The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  The shower’s still running when I bound out of bed. I don’t know how long she’s been in there, but I might have enough time to have breakfast ready when she gets out of the bathroom.

  What I don’t have time for is running down to Leo’s Deli for bagels or any shit like that. I don’t think Madeline would appreciate me disappearing while she’s in the shower, and I don’t want to come back to find her gone.

  The shower’s still running after I sprint to the kitchen, but I’m likely running low on time no matter what.

  Since there’s no time to agonize over what to make, I take quick stock of the ingredients I have on hand.

  By the time I hear the shower stop running, I’m almost finished making vanilla bean French toast with Hawaiian rolls. Yeah, I know it’s a coincidence with the whole Hawaii thing, but it’s the best bread I have for French toast.

  By the time Maddie finishes in the bathroom, the French toast is done, along with a quick batch of red velvet pancakes I whipped up as an alternative.

  And a fresh pot of French press coffee, of course.

  “Are you expecting company?” she asks as she finally walks into the kitchen.

  “I’m expecting you.”

  “It looks like it, actually. How did you know about me and French toast?”

  Maddie gets through two pieces of French toast as I quickly shave and shower—she mentions nothing of the Hawaiian rolls.

  “It looks so nice out today for once,” Maddie says as we finish. “Let’s do something with our lives and go outside.”

  With no plan in mind, we venture into the great outdoors of lower Manhattan.

  “Ugh, it’s as cold as it was earlier.”

  This is fucking embarrassing, but for the first time I notice Maddie’s wearing jeans and a cardigan—not her suit from yesterday.

  “Did you go clothes shopping while I was asleep?”

  “No, silly. I went home—just to pick up some fresh clothes. My roommate was in the bathroom, so I showered back at your place.”

  “Maddie, I know you don’t like to answer these questions, but...”

  “I live on John Street.”

  We’re walking down Broadway, barely two blocks from my building. I point down a cross street to our left.

  “You mean that street right there?”

  “Yep.” Maddie’s looking straight ahead, smiling. “Hey, neighbor.”

  “Well, holy shit. You’ve got a short commute, I guess.”

  “Longer than yours.”

  “Shorter than from Boston.”

  Maddie’s smile brightens.

  “This is where the SEC needed me. Fresh out of grad school, I wasn’t about to complain.”

  Before long, we’re holding hands again and winding our way around the southern tip of Manhattan, and wandering back uptown, and having the time of our lives.

  Well, at least, I am.

  “It’s still too fucking cold for fucking spring,” Maddie says as we stroll up Gold Street. “April better be nice, not the cruelest month, like they say.”

  “Who says that?”

  “You know, the guy that wrote the musical about the cats.”

  “Walt Whitman?”

  “No, he wrote about commuting to Brooklyn.”

  “Speaking of...do you want to walk to Brooklyn since the bridge is right here?”

  “Was this all a giant ruse to get me to walk with you to Brooklyn?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who mentioned April...and Cats.”

  Maddie rolls her eyes, smirking. “I guess…since it is cold as fuck and everything that we should walk across the bridge to a place that’ll be even colder.”

  Here I am, excited to be walking across the Brooklyn Bridge with somebody. And it is cold as fuck, too.

  But I’m the happiest I’ve been since...

  Hawaii’s been my go-to happy memory for the past few years, but these past couple days have given Hawaii a run for its money.

  Naturally, we’re surrounded by tourists at the pedestrian entrance to the bridge. Watching Maddie look around at the loud, brightly dressed packs of sightseers, I’m afraid she might regret agreeing to this.

  Maddie turns her face to me, smiling warmly.

  Then she lifts her head to the sky and starts shouting.

  “Crowds of men and women, attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me!”

  Maddie gets a running start onto the walkway—and once again I find myself running to keep up with her.

  Well, fuck.

  I am falling hard for this woman.

  I’m falling for Madeline.

  I catch up with Maddie quickly. We keep running until we get to the middle of the bridge, when we settle into more of a light jog.

  “I’ve gotta do something to start working off all this food and booze from the last couple days, Ethan.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “You, too? Did you even eat anything today?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Fuck that. We’ve gotta go to Grimaldi’s. Come on!”

  Maddie takes off running yet again, and I take the fuck off after her.

  Gladly.

  I’m falling for Maddie—in a way I’ve never fallen for anyone before.

  Not for Audra, no, not even close. And I was ready to marry her.

  As for that week with Maddie five years ago...I can’t even say. I’m not thinking about that anymore.

  I’m thinking about today, a day I get to spend with Maddie.

  Not Maddie from Hawaii.

  Not a memory.

  But Maddie, who has me sprinting across the Brooklyn fucking Bridge on a cold as fuck day.

  And that’s what I’m thinking about—today.

  I’d like to think about tomorrow, too, but, that’s something I’ll have to figure out.

  “Come on, Eth! We need to beat the rush!”

  Tomorrow’s something I’ll have to figure out soon—my decision on Switzerland’s due in less than a week.

  Maddie doesn’t even slow down when we get to the stairwell off the bridge. She doesn’t slow down until we get to the Grimaldi’s entrance.

