by Julie Hyzy
“It’s okay, Josh. We’re casual down here.”
He peeled back the cupcake’s paper holder and took a big bite. “You’re not having any?” he asked around a mouthful of chocolate. He used the back of his hand to wipe frosting off his nose before I could hand him a napkin.
I chuckled. We were casual down here, all right. “Bucky and I have gotten a little cupcaked-out this week,” I said, opting not to mention my dinner plans.
As he plowed through the treat, demolishing it with preteen gusto, I gathered the cookbooks and returned them to the shelf.
“By the way, how did the brownies go over at school? Were your classmates suitably impressed that you made them?”
“I guess.” The shrug was back. As was his leaden expression. “They ate them. It was fine.”
Something clearly not fine was going on in his life. The theme song from a jungle-based film warbled in the background. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Not looking at me, he played with the chocolate bits left on his plate, rolling them together to make one giant crumb. “I overheard Dad talking about you the other night. Did something happen in the park on Sunday?”
Weighing my options, I answered slowly. “What did you hear?”
“That you were attacked again.” The crumb had snowballed to about the size of a macadamia nut. He played with it, rolling it back and forth on the plate. “He said you were okay, though. You are, right?”
“I’m fine. They got my purse is all.”
Using the pad of his index finger, he picked up tiny shreds of chocolate that still clung to the plate, popped them into his mouth, then scoured for more. He rolled the giant crumb of chocolate around one more time before devouring that as well. “How come you didn’t say anything about it when I was here on Monday?”
“I don’t want to burden you with that kind of news.”
Elbows back on the countertop, he propped his chin in one hand and played with the empty plate with the other. “Plus, I wasn’t exactly talkative Monday night, was I?” When he looked up at me, there was an apology in his dark eyes.
“It’s okay, Josh. Seems like you had a lot on your mind.”
He shot a glance at the doorway, then lowered his voice. “You pretend things don’t bother you when they really do.”
It wasn’t exactly a question, but I said, “Sometimes.” Leaning both elbows on the counter, I mirrored his posture.
“Isn’t that really hard to do? I mean, when people say and do mean things, how do you keep from letting them know it gets to you?”
I wanted to ask what had prompted the question, but I sensed it best to tread lightly. “It depends,” I said. “Usually, if the person is someone I care about, I do let them know. Small problems can grow into big ones if they aren’t addressed, and the truth is that the people who love us want us to be happy.”
He nodded and shrugged.
“When that happens,” I said, “I try to be fair, and try to keep myself from sounding as though I’m placing blame.” My turn to shrug. “I’m sure I’m not always successful, but I find it’s best to explain how circumstances affect me, rather than try to tell people what I think they’re doing wrong.”
“What about people you don’t care about? I mean . . . you care what they think and what they say, but you don’t really care about them personally? Not family. More like somebody you work with, or go to school with?”
Continuing to play with the plate, he pressed his index finger hard enough along the edge to tip the opposite edge upward. He made small circles with his finger, causing the dish to spin like a small satellite seeking signal.
“If someone I don’t care about hurts me,” I continued, “and if I believe it’s deliberate, I do my best to ignore them. People who intentionally hurt others usually do so because they’re unhappy themselves.”
“Doesn’t mean it hurts less to hear it.”
“Good point,” I said. “The thing is, people like that thrive on negativity. They can never get enough. If you feed them by letting them know they got to you, they’ll keep coming back for more. When I can, I try to simply cut those people out of my life.”
He frowned. “What about a person you have to like?”
“You don’t have to like anyone,” I said. “But I think I know what you mean. It gets messy when we don’t like a person at work, or school, or wherever. And if that person is purposely mean, it can be really tough.”
“Yeah.”
“Are kids at school giving you trouble, Josh?”
He stopped spinning the plate, allowing the elevated end to drop, clunking against steel. “Everybody wanted to be my friend the first day,” he said. “I mean, I know why. Duh. Probably all their parents told them to make friends with the president’s son. Gives them the chance to brag.”
I smiled. The kid was perceptive.
“That was okay,” he said with yet another shrug. “They all wanted to ask me about living in the White House and what it was like having Secret Service guys hanging around all the time. But then one of them—his name is Seth—started asking different questions.”
