15. #2
Because I don't actually know how to finish that sentence without sounding ridiculous.
Heat creeps up the back of my neck the longer he looks at me.
Grant's gaze hasn't left mine.
And that's when his hand slides from my shoulder to my collarbone.
Then slowly up my neck. "Tell me what you want."
"You know already," I whisper, glancing down.
"I don't," he says evenly. "You need to tell me."
There's nothing harsh in the way he says it. If anything, it feels steady — like he's placing something firmly in front of me and waiting for me to decide whether I'm going to pick it up.
His thumb lingers for a second longer against my lip before sliding away. His hand drops slowly back to my collarbone, resting there, warm and patient.
Waiting.
He's close enough that I can feel the quiet rise and fall of his breathing, the space between us so thin that one small shift would close it completely.
My mouth opens.
The words sit right there — obvious, simple — but they refuse to move.
I've never had to say them before.
With Rodney, there was never a question. Things happened when he wanted them to happen, and the rest of the time I learned not to think about what I might want at all.
With the other guy... I was too young to even understand what wanting something like that was supposed to feel like.
Now the words are sitting somewhere behind my teeth.
Stuck.
My breathing grows shallower the longer the silence stretches between us.
I try again.
Nothing.
And just when it feels like I might finally push past it—
His alarm goes off.
The sharp sound cuts clean through the moment.
We both freeze.
For a second neither of us moves, like the spell hasn't quite realized it's been broken yet.
Then Grant exhales quietly and glances down at his watch.
"Break time's over."
There's the smallest flicker of frustration in his expression before he smooths it away.
"Unfortunately."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
He leans forward and presses a quick kiss to my lips.
Then he lifts me easily from his lap and sets me back on my feet.
We walk toward the door together.
I slip my shoes back on while he grabs his keys from the counter.
"Any free time before Thursday?" he asks.
"I'm in D.C. until Tuesday."
He nods once.
"Tomorrow night?"
I glance up at him and nod.
He steps just a little closer, his mouth curving slightly.
"We'll work on you using your words."
Heat floods my face instantly.
He opens the door and walks me out to my car, pulling it open for me before stepping back.
"Drive safe."
I look up at him.
"You too."
He closes the door gently.
By the time I pull away from the curb, I'm still thinking about the way he said it.
Using your words.
I type the next address into my maps.
The GPS says twelve minutes.
Georgetown Law.
I glance at the rearview mirror and catch the black SUV two cars back.
Of course.
They found me again.
My grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel my mind going else where.
Grant stops every time.
Not abruptly. Not awkwardly. Just right before things cross into something else.
Maybe he just isn't that attracted to me.
My stomach twists slightly at the idea.
I glance down briefly at what I'm wearing.
Lounge pants.
A soft sweater.
My hair pulled back in the loose knot I threw it into this morning.
Most of the time when I see Grant, I look like this.
Comfortable.
Relaxed.
Rodney hates when I dress like this.
You look unkempt, he likes to say.
Lazy.
Like you stopped trying.
The memory makes my jaw tighten.
Maybe Grant thinks the same thing.
Maybe every time I show up in sweatpants and messy hair he's quietly thinking I could've tried harder.
Maybe that's why he keeps stopping.
Maybe—
The GPS interrupts my thoughts.
"Arriving at destination."
The building rises in front of me, brick and ivy and wide stone steps that look older than everything I've been living inside lately.
My spiral cuts off mid-thought.
Because suddenly I'm here.
I sit in the car for a second before stepping out.
One of the agents nods politely. "Ma'am."
"Thank you," I reply.
Inside, the building smells like books and coffee.
Not polished floors and disinfectant like the White House.
The admissions director, Ms. Holloway, greets me with a firm handshake.
"We're honored you're considering us."
I almost laugh.
If she knew how badly I need this.
We sit in her office. Shelves lined with law textbooks. Framed degrees. A window overlooking campus.
"So," she says, folding her hands on the desk, "tell me what's bringing you back to school."
The question feels heavier than it should.
"I majored in criminal justice," I say. "It's always been something I cared about. I just... put it down."
"For politics?" she asks carefully.
"For marriage," I correct gently.
Her eyebrows lift just slightly.
"And now?"
I swallow.
"Now I want it back."
That earns a slow nod.
She explains the application process. LSAT score validity. Letters of recommendation. Flexible tracks. Evening options.