  Thankfully, since it is a cold-as-fuck day, and it’s an off hour, there isn’t the usual Grimaldi’s line stretching down the block.

  “It was worth it to beat the rush, wasn’t it?”

  “Totally,” I respond, still slightly winded. “I can probably skip the gym this week.”

  “Bullshit. I know you won’t—not after we split a large pie.”

  We get our brick oven pizza to-go, eating slices out of the box on our trek back to Manhattan across the bridge.

  “Fuck, I didn’t mean to sleep so late.” I haven’t been keeping track of the time today, but I’m surprised to see dusk already starting to set in as we walk west.

  Finished with her last slice, Maddie leans up to give me short, sweet kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “For sleeping late?”

  “For this weekend. It’s been...well, it’s been amazing.”

  There’s a sparkle in Maddie’s eyes as she looks up at me.

  “Maddie...it’s been amazing for me, too. You’re amazing. And I can’t wait to do this again.”

  “Hey, if you ever want to come by my place, I can cook you dinner.”

  “I’d love that. Would tomorrow be good?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are we being serious? Because I totally want to see your place.”

  “Yes, Ethan.”

  I deposit the empty box in a recycling can as we exit the bridge into Manhattan. Maddie and I stop for a slow, smoldering kiss.

  “I have to go back home and turn in early tonight, though. I’ve got a lot of crazy shit going on at work this week, and I have to start preparing.”

  I don’t know what crazy shit Maddie’s referring to, but I’m reminded of my own possibly related crazy shit.

  And I want this weekend to last a little while longer b
efore I have to go back to it.

  “Do you want to swing by Lush Republic for a drink first?”

  Maddie looks up at the sky, starting to frown a bit. “Okay.”

  Maddie hugs me tightly, like she’s saying goodbye for a long time—or for good. I hug her back and keep my confusion to myself.

  The mood changes. Our walk to Lush Republic is silent.

  Before we get there, I decide that I’m going to need to talk to Maddie about Switzerland. While I don’t know what’s suddenly bothering her, I have a feeling it’s related.

  Charles is tending bar again, and he has two pints of stout ready when we sit down.

  Maddie is quiet as she takes her first sip.

  What I should do is ask her what’s wrong.

  But, for some fucking reason, I mention the S-word instead.

  “They’re giving me until Friday to make a decision about Switzerland.”

  Maddie picks up her glass and puts it down, robotically, staring into space.

  “Maddie, it’s a lot of money. A lot.”

  I could fucking kick myself for saying all this. But, I’m telling her the truth about what I’ve been thinking.

  “You’re fucking serious, aren’t you?”

  “Madeline...I don’t know everything you know...”

  “You don’t. Or do you?”

  Maddie’s eyes are on me now, and tears are forming.

  Fuck, fuck, I’m fucking up.

  “I don’t. Seriously. I’m just trying to explain my point of view...”

  “I told you, Ethan. Weren’t you listening? And I told you again to stay the fuck away!”

  “It’s just...two years, Maddie, and I’d never have to work again. Even if I was supporting...a...”

  The sight of tears running down Madeline’s cheeks hits me like a freight train. I don’t give a shit about the company, about Switzerland, about any of it.

  Right now, the only thing I care about is the pain I see in Madeline’s eyes.

  The pain I put there.

  It’s not the first time, either. I’m such a fucking asshole.

  “Maddie...forget it. I’m not going to do it. I just...I’m so sorry.”

  “How could you even consider it?”

  Seeing Madeline cry is tearing my soul apart. All I want to do is help her, but I feel so helpless.

  I reach out to touch her on the shoulder, but she backs away.

  “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever fucking touch me again. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  She’s not yelling, I don’t think anyone else even hears her.

  But I don’t care.

  I won’t lie—I’m confused. I know it’s a touchy subject, but I didn’t expect her to react like this.

  That still doesn’t make me feel like any less of an asshole.

  Madeline leaves.

  I stay at the bar, unable to speak, unable to move.

  Just two minutes—if that—and a few words.

  That’s all it took, and I managed to irrevocably fuck up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  Ethan

  That OutKast song is playing again.

  It’s been an hour or so since Madeline left. I’ve been doing very little—okay, nothing—but sit here silently since then.

  And Charles has taken notice.

  “What’s wrong, Ethan? This song doesn’t get your fuckin’ blood pumping?”

  “Not tonight, my friend. It’s a bit too happy for me right now.”

  “Interesting. You see this as a happy song?”

  “It sounds happy to me.”

  “I see.”

  Charles already has a shot glass set up. As I’ve said, I think the bartenders here are psychic—although, my mood is probably not very hard to read tonight.

  Charles fills the shot glass with bourbon. “Doctor’s orders,” he instructs.

  I take the shot.

  “This song sounds happy and dance-y to me, Charles. Why do you think it’s not?”

  “Oh, you can dance to it. All I’m saying is that it’s not as happy as it sounds.”

  “You might need to pour me another shot after that sentence.”

  Charles does just that, and I take it down.

  “I mean the lyrics aren’t what I’d call happy.”

