I meet Leo’s gaze to find him smiling in a light, easy way I hope becomes familiar. It’s breathtakingly handsome on him.
Then I spot his wedding band on his left hand as he sips his coffee. That’s when it really slams home that Ididit.
Wedid it.
I married this man, a man with saint-like patience. I overcame my fears and dove head-long into the chaotic uncertainty just to find…
Nothing that I spent decades stressing over would happen actually happened. Well, except Stella being a shit. I’d pretty much counted on that. In fact, it would have shocked me a hell of a lot more had she accepted me with open arms and not pitched a fit over it.
How many years did I waste by not coming out sooner? How much stress could I have saved all three of us?
No. No more.
Bonus—by marrying Leo I’ve now reduced the avenues through which The Family can make a run at me and attempt to manipulate me. They can try but I have every confidence in Leo and Jordan and their ability to contain them and their efforts and insulate me in the process.
I take a deep breath and while making the conscious decision to release my guilt, overthisat least, I slowly blow the air out of my lungs and envision my guilt leaving with it.
I cannot change the past.
I also cannot waste another second of my life regretting my indecision, my fear, my angst when it came to Leo and us.
We have Jordan.
We have a legally binding marriage.
We have a future together.
I settle under the covers and close my eyes, my head nestled against Jordan’s. “Wake me up for breakfast, please,” I whisper.
Leo reaches over and gently rubs my head. Just like that I drop back into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
* * *
At my PDB,once they finish the briefing I bring it up. “One more thing,” I say. “Pasha Belyaevskin. Whatever happened with that? What’s the latest intel on him?”
The two analysts exchange a confused glance. Neither of these men were the analysts in that briefing two years ago. They’re not my regulars, either. They’re part of the team of analysts who rotate through the weekend PDB shifts because I’ve asked the NSA team not to make people work every single weekend unless an analyst specifically requests to be assigned that schedule.
“Sir?” the senior analyst asks.
“Russian national,” I say. “I haven’t heard anything else about him in my briefings since he was first brought to my attention approximately two years ago. I want to be kept up to speed, even if there’s nothing else to report.” I spell the name for the senior analyst, who makes a note.
“We’ll need to research that, sir. I’m not familiar with that name.”
“Get familiar with it.” I close my Morning Book and remove my glasses. “I’ve been meaning to ask for an update and with everything that happened since November it slipped my mind. Whoever leads my PDB tomorrow, they’d better provide me a status update beyond ‘looking into it.’ Even if his file’s been closed because there’s nothing there. In that case, I want to know a date and by whose authority it was closed, and what further information, if any, they obtained before closing it. And if it is closed, I also want to know the justification for closing it. Understand?”
They nod and reply in unison as the senior agent jots more notes, “Yes, Mister President.”
“Thanks. We done?”
“Yes, sir,” the senior analyst says.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Dismissed.”
“Thank you, Mister President,” they say in unison as they rise.
I’m getting tired of the stereo unless it’s Jordan and Leo but it’s not like I can in good conscious ask my people not to adhere to protocols.
They leave my private study, closing the door behind them while I sit back and ponder everything they told me.