"You have two years left before your score expires," she says. "That's a gift."
I nod.
"It is."
We tour the campus.
The lecture hall feels intimidating.
The law library feels sacred.
When we step into one of the legal clinics, she explains how students represent real clients under supervision.
"We have a strong criminal reform focus," she adds.
That's perfect.
"I've been speaking on reform initiatives," I say. "But I want to do more than speak."
She smiles knowingly.
"Then you're in the right place."
At the end of the tour, she walks me back toward the entrance.
"I can't wait to hear from you."
I don't hesitate.
"You will."
And for the first time in a long time, I mean something without checking who it inconveniences.
I don't even wait until I'm in the car to open the notes app on my phone.
Application deadlines.
Letters of recommendation.
Transcripts.
I type quickly before the feeling fades.
One of the agents opens my car door.
"Headed back, ma'am?"
"Yes."
And for once, I don't resent the tail behind me.
The drive to the White House feels different than usual.
Lighter.
Like something inside me just expanded.
That feeling lasts exactly until the gates open.
The second I step out of the car, it hits.
Staff moving quickly.
Phones ringing.
Aide whispering into an earpiece.
The halls feel colder than they should.
I didn't realize how much I hate living here until it became permanent.
No corner is private.
No door is truly closed.
By the time I step into my suite, I'm already drained.
Taylor is standing there.
Tape measure around her neck. Clipboard in hand.
I stop short. I hadn't seen her in almost two weeks I thought Rodney finally came to his senses on how ridiculous this was.
"I thought—" I begin.
She gives me a small, apologetic smile.
"We're back on weekly measurements."
Of course we are.
I step onto the marked spot.
Arms out.
She moves quietly.
Waist.
Bust.
Hips.
Her fingers hesitate at my hip.
There's a pause.
She clears her throat softly.
"Your hips... went up an inch."
She says it like she's delivering a medical result.
My stomach tightens.
An inch?
I mentally rewind the past week.
The truffle chips.
The lunches.
The way Grant watches to make sure I eat.
Taylor begins writing it down.
Without thinking, I reach forward and grab her wrist.
She startles.
I release her immediately.
"Sorry," I say with a small laugh. "That was dramatic."
She looks nervous.
"Mrs. Housner—"
"Is there any way," I say carefully, "we don't log that?"
Silence.
Taylor glances at the door like someone might be listening.
"I have to report—"
"It could fluctuate," I say lightly. "You know us women our weight is always fluctuating. It's only one inch."
My voice is soft. But steady.
She hesitates.
Then lowers her clipboard slightly.
"I... can re-measure next week before filing."
Relief washes through me.
"Thank you."
She nods quickly, finishes the rest, and leaves almost immediately.
The door clicks shut.
For a moment I just stand there, staring at the spot where Taylor had been standing a few seconds ago.
Something about the interaction settles strangely in my chest.
I replay it in my head — the moment I grabbed her wrist, the way I actually asked her not to write it down, the way I kept talking instead of immediately backing down.
That's new.
Normally I would've just nodded, smiled politely, and told myself I'd fix it later. Normally I would've accepted whatever was decided for me and adjusted quietly afterward.
But this time I didn't.
I actually tried to negotiate my way out of it.
Not dramatically. Not perfectly.
But I tried.
And for a second I feel oddly proud of myself.
It's small — ridiculously small, really — but it's the first time in a long while that I didn't immediately conform to what someone expected from me.
My phone buzzes.
I should feel grateful.
Instead, I feel watched.
The White House swallows everything.
I walk straight into the bathroom and turn the shower on, letting the water run until the mirror begins to fog and the room fills slowly with steam.
When I step under it, the heat is almost shocking at first.
I close my eyes and let it run over my shoulders.
The day replays in pieces.
Georgetown.
The tour.
The way Ms. Holloway spoke to me like my future can be exactly how I want it.
I stand under the water longer than I mean to.
I rest my palm flat against the tile and let the water run down my arm.
I didn't realize how small I've been living until I stepped into a room where no one cared who my husband was.
The thought makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
I reach for the face wash, working it into my face, and stare at the fogged mirror through the glass.
An inch.
My hips went up an inch.
The words replay in my head.
I turn slightly and look down at myself.
Is it visible?
Is it noticeable?
Or is it just measurable?