Page 58 of Secret Service
And then he shocks the hell out me when he asks, “Je peux te voir demain soir?”
Tomorrow is the last day of training. We’re cut loose in the afternoon, and I was planning on going home to catch up on the week of missed work and then try to front-load a full night of sleep before going back on the detail.
But… Can I see you tomorrow night?
I don’t trust myself to speak. I nod instead.
What the hell am I going to do?
For now, I change the subject, because we can’t stay on this topic. “Did your advisors finally help you instead of spinning you in circles?”
He laughs, but it’s a resigned half chuckle, and he picks at a thread on the side of his knee. “I think you should be my advisor. Talking to you was more helpful than hours and hours of meetings.”
“Everyone wants to protect their turf?”
“We went around the Situation Room, and everyone’s proposal was an exact rehash of their department’s position. I get that State doesn’t want to upset the balance of power, and I understand that Defense is looking for an expanded, no-holds-barred mission, but—”
“But neither of those are what you believe in.”
“Exactly. See? You need to be here, with me.”
Oh, I do, in so many ways. I clear my throat. “You put your foot down?”
Usually there’s a moment like this early on in each president’s administration: the tug and pull between the entrenched departments’ policies and the new direction pursued by the incoming president.
“I did. Told them all to come back tomorrow with proposals that support my policies, not ones that anchor their own interests. I’m the president. This is my government. I need people to start supporting that.”
“They will.”
Brennan Walker has proved, time and time again, that he cannot be underestimated. Not in California, not on the campaign. Not in his administration or on the global stage. If anyone is going to change this world, it will be him.
He’s already changed my life.
Wherever this conversational jack-in-the-box is going to go next is cut off when a yawn splits his face. He covers his mouth, squeezes his eyes closed, and then waves his hand in front of the camera. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Happy to bore you anytime, Mr. President.”
“You’re far from boring. You’re as far from boring as California is from DC.”
“Three thousand miles away from boring. Got it. That’s still kind of boring, you know.”
He laughs again, but it’s interrupted by another yawn. Now I’m laughing at him, and he’s laughing at himself. “Go to bed, Mr. President.”
“I will.”
Our eyes meet, and there’s nothing and everything left to say: sleep well, mon cher, and fais de beaux rêves, and your eyes are the color of my dreams. But my words are lodged in my throat, and so, it seems, are his.
He waves to the camera, and I wave back, and he ends the call.
And I’m alone in my dorm room at Rowley, with the echo of Brennan’s voice in my soul.
Ten minutes later, when I’m lying in the dark, the phone buzzes.
Brennan has texted. Goodnight.
I text back. Bonne nuit.