be busy.
