25. #3
I walked back into the living room, thanked Shauna and told her I'd return later in the week when Mom was home. She promised to tell her I'd stopped by.
By the time I stepped outside again, the sun had climbed higher over the parking lot.
My phone felt heavier inside my bag.
I left it there.
By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, I'd already decided I wasn't going to let Rodney follow me into the rest of my day. He'd taken up enough space in it without actually being anywhere near me, and there wasn't anything I could do about his visit to my mother now.
Whatever message he'd intended for me could sit unanswered beside the others.
I turned the music up instead.
The first store I stopped at was supposed to be quick.
It wasn't.
I went in needing notebooks and somehow ended up standing in the middle of the stationery aisle comparing two planners.
One was smaller and practical, with enough space to write down assignments without carrying something the size of a textbook around every day. The other had monthly calendars, weekly breakdowns, tabs, pockets and enough organizational sections to manage a small city.
Naturally, I wanted that one.
I flipped through the pages again, running my thumb along the empty weeks.
August.
September.
October.
Months of blank boxes waiting to be filled by things that had nothing to do with state dinners, interviews or somebody else's campaign.
I didn't even have my finalized schedule memorized yet, but I'd looked at it enough times that pieces of it had started sticking.
A ridiculous little smile found its way onto my face.
I put the planner in my cart.
Then came pens.
Highlighters.
Sticky notes in different colors.
By the time I reached the notebooks, I'd abandoned any attempt at pretending I was shopping responsibly.
It was fun.
That surprised me more than it probably should have.
There wasn't a stylist beside me deciding what looked appropriate. No assistant checking the time because we had somewhere else to be. Nobody waiting outside a dressing room or reminding me that something had been added to my schedule.
I wandered.
I picked things up and put them back.
Changed my mind.
Changed it again.
And nobody cared.
By the time I finally checked out, I'd spent more than I intended and I didn't regret any of it.
The drive back to Grant's felt easier than the one I'd made that morning. My mother still sat heavily in the back of my mind. So did Rodney.
Neither disappeared just because I went shopping.
But they weren't the only things there anymore.
Next week, I started law school.
The thought followed me all the way home.
Home.
I caught myself as I pulled into Grant's driveway.
His house.
I was pulling into Grant's house.
I sat behind the wheel for a second, staring at the garage before shaking my head at myself and reaching for my bags.
Apparently my brain had gotten comfortable before the rest of me had agreed to it.
Grant wouldn't be home for another couple of hours, which left the house unusually quiet when I stepped inside. I carried everything upstairs first, dropping the shopping bags near the side of the bedroom I'd gradually started occupying before changing into something more comfortable.
By the time I came back downstairs, hunger had finally caught up with me.
I opened the refrigerator and stared inside.
Cooking was still relatively new territory for me.
Not because I couldn't follow directions. I'd just never had much reason to learn beyond the basics. There had always been somebody around whose job included making sure food appeared when it was supposed to.
At Grant's, that wasn't the case.
Somewhere along the way, I'd started enjoying it.
The first few times had been mostly curiosity. Then I'd bought a cookbook. Then another.
We'd fallen into something of a routine without discussing that either. Some nights I cooked. Some nights he did. Other nights neither of us could be bothered and ordered in.
I pulled the cookbook from its place on the counter and carried it over to the island, flipping through pages I'd marked over the past few weeks. There was something satisfying about deciding what I wanted to eat because I wanted it, rather than because someone had already planned it for me.
I stopped on a pasta recipe I'd bookmarked earlier in the week.
Grant would like that.
Probably.
I checked the refrigerator again to make sure we had everything before glancing at the clock.
Two and a half hours.
Plenty of time.
I was halfway through reading the recipe when my phone caught my attention from where I'd left it beside my purse.
Reese.
The guilt returned immediately.
I'd told her I'd try to call sometime this week.
That suddenly felt cowardly.
There was no reason it couldn't be today.
I wiped my hands against my leggings even though they weren't dirty and reached for the phone. Her contact sat near the top of my recent messages from that morning.
I tapped the text thread and then pressed to call before I could reconsider.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then voicemail.
I pulled the phone away from my ear, disappointment settling in even though I couldn't exactly blame her.
Before I could put it down, the screen lit again.
I stared at the message.
That hurt.
Not because she didn't have the right to say it. She did.
I'd spent weeks avoiding her while privately wondering whether she'd committed one of the worst betrayals I could imagine, all without giving her the opportunity to explain something she didn't even know she was being accused of.
I deserved a little anger.
My thumbs moved across the screen.
I almost added I'm sorry again.
Then deleted it.
I thought back to something Grant told me. I'd already apologized. Repeating it until she accepted it wouldn't make the apology more sincere.
I set the phone beside the cookbook.
I'd give her space.
Tonight, tomorrow, whenever she was ready. Reese had given me enough grace over the years that I could give her that much without panicking because she was upset with me.
I turned my attention back to dinner.
Or tried to.
My phone chimed again before I'd made it through another line of the recipe.
I glanced over automatically, expecting another message.
It wasn't one.
An Apple News notification stretched across the top of my screen.
I almost dismissed it.
Then I saw the name.
Alexander Ward.
My hand stopped.
I picked up the phone.
The headline expanded across the screen.
Secret Service Director Alexander Ward and Homeland Security Secretary Sean Ward removed from positions by President Rodney Housner
For several seconds, I didn't understand what I was reading.
I read it again.
Then once more, slower.
Alexander.
Sean.
Both of them.
Fired.
My stomach dropped so suddenly that I pulled the stool out beneath me and sat down.
The article had barely been published. There weren't details yet, only confirmation that the President had ordered both removals effective immediately and that the administration had not released an explanation for the decision.
I didn't need one.
Alexander hadn't suddenly become incompetent overnight.
Sean hadn't either.
Two brothers occupying two of the most powerful security positions in the country didn't both lose their jobs on the same afternoon by coincidence.
My mind went immediately to every conversation I'd had with Alexander.
Every time he'd given me room.
Every time I'd gone somewhere without the suffocating presence of an agent close enough to hear me breathe.
Every time Grant had contacted him directly.
My mother's apartment flashed through my head next.
The new bed.
The rent.
Rodney's messages.
You don't get to decide when you're finished.
My hand tightened around the phone.
He knew.
Maybe not everything.
I didn't know how much he knew.
But he knew enough.
Enough to understand that Alexander had made my life easier.
Enough to remove him.
And Sean...
My chest tightened.
Sean hadn't done anything.
Whatever professional consequences Alexander faced because of me had somehow reached his brother too.
The guilt arrived before I could reason with it.
I stared at the headline until the words started blurring together, my heartbeat growing louder in my ears.
Then my phone vibrated in my hand.
A text.
For one stupid second, I thought it might be Grant.
It wasn't.
I didn't want to open it.
My thumb did anyway.
There was only one message.
I stared at it.
No explanation.
No argument.
Just a deadline.
The kitchen suddenly felt much quieter than it had a few minutes ago.
I'd spent the entire day trying to convince myself that my life was finally beginning to belong to me.
Rodney had apparently decided otherwise.