Chapter 39

Henry

They say that a US tour is crucial to a politician’s chance at election—especially at re-election. After so many years in office, the public often suspects that the president is hidden away in DC and forgets the struggles of the smaller states and what it means to be ‘American’.

I can remember the first time I did this—hopping from state to state, meeting some genuinely interesting people, and being able to use my platform to promote policies I believed in.

But this time, it feels as though every smile is forced. The speeches in front of me aren’t ones I’ve written myself. Each handshake feels slimy, and I don’t like the way these men—my old colleagues—are looking at me now that I’m the president.

Not that it seems anyone on my team can tell that there’s something wrong. I think, sometimes, that Hope can see it on my face once the camera’s turn off, but if she’s noticed something, she’s kept it to herself.

I understand that—and am grateful for it, too. What help would it do the campaign if I admitted out loud that I was tired?

I admit I never thought this would happen to me. I became a politician—I became the president—because I loved this job and I loved what it entailed.

But now everything grates on me.

I always thought that if this would happen to me, then I’d turn around and quit and find a new career that I had a passion for. But I’m the president, and I can’t just turn around and walk away. I need to power through.

I can remember the high that I felt after dealing with the pirates in the South China Sea, how I felt on top of the world. How I turned around to look at Bea, and when she put her hand on my shoulder, how it felt like I could conquer any challenge thrown my way.

When I turned to look at Bea.

Beatrice.

Thinking of her knocks the wind from my sails as I sit in my hotel room after a full day of speeches. The setting sun is the only light in the room as it falls over and illuminates the Missouri landscape.

I sit in the armchair and stare out through the window, cradling a glass of Scotch in my hand.

I can’t help but think of Bea and her beautiful smile, her shining light and passion, her kind words and how much I simply fucking love her.

I lift the glass to my lips and drink, letting out a heavy sigh, and then placing the glass onto the table.

When Beatrice was here, with me, I felt alive.

But she’s taken all my passion, and she’s sitting with it in her desk drawer at the D.C. Digest.

At first, Hope did try to give me little updates about Beatrice’s life and how she was doing—without me. When I told her that I didn’t want to know, she tried only mentioning Duke. But thinking about him only made things hurt just as much.

When Bea gave me back the ring, I tried to throw myself into my work and focus only on that. But it’s not enough for me anymore.

I want my cake, and I want to eat it, too.

I’m the president of the United States, I should be allowed to have that.

There’s a succinct rapping at my door as someone knocks on the wood.

I groan and take another sip of my Scotch. It’s childish, but hopefully if I ignore it, whoever is knocking will go away. I’m not in the mood for visitors, and I’m certainly not in the mood for work.

Whoever it is knocks again, louder this time.

“Henry, open the damn door. I know you’re in there.” Lawrence’s voice comes from behind the door, and I sigh.

“Fine, come in.”

There’s a click as the door is opened by one of the security detail that had been standing outside.

I keep my back turned as Lawrence and couple of other staffers walk into the room. Without missing a beat, Lawrence turns on the light switch and plunges the sitting room into bright yellow light, and I wince at the sudden stinging in my eyes.

But Lawrence doesn’t address that, either. As I sit up straight, he pulls up an armchair of his own. He takes the Scotch out of my hand and swaps it for a docket filled with—I assume—tomorrow’s security brief.

“I thought we should go through this ahead of tomorrow’s leg of the tour,” he says.

I place it down in my lap, and I flick through the pages.

Tomorrow, we’re supposed to be flying to Texas. Even though it’s an interstate flight, the team is understandably paranoid about every possible thing going wrong. The docket in my lap goes through plan A to emergency plan C.

I’m always impressed at the lengths people will go to keep me safe.

“What do you think?” my chief of staff inquires.

I look up at Lawrence briefly. I want to tell him that it doesn’t matter what I think, because I know he’s only included me in these security briefs because he has to. But I don’t, and instead, I force a small smile and nod my head.

“Looks good, Lawrence. Is that everything?”

“Actually, Henry, there was something else that I thought needed to be brought to your attention.”

Lawrence reaches into his briefcase. I don’t like the almost pleased tone to his voice, and I feel my brows furrow as he hands me a large photograph.

It’s Bea. Seemingly recent—it’s just a photo of her going about her daily life since she left me.

Except she’s pregnant.

My head begins to spin as I turn to look up at Lawrence.

“Well, sir, it seems you got out just in time.” A staffer comments snidely, and I feel my blood begin to boil.

I’m about to stand up and show that staffer to the door—personally—but then a heavy door to my room opens again.

It’s Hope.

She surveys the scene—catching sight of the staffer’s smug face and the photograph in my hands—and for a moment, her face looks as angry as I feel, and she sucks in a breath. But then she regains her composure and walks coolly into the center of the room. Everyone’s turned to watch her and wonder what she’ll do, but she’s waiting on me.

“Everyone out.” There’s a pause where no one moves. But I don’t look away from Hope. “That’s an order.”

Suddenly, everyone begins to snap into action. Lawrence, however, takes my Scotch and has a drink while he sits on the edge of my desk. A few of the weaker-stomached staffers are already out the door.

Once we’re alone, I stand up and begin to pace around the room.

“What do you know, Hope? What has my director of communications not been communicating to me?”

“I knew Beatrice was pregnant,” she confesses and follows me around the room with her eyes. “She told me when she first discovered it, and I knew she was trying to find the right time to tell you, but ultimately, she couldn’t.”

That feels like a slap in the face.

I look over at Lawrence, and he looks sympathetic—whether for me or for Bea, I don’t know.

“I think that’s why she left. Beatrice knew that if she was revealed to be pregnant before the two of you were married, then the scandal could cost you your chance at re-election.”

It feels like I’ve been sucker-punched in the gut. I can’t figure out what my emotions are—I’m livid, angry beyond all belief that something like this could be hidden from me.

But the old heartbreak hurts, and sadness also swells in my mind. And then, behind it all, there’s the revelation that Beatrice is carrying a child.

My child.

I collapse into the armchair again and sigh heavily. Hope comes and perches on the arm of the chair, taking the photo and studying it carefully.

“I’m going to be a father,” I whisper it into the room, making the words real.

I had lost all my passion for the U.S. tour before tonight, but the photo in front of me and Hope’s revelation has obliterated my will to carry on.

I knew that Beatrice was trying to tell me something before the South China Sea crisis, but I never did get around to asking her.

Fuck the U.S. tour, fuck the politics for a little while.

I have to make this right.