What do I do?
You should know that by now.
During a natural lull in the conversation I speak up. “Hey, Mom, I’m sorry but Casey-Marie has another call coming in and I need to return her phone.”
“All right, sweetheart. Thank you for calling. We love you, El.”
I swallow hard. “Love you too, Mom. You and Dad both.” I end the call and drop the phone to the sofa.
Once again, I’ve chickened out.
Once again, I hate myself for it.
This won’t get any easier no matter when I do it but I’m starting to realize maybe the reason I can’t make myself do it is that part of me expects Leo to manage that for me once I’ve proposed to him.
Let go and let Leoseems to be my newest line of magical thinking.
And if I don’t nut-up and figure this out soon, I’m certain I’ll regret it even more than I already do.
CHAPTERFORTY-THREE
A few minutes later,one of the agents in my detail delivers the messenger bag containing my kit. Once he departs and I’m alone again in my study I hold the bag in my lap, close my eyes, and deeply inhale.
Maybe it’s my imagination that I smell hints of Jordan’s scent wafting from the canvas.
Or, maybe I’m just a desperate, pathetic weirdo.
Both, I suppose?
Possibly. They don’t have to be mutually exclusive points.
I open the messenger bag. In addition to my supplies for Duck and the other various things Jordan totes around for me I find my official work and personal cell phones zipped into the inner pocket.
Not the burner, though. Leo trusts Secret Service but only to a certain extent. No reason to let them know I even have it. Technically it can be considered a security risk, but with his skills and knowledge of security Leo’s mitigated that to the point it’s truly a non-issue. Then again, Jordan might have left it upstairs this morning because we had no reason to call Leo on the burner today. I should go look for it.
I stare at my personal cell and think about calling Jordan or Leo before finally deciding against it. I don’t want either of them worrying about me. I want Leo focused on Jordan, and Jordan focused on processing what happened. It wasn’t exactly a close call for us, but I also know all too well how deeper, traumatic emotions can unexpectedly bubble up when we least expect them.
Casey-Marie headed out earlier, to presumably make the puck drop. Before she left she briefed me—don’t ask me how she cobbled together the intel so quickly—that the wounded woman had been granted a restraining order two weeks ago when she filed for divorce after her fifteenth emergency room visit in the past five years. Their four children, two now away at college in California and two adults living locally, had all sided with their mother against their abusive father.
Which obviously enraged the man. The loss of control over his family compounded his anger in the face of a looming IA investigation for use of excessive force during an arrest.
Not the first time he’d been cited for it, but this time because of ample bystander video footage it was unlikely he’d escape being held responsible.
In retrospect it’s sadly not shocking he opted to go out the way he did and attempted to take her with him.
I close my eyes and breathe for a moment, trying to keep things in perspective. I suppose there are worse problems to have than your marriage proposal being screwed up.
Far worse. Like having a violent spouse attempt to kill you after you escape years of physical and mental abuse at their hands.
Later in the evening I have a brief phone conversation with the woman and get to speak with two of her adult children who rushed to the hospital to be by her side. Yet speaking to them leaves me feeling even more selfish, childish.
Because I can’t magically wish away my years of poor emotional choices, choices rooted in my personal fear, while here she bravely took difficult steps to fight for her safety and freedom and demand a peaceful life for herself.
Really, I have nothing to complain about. Especially when I did this to myself.
I spend several hours working downstairs until I realize it’s well past dark and I’m alone other than the skeleton staff that always populates the West Wing and my detail.
Grabbing a few binders, I wheel back to the elevator, all while trying to process how being alone overnight will ache more than it normally does because I expected to never be alone again at night. The comfort of Jordan’s ubiquitous presence hits me hardest when he’s not around.