“Like what?”
Josh sent another look toward the door. “They can’t hear me, right?”
“Not with the radio on.”
“I mean, I know they’re supposed to keep me safe, and let me be as normal as possible, but I’m eleven. My father is the president of the United States. I know they’re not supposed to, but you think they won’t tell him if there’s a problem?”
The weight of this conversation settled on me. Josh couldn’t have made it more clear that he expected me to keep his confidence.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me more about this Seth kid.”
Despite my assurances that the radio—now bouncing to the beat of singing fish—would cover our conversation, Josh dropped his voice to a whisper. “He started out friendly like the rest of the kids, but then he started picking on my dad. Saying he’s useless and he should never have run for office and that anyone who voted for him was stupid.”
“Sounds to me like Seth is a jerk.”
Josh almost smiled. “I like that you say what you think. Too many grown-ups try to be too polite all the time.” He mimed gagging himself.
I laughed, then sobered. “What else is Seth saying?”
Josh began playing with the plate again. “He says my dad’s a loser and that he’s screwing up our country. He says my dad won’t win this next election and that I’ll be kicked out of school because I’m a loser, too.”
The despair in his voice cut my heart.
“You know the truth, Josh. Your dad is a good man and a strong leader. But no matter how hard he tries, or how much he accomplishes, there will be people who disagree with him. That’s okay. That’s normal. That’s the way our system works. If he’s defeated in this next election, that doesn’t mean he’s a loser. It means that the country decided to work with someone else.”
“I know that,” Josh said with more than a little strain. “But the other kids are listening to Seth and telling me what a bad president my dad is and how he should be kicked out of office.”
When he looked up at me with shiny eyes, I wanted to wrap him in a hug and promise I’d find a way to protect him from Seth.
“How do you react when he says these things?” I asked.
Shrug. “I never know what to say. Nothing makes him stop. I wish Dad wasn’t running for reelection. I wish we could leave here and just be normal again.”
“Have you told your parents any of this?”
He shook his head. “They would feel like they had to do something. If they did, it would only make things worse.”
I came around to his side of the countertop and put my hand on his shoulder. “Give them a chance. They were kids once, too. They’ll understand. And believe me, they need to know what you’re going through.”
He nodded as though he’d expected me to say that.
“You’ll get through this,” I
said. “I promise you will. It won’t be easy, but as long as you stay true to yourself and don’t give in to the Seths of the world, you’ll be okay.”
CHAPTER 11
Gav showed up in the kitchen less than a minute after Josh left. “Your timing is amazing,” I said.
“One of the perks of the job,” he said as he came over to give me a kiss. “I get to loiter in the White House without anyone chasing me off. I’ve been here for about fifteen minutes, but didn’t want to rush you.”
“I appreciate that,” I said as I peeled off my apron and smock then tossed them into the laundry. “Josh and I had a nice chat.”
“What did you wind up making?” He looked around the still-pristine kitchen. “Whatever it was, you sure cleaned up fast.”
“No cooking today.” When he cocked an eyebrow in question, I shook my head. “It’s classified,” I said.
“Sounds serious.”
“What do you remember about middle school?” I asked.
“Three of the most miserable years of my life.”
“Exactly. ’Nuff said.”
I pulled a vivid blue V-neck sweater over my lightweight shirt. Eyeing Gav’s charcoal suit and shiny shoes, I glanced down at my dark slacks. “I originally planned to change clothes at home, but with the time crunch, this is as dressed up as I’m going to get. Is that okay?”
“You look wonderful. And besides, we’re going to Suzette’s, not a reception at the Kennedy Center.”
“So Jason was able to accommodate the delay?”
“Yep.” He looked at his watch. “You ready?”
* * *
While we drove to Crystal City, we discussed our days, and I shared my hopes about hiring Lottie Catalano to fill Cyan’s spot. Gav agreed that it didn’t seem right to wish for someone’s home purchase to fall through, but said he hoped for the best.
A fire engine clanged, rushing up the street as we parked Gav’s car in our apartment building’s lot. With mild temps and the air soft with the scent of autumn, it would be a lovely evening for the quick walk to Suzette’s. For the briefest moment, I considered running upstairs long enough to switch out of my work clothes into something nicer, but decided not to delay.
