Forever Your Heart

by Mary Whitney

  While I quickly fetched the wine, Sylvia led Nicki over to the fireplace. Above the mantle was a large painting Sylvia had done in school. It was really quite good, and she spent some time telling Nicki just why it was so great. After handing them their wine, I set to work on the fire as Sylvia droned on about the piece.

  Just when I thought that was the end of the tour, Sylvia announced, “Let me take you through the rest of the flat.”

  Jesus fucking Christ. You’d think she owned the place.

  Before I could stop them, Sylvia had led Nicki into the spare bedroom and showed her the attached bath she was especially proud of—something about the Italian tile that I couldn’t, for the life of me, see why it was special. Nicki must’ve been underwhelmed, too, because they soon walked out. Sylvia turned to me and asked, “We can go in your room, right, Adam?”

  What the fuck? I had never imagined that if I ever got Nicki back in my bedroom, Sylvia would be the one to lead her there. But what else could I say? “Sure.”

  I tagged along behind—I wasn’t having Nicki near my bed without me. When we walked in, I watched her thoroughly appraise everything.

  Sylvia interrupted the quiet assessment as she pulled Nicki over to my bed and pointed to the art above it. “This is a very special print. I worked on it for months…”

  As Sylvia went into details about her own damn work again, I caught Nicki looking down. She was checking out my bed. Her face was blank, but before she raised her head back to the print, I could swear she pressed her lips to stop a smile from creeping out. Oh, how I wished I knew what she was thinking.

  After she finished explaining her art, Sylvia turned to the rest of the room. Waving her hand over to the drafting table that served as my desk, she said, “That alcove is a work area I designed. I like a more open space rather than a separate office. Now let’s go back to the living room, and I’ll cook.”

  Nicki looked up at me and smiled. She’d been so quiet since we had left the museum, I was surprised to hear her voice. “You still draw?”

  “Yeah.” I’d pinned some of my caricatures and sketches on the walls of the alcove. No one ever saw them but me.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “I don’t know. It’s only a hobby.”

  “Can I see?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she walked over to the table. Sylvia shot me a knowing look and said, “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  As I went over to Nicki, she held a sketch in her hand and grinned. “So you’re doing caricatures of President Logan?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Can I see some more?”

  Nicki’s eyes were bright; she seemed genuinely eager to see my work, so I was happy to show her. I pulled the stool out from the table for her. “Of course. Take a seat.”

  As I grabbed another stool and sat beside her, Nicki was already thumbing through the drawings on my table. She fussed over them. “These are so good, Adam. Why aren’t you publishing them?”

  “I don’t think they’re really good enough.” I slouched in my seat. “Plus, it’s a hard profession to break into.”

  “But you’re already a journalist. I would think it would be a leg-up. People know you. It should be easier to get them seen.”

  “I’m a television journalist. You know we’re looked down upon by print. It probably hurts me more than helps me that I’m already in the field.”

  Nicki frowned. I did sound a little defeatist, but those were the facts. She shook her head. “I still think you should try. You’ll never know if you don’t, and wouldn’t you rather be drawing than your current job?”

  “Well, yes, but it seems like a futile endeavor. Not even worth the effort.”

  Pursing her lips, she gave me a look as if she disagreed but dropped it. She turned her attention instead to the Logan drawings and commented, “You’ve really captured him well, but you could add something here. You’re right that he’s got a really long neck, but in this drawing—where he’s angry—you should make some veins bulge out. They always do when he’s pissed, though that’s rare.”

  “Are you giving me secrets about your boss, Nicole Johnson?”

  “Hardly.” She smiled. “He’d think these were hilarious. Now, he may not like the captions you put with them, but he’d like the drawings themselves and wouldn’t mind them being accurate. He’s got a really good sense of humor.”

  “Thanks. That’s good to know.”

  “I like that one, too,” she said, pointing to a cartoon of Gordon Brown. “He’s probably a fun one to draw.”

