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Me: I’d say good luck, but you definitely don’t need it.
Reese has the hardened musculature and fit body of a man who dedicates himself to maintaining peak human abilities.
Reese: Thanks for the vote of confidence.
Me: It was good to hear from you. Have a good week.
Reese: You too. Enjoy your yoga.
Again with his voice playing in my mind. My eyes close, and I squeeze my phone as hard as I can.
You have to let this go.
* * *
Not seeingReese first thing sends my Monday morning off-kilter. I prowl around the Residence, whiling away the minutes we’d normally be in the Oval.
Last night’s texts loop in my mind. I’ve reread them a dozen times. Lying in bed, and again this morning as I sipped my coffee and wondered about his fitness test. How easily did he pass? How far off the charts was he?
Normally, I leave my personal phone in the Residence during the day. My work and my self are separate, and the little things I do help reinforce that. Personal phone upstairs, usually on the kitchen counter, where I leave my book and my coffee cup.
But… You’re a fool, Brennan.
My day is a blur of meetings, policy proposals, phone calls, and negotiation. I’m in the Oval, the Situation Room, the Cabinet Room. When I can grab five minutes, I escape to the West Colonnade and the Rose Garden.
Blush-hued roses are blooming, the hot-house flowers large enough to cradle in my palm. Daffodils, buttercups, and tulips line the flagstones, and sun-dappled shade filters through the wavering branches of the crab apple trees.
Eyes closed, I breathe in the moment: the peace, the serenity. The intruding sounds of traffic on Seventeenth Street. The braying rise and fall of too-loud voices coming and going around the back side of the West Wing.
My phone vibrates in my pants pocket.
Hold on to this.To roses and sunshine and the hope budding in my chest. For a second, I can imagine Reese has texted me. When I check, I’ll surely be disappointed. But for a moment, one moment, hope can be mine.
It is him.
He’s texted me a picture of a target, the center completely obliterated, as if he shot out the same spot so many times he created a new bull’s-eye. The bullets must have whistled through empty air by the time he was done.
Though I’m Californian, I also spent twenty years in war and conflict zones. I have more than a passing familiarity with weapons and with what this kind of shooting arrangement means. Reese is good. Damn good.
Reese: Handgun qual passed. I can hit a target.How’s the office?
I smile. The office. Like we’re any other pair of coworkers.
Me: Busy. How’s RTC?
Reese: Also busy. About to go into a refresher class on psych and profiling. Then there’s a drill this evening.
Me: Drill?
Reese: We’re going to roleplay a hit on the motorcade. I’ll be detail lead. I’ve got to get our POTUS to the evac spot in under ninety seconds.
Here I am, watching a butterfly bouncing over the Rose Garden, and there Reese is, obliterating targets and role-playing how to save my life.
Me: Try to keep the president alive?
Reese: I always do.
* * *