  “I don’t know, Charles. Like this part right here...”

  “You mean when he’s talking about being very cold?”

  “That’s not exactly how it goes...”

  “Well, this bar doesn’t have the licensing for me to recite lyrics, since that’s technically a performance.”

  “So...very cold. It doesn’t sound sad to me.”

  “It doesn’t?” Charles pours me a third shot.

  “I’m going to save that one for later, Charles. If you don’t mind...”

  “Hey, we’re open till four.”

  I look at the shot and sigh. Going back to my apartment, alone, holds zero fucking appeal for me.

  “I know it’s a busy Saturday, but I might just stay until you close tonight...or pretty late, anyway.”

  “You can fucking stay after we close if you want. I think you should read the lyrics to Hey Ya sometime, though. And think about them.”

  Fuck it—I pour the shot down my throat.

  “I might just do that, Charles. Stay after close, that is. I’m not doing any fucking homework, though.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Could I get another one of those stouts? Just put it on my tab.”

  “It’s on the fucking house tonight, Ethan.”

  I shake my head.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Hey, I have no idea what’s going on. But, I know that when shit hurts, it really fucking hurts. That’s the universal truth.”

  My phone, sitting on the bar, starts vibrating.

  “The universal truth, eh?”

  “Pick up your phone. I’ll get you that stout.”

  Charles wanders off, but I do as he says. I pick my phone up off the bar, but I’m too late to answer the missed call from Ryan.

  It’s Saturday night, if it weren’t obvious enough from the noise and density of the crowd forming around the bar.

  Saturday nights, in recent months, bring an inevitable call from Ryan.

  It doesn’t help that a lot of our old crew have moved out of the area.

  Or have gotten married.

  But, for the most part, it’s the two of us who are still out here every fucking weekend—starting at Lush Republic then moving on to other bars, other clubs.

  And fuck, I’ve fallen pretty far out of the game myself lately. These days, even in the middle of the fucking weekend, I’m often working.

  Or, for a couple perfect Saturdays, seeing Maddie.

  My regretful sigh must be louder than I thought, because Charles takes it as a cue to deliver both my beer and another shot.

  I start with the shot. It helps quell a bit of the nausea I’m feeling.

  Yes, I’m disgusted with myself for somehow fucking up two chances with the most incredible woman I’ll likely ever meet.

  This time, it was quite fucking definitive, too—there’s no coming back from my screw up tonight.

  But that’s just it: there’s no coming back, so what are my options?

  There’s no going back to my previous existence of the hedge fund manager down the hall, because soon, there’s not even going to be a fucking hall.

  There’s a break in the music—which also interrupts my thought process.

  I can really hear the Saturday crowd growing behind me, though. It sounds like there’s a ton of fucking people here already.

  When Charles’ iPod kicks back on, I take another sip of beer and jump back into weighing my choices.

  Even if I can’t be the hedge fund manager down that particular hall anymore, I still have the option of finding another hedge fund, with another office in another hall.

  The city had plenty of all that shit—but the idea of
just jumping to another fund doesn’t exactly fucking fill me with enthusiasm.

  And if I can’t muster the motivation for that, starting my own hedge fund is probably out of the fucking question.

  Fuck, I’m getting tired just thinking about it.

  And somehow, Charles senses this. He zooms over to pour me another shot before zooming back to his mounting tidal wave of customers.

  “Is this helping me think, you think?”

  Charles is too far away to hear me, so I just take the fucking shot.

  So, Basel fucking Switzerland.

  That’s my other option.

  I could’ve avoided all this by rejecting this option earlier, but it ain’t earlier anymore.

  This is now—and now, it might be my best bet.

  I fucking hate that it is, but…

  Another little tremor of nausea starts to creep its way in, so I take another sip of stout to keep it at bay.

  Charles’ iPod is playing some old-school hip hop, the type of stuff that came out before most of the patrons here were even born.

  Fuck, I’m not old enough to be feeling old.

  But I am old enough to at least try to make the right decision, even if it’s a decision I never wanted to make.

  Basel fucking Switzerland.

  I could go there for two years, and I’ll never have to deal with any of that shit again. If I need to channel my workaholic tendencies into something after I retire, I guess I could learn to fucking paint or something.

  Whatever hobby I decide, I’ll have a big head start on most of the other retirees. With thirty years of practice, I might get decent at painting.

  Or I could extend my time in Basel by four or five years. Then I could just buy some original Rothkos and Klimts instead of trying to be the next Grandma Moses or some shit.

  Fuck, I hate that I’m fucking thinking like that.

  If I go, it has to be two years. No getting greedy.

  Two years, and it’ll be over. That’s more than I can say about any other job.

  It’s going to fucking suck no matter what, but that’s true of all my options now anyway.

  Goddammit.

  “What’s up, Ethan?”

  Charles is hovering right in front of me, ignoring the giant crowd everywhere else in the bar.

  “Isn’t it a busy Saturday?”

  “They can wait, and we’ve got some other staff. Seeing your face right now, I think you could use someone to talk to more than you could use another shot.”