  “Definitely. He’s got a million different expressions, and he looks uncomfortable in every one of them.” Feeling a little bold, I pulled out my sketchpad. “This is what I’m working on right now. I thought I’d practice Angela Merkel since we’re going to Berlin.”

  “Oh, let me see,” she said, taking the pad. “This is really good. I’ve met her before. I’d give her a short necklace. She wears them all the time, even though they’re not very flattering.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They show off her jowls.”

  “Let me add a necklace, then.”

  So I began drawing, with Nicki giving me direction. We talked and laughed with no awkwardness or tension. We were having fun—just like old times.

  Everything was great until I noticed how her hair smelled and how closely she sat next to me. The stool was too short for her, so she was sitting on her knees with her arms resting on the table to look at the sketches. Her cute arse was up in the air, as if waiting to be pinched or perhaps given a little swat. I was tempted to run my hand over it.

  I looked up and saw she had watched me ogle her. When our eyes met, she smiled shyly, but I didn’t. All I could think of was grabbing that arse of hers and snogging just like we used to. I remembered I was supposed to be a good chap and a friend, but my body wanted to fuck her. We were in my bedroom, after all. I’d even caught her looking at my bed. Maybe it was on her mind as well. As my mind wandered, my dick got harder, and I tried to communicate with my eyes just how much I wanted to touch her. Her lips opened, telling me she knew exactly what I was thinking.

  In a flash, though, she jerked back. Looking down, she mumbled, “I should go see what Sylvia is up to.”

  As I followed her back into the kitchen, I had to do some shifting to hide my erection. Hating myself for scaring her off, I pretended nothing had occurred between us, and she seemed to play along.

  Our conversation with Sylvia during the meal was lively, but I noticed Nicki occasionally scan my bookcases from where she sat at the dinner table. They were expansive and went from the floor to the ceiling across the wall. Scattered among the books were a few framed photos and prints as well.

  I’d forgotten about one special print. It was something that I might spend months never really seeing. Any casual observer wouldn’t think it any different than the other pictures of family and places on the shelves, but Nicki would know it was significant. She’d given it to me for our first and last Valentine’s Day together, on the beach. Luckily, she wouldn’t know what was in the copy of Wordsworth behind it.

  I held my breath, wondering if she saw the print, but if she did notice, she offered no reaction.

  After dinner, she checked her watch. “I really should get home.”

  “When do you get to the office in the morning?” Sylvia asked. “Maybe we could meet for coffee.”

  “I don’t think so. Unless you want to meet me at six. I’m at my desk by seven.”

  “Perhaps not, then.” Sylvia giggled. She looked over at the mess in the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll let Adam take you home while I tidy up.”

  If Nicki thought it might be uncomfortable being in a car with me alone, she didn’t show it. She smiled at Sylvia. “Well, if Adam takes me home, then I have to say goodbye to you now.”

  After they exchanged their hugs and goodbyes, Nicki and I walked back to my car, which was covered in snow aga
in. Everything was normal between us as I dusted it off and we drove up Connecticut Avenue to her flat. Maybe it was because the conversation was so mundane about the road conditions and the weather.

  When we pulled into the driveway of her building, I wondered if I should walk her up, but that might have been too much like a date. Then I considered giving her a quick hug before she got out. It seemed like a friendly, unassuming gesture. I didn’t have to choose, though, because she spoke first.

  “Thanks so much for letting me crash your day with Sylvia, and thank you for dinner and the ride home.”

  “Well, you have to thank Sylvia for dinner, but the rest has been fun. I’m happy we got to spend some time together.”

  “I am, too,” she whispered.

  As the words left her lips, it was as if all the maturity and sophistication she’d developed over the years escaped from her. There was my shy girl again. Before we’d got together, I may have been dating Meredith, but I’d spent many a night wanking to my Nicki fantasies and many a day staring at her like a love-struck prat. She’d been too shy and humble to recognize any of it happening.

