And repeated it a few times over the course of a couple of months while they were both still single. But thatshe doesn’t consider herself bi, because it was only with her friend, and Lauren definitely likes dick.
That last part she delivers with a playful smile and a wink I pretend work me up a little.
Part of my conscience howls when I deny I’ve ever had any kind of “experimental” relationship, but that I don’t think any less of her for the admission.
The part of my heart that will always be ownedby Christopher, and which berates me for not calling him after that week now ten years in my past, curls up and sobs. I have never truly healed from walking away from him. I get good at holding the mask in place despite the welling emotional agony in my festering soul.
Even during the tuxedo fitting, while I’m smiling for the clerks and for Lauren and her mom and bridesmaids.
Even while I’mdeveloping a reputation as a hard-hitting interviewer who gets right to the heart of the matter with key questions, while not allowing a subject to veer into the weeds or distract me.
Even as I’m shoring up conservative talking points that are sending my ratings higher.
Even as we plan our dream honeymoon in Japan.
Even as we buy a townhouse together in DC, and social media attention on ourupcoming nuptials swells and grows, egged on by the network, who loves all this additional free publicity.
Even as we write our vows, late one night a week before our wedding I lock myself in the downstairs powder room at our DC townhouse and silently sob as I look at the blank index card in my hand and realize I should be marrying Christopher.
Even as I look serene and happy in our weddingphotos, and the video of us saying “I do” and kissing goes viral.
Even through all of this, there isstillthe part of me who will forever remain naked and on my knees beforeHim, thrilled over being softly praised asHisgood boy.
Part of me who will forever long to once again experience the true peace and acceptance with which those two words caressed my soul.
* * * *
I’ve gotten great atthat, the pretending part.
At work, with Lauren, in public. Even in Florida now, we can’t go out to dinner and not have someone approach us to talk, or wanting to take selfies with us. Which means in DC we’re hitting the little ritzy places we used to scoff at politicians for frequenting.
Unfortunately, we understand why. Those ritzy little places have staff who prevent that shit from happening,and it’s not like we can’t afford it.
In Florida, we usually cook for ourselves or call in a delivery. It’s our refuge from the unreal insanity of DC, the hyper-focused pols and operatives and interns and staffers and lobbyists—the whole damn jungle of beasts out there.
As Lauren graduates to hosting her own show, an hour every weekday morning, Florida becomes our unspoken sanctuary.
One year,two, three. We’ve both gained stellar reputations as solid journalists, not just conservative talking heads. We’re known for our dedication to the truth, regardless of which political party benefits from it.
When FNB’s ratings start to flag, the two sister networks strike a deal. We’re both moved there from smaller USNN, along with several other anchors. Lauren’s anchoring their morning show,and I’m hosting the premium seven p.m. hour. Sometimes, one of us goes to Florida alone because the other is working, or there’s a breaking story that makes us change plans late, anything.
As we round the final turn into year four of our marriage, I’m sitting up working in bed one night at the DC townhouse and realize I haven’t spent a night in bed with my wife in the better part of a month.
And I haven’t really missed her presence at night, either.
Well, I’ve missed snuggling with her, the “couples” things we do together, but we still work some time in. We’ve seen each other plenty, nearly every day, but she also gets sent out in the field for large breaking stories, so it’s not uncommon for her to call me from the airport as she’s racing to catch a last-minute flight.
I honestlycan’t remember the last time we had sex, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s less stressful and emotional for me that way. I don’t have to fantasize about Christopher while doing it, and spend an hour crying in secret later because of the unhealed and festering emotional wounds in my soul.
Her production schedule differs greatly from mine because of the times our shows air. When she isin town, she’s up before dawn every morning to get in her workout and head to work for early production meetings, meaning sometimes she’ll fall asleep in the guest room, or I’ll fall asleep on the couch, because we don’t want to wake the other up. Breaking overnight news can shred her whole schedule. I mean, that happens to me, too, but at least I’m usually awake when I finally make it in to workby nine every morning. Plus, my show’s focus is politics, while hers is more general, although politically heavy.
Most our intimate interactions are text messages, phone calls, e-mails, and dropping by each other’s offices or production staff meetings for a quick kiss.
When she shows up unexpectedly at the townhouse one Friday night where I’m sprawled across the sofa and half the living roomwith my laptop, court filings from a DOJ investigation into prescription medication price-rigging, and takeout Chinese, I can already sense from the look on her face it’s over.
I sit up. “Hey. I thought you said you were going to Florida for the weekend.”
“I was.” She walks over, setting her stuff down where she always does before kicking off her shoes and sitting next to me when I clear a spotfor her on the sofa.