  Yet now it was happening all over again. I wanted to lean over and kiss her and then do a lot more, and by the way she gazed at me, I was sure her mind was right there with me. Should I have kissed her? Maybe so, because I was certain she’d have kissed me back. I worried, though, she might freak out and that would be the last one. The safer route was to let her go—at least this time.

  I smiled. “Now go on up. We’ve got a big week ahead, you especially.”

  “The president’s first international trip,” she said with a nod.

  “Indeed.”

  Chapter Six

  AFTER OUR DAY TOGETHER at the museum, everything changed between Nicki and me. The tension between us seemed to have passed. In the White House briefing room every morning, she treated me like every other reporter, but our one-on-one conversations were different from those of my colleagues. We smiled more, we laughed more, and we could pick up on what each of us was going to say next. Yet to the outward eye, anyone would think we were nothing more than reporter and source.

  Unfortunately, that arsehole Dan Roark observed Nicki like a hawk. It was obvious he wanted to fuck her and was making a plan of attack. One morning, Nicki sought me out to clarify a question her boss had answered. It was something she often did with reporters if she worried he’d gone slightly off-point. As she and I chatted, maybe I gave her too big a grin or she finished one too many of my sentences. Regardless of the clue, Dan picked up on it.

  When Nicki walked out of the room, Dan strode up to me with a suspicious smirk. “You two seem to get on well. What’s your secret?”

  Because Dan and I were both reporters, we were unusually good liars. We had to be to avoid betraying a confidential source or to keep a leak exclusive. Lying came easily to me, and I used it when necessary. This was one of those times that I needed to cover my arse—but only so far. There was a competitive part of me that wanted to confirm for Dan that Nicki did indeed have something for me that she didn’t for him.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Probably my accent.” Take that, you fucking nosy arsewipe.

  “Humpf.” He was definitely curious now that I’d confirmed something was up between Nicki and me—even if it was just flirting. “Maybe she likes accents. Her boyfriend has one.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve met him.” I snickered. “He’s short.”

  “I know.” Dan snorted—he was tall, too. “I don’t see the appeal.”

  I thought about saying, “Well, we actually agree on something.” Instead, I stated what was often written about Juan Carlos Jimenez. “Well, he’s a brilliant strategist, and he’s very charismatic.”

  “There’s gotta be something else,” he said, eyeing Nicki across the room. “I don’t know what. Maybe he’s hung like a horse.”

  Juan Carlos’s knob—now there was something I really didn’t want to think about. But Dan’s comment was something David would say, and it was pretty funny. I laughed and shook my head, dispelling the thought.

  Dan’s attention returned to me, and his eyes narrowed one more time. “But you have an accent. Lucky for you,” he said and walked away.

  Traveling to Berlin, the White House Press Corps felt a sense of pomp and circumstance flying on Air Force One for the first time. The interior was stately, and members of the US Air Force formed the plane’s crew. Yet despite the immense space and multiple floors, the president’s plane also gave us the feeling of being on a school bus. The press was relegated to the back like a bunch of noisy, annoying kids. Though we had a cabin of our own, Air Force One steerage was like any commercial flight with dodgy food and uncomfortable seats. The big difference was the freedom. Unless there was turbulence, you didn’t have to stay in your seat and could move about as you wished.

  That evening there was an air of excitement as it was the president’s first international trip. Reporters were grouped in clusters, gossiping and chatting. Some played cards; others read or tried to catch some sleep. I wasn’t really interested in socializing, so I put on my headphones and canceled out all the noise as I read The Economist.

  I gradually became aware of a group that had gathered to my left, sharing wine and laughing loudly. It wasn’t long before I felt a tap on my shoulder from Lydia Mixon, an ever so cheery but mousy reporter for CBS News. Pulling off my headphones, I asked, “Pardon?”

  “Oh, we’re playing a game. I think it should be your turn.”

  “What’s that?”

  She looked at the group around her for support before she flirtatiously announced, “We’re talking about when we lost our virginity. Everyone’s telling the name of the person and where they did it.”

  I laughed because wine and excitement over a big international trip with the president had made the press corps punchy. Dan Roark was in the rowdy circle and called out, “C’mon, Kincaid. I just did it. Her name was Charlotte Clark, and we were in the backseat of my car. I was sixteen.”

  I didn’t need to know that about Dan, and I certainly didn’t want to hear anything more. But everyone was staring at me. I had to say something, so I quickly released limited information. “Kate—in my childhood bed.”

  The group responded with a few oohs and ahs and questions about her last name and my age. I didn’t want to answer any questions about Kate, though. I didn’t like remembering my time with her because it was too entwined with splitting up with Nicki.

  Placing my headphones again on my ears, I went back to my magazine until I saw Nicki walking down the aisle. She’d been on another floor of the plane with the rest of the White House staff, and she must’ve come down to our economy class to give us a message. Lydia began speaking with her, so I took off my headphones to hear the conversation.

  As Nicki looked around the rowdy cabin, she laughed and asked, “What’s going on?”

  No doubt realizing she might get some major dirt on the deputy White House press secretary, Lydia smiled. “Just a little impromptu party.” She gestured to the arsehole Roark. “Dan has us playing games that are making us laugh.”

  “Drinking games?” Nicki asked Dan.

  “Nah. More like truth or dare, but without the dare,” he answered.

  “Oh dear.” Nicki grinned.

  “Well, it’s a little silly,” said Lydia. “But we’re having fun.”

  “Dare I ask what ‘truth’ everyone is revealing?” Nicki asked.

  As Lydia explained the game, I cringed as Nicki’s smile went from genuine to forced.

  Leaning over the back of a seat, Dan moved toward Nicki and seductively asked, “Wanna play, Nicole?”

  I stopped breathing for a moment, wondering how on earth she would respond. Her expression gave nothing away. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll tell you mine,” Dan said. “My high school girlfriend, Charlotte Clark, in my Mustang. How’s that? Now
your turn.”

  “Uh-uh.” Nicki shook her head.

  Dan didn’t give up, though, and the cocksucker dragged me into it. “C’mon. Even Kincaid played. Right, Kincaid?”

  Nicki turned to see my response. For the first time in weeks, her eyes were fearful as she looked into mine. I tried to downplay my part in the game by waving my hand as if to brush it all aside.

  “So now he won’t play. Whatever, Kincaid.” Dan rolled his eyes and became a persistent bastard. “Kincaid’s girl was named Kate. They did it in his childhood bed. Now you tell us, Nicole.”

  I couldn’t have hated Dan Roark more than at that moment. All my work to build up some goodwill was about to disappear in front of me. Of all the ways Kate’s name could have come up in front of Nicki, that was the worst.

  Kate was my first and also the one I’d betrayed Nicki with. There. You’ve heard it. Despite my love for Nicki, I had cheated on her. I told you that you might not forgive me.

  In my defense, it had been a complicated situation, but the complications hadn’t changed the consequences. I studied Nicki now, waiting for some kind of reaction, but her face was impassive, and she was quiet. Did anyone else pick up on her silence?

  Sixteen years earlier, I’d given Nicki variations on all the excuses a man says to a woman when he cheats on her: “I was drunk.” “I was depressed.” “You pushed me away.” “We didn’t actually have sex.” And the kicker, “It didn’t mean anything.” And every single justification had been lost on Nicki. They may have had some truth, but they still sounded like pathetic lies.

  In those few moments that she was quiet, vivid details of the last time Nicki and I had talked about Kate came back to me. She’d skipped school that day, and I was sure it was because she hadn’t wanted to see me. Before my match that afternoon, I had stood on her front porch in my football kit, begging again for forgiveness. The night before, Nicki had been overcome with tears. A day later, she’d already hardened.