“You sure you don’t mind being seen with me?” I teased.
He squeezed my hand. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
We walked no more than thirty steps when I turned to look behind me. “Is that another siren?” A fire engine roared past us in a blaze of lights, its horn warning automobiles and pedestrians to get out of its way. “That’s the third one to pass us in the last minute.”
Two blocks ahead, a police car racing toward us took a hairpin left turn. Seconds later, another followed. “Whatever’s going on, it’s big,” Gav said.
At the next intersection, through a clearing, he pointed south over the top of the nearby buildings where gray smoke twisted into the dark sky. “It looks like the beginnings of a fire.” He gave a quizzical look. “Or the end of one. But why all the heavy equipment if it’s under control?”
“That has to be near Suzette’s,” I said. “The same street, for sure.”
He gripped my hand a little tighter. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
As we picked up our pace, an ambulance rushed by, followed by two more police cars.
At the end of the block, we turned right and stopped in our tracks. “What is going on?” I asked.
Gav didn’t answer. Before us, the entire street was in chaos. Emergency lights flashed from every direction, nearly blinding me. The next block—where we were headed—was completely obstructed. Cops shouted, trying to establish order, urging people back and away. But from what?
The lingering smoke, though dissipated, was acrid and biting. I coughed, clutching Gav’s arm. “Look.”
Suzette’s restaurant was located three buildings in from the corner where we stood. Or, at least, it had been. The front of the establishment was missing. Reduced to rubble. Utterly destroyed. The former cheerful doorway and the bright front window was now a blackened and charred mess.
It hurt to breathe. “Gav? What happened?”
A cop shouted for us to get away. When we didn’t immediately comply, he started toward us. “Move along, folks. You can’t be here.”
Gav pulled out his ID. “I want to talk with whoever’s in charge.”
The cop hesitated a split second. “Over there.” He pointed ten feet west, where three men in suits huddled. Their arms were crossed, and they wore solemn expressions. “One of them.”
Our favorite restaurant looked as though some Godzilla-like creature had reached over and clawed the entire front of the two-story building away. The front of the apartment above the restaurant had been sheared off, leaving the rooms open to the elements, looking sad and vulnerable, like a destroyed home in a war zone.
“What about Jason?” I asked. “Where is he? I hope he’s all right.”
Gav didn’t speak as we picked through uneven chunks of concrete and piles of debris I couldn’t begin to identify.
“Gavin,” one of the men said when he spotted us. I didn’t recognize him, but from his appraising glance I got the impression he recognized me. “What are you doing here?”
“We had dinner plans, Cummings,” Gav responded. He acknowledged the two other men with a nod. “What happened?”
Cummings stepped away from his group and gestured for us to join him. “Wish I knew,” he said quietly. “Call came in about twenty minutes ago about a gas explosion.” He shook his head and lowered his voice. “This was no gas explosion.”
Gav and I were still holding hands. His grip tightened and his jaw clenched. “What was it?”
Joe Yablonski stepped into our group. “That’s the question we need to answer, isn’t it?” The big man nodded a greeting to each of us. “Agent Cummings, Agent Gavin. Ms. Paras.”
“Joe,” Gav said. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking control of the situation. And I’ll need your eyes and ears on this one,” he said. Turning to Agent Cummings, he said, “Would you please see Ms. Paras safely home?”
“But—” I said.
Yablonski’s eyes were just as steely as I remembered. “No arguments, Ms. Paras.” To Cummings, he said, “I want an agent outside her door around the clock. Call in whoever you need.”
“Yes, sir,” Cummings said.
Yablonski turned to Gav. “Let’s go.”
“It’ll be okay, Ollie,” Gav said as he broke away.
I wanted to hug him, but Yablonski’s sharp rebuke to Cummings—“Get going”—forestalled that plan.
I called to Gav as Yablonski led him away. “Be safe.”
Without breaking stride, he turned. “I will.”
* * *
Two hours later, after watching news coverage of the explosion on every possible station and refreshing my browser again and again, hoping for updates that never came, I began to pace. Every media outlet parroted the same story: gas explosion at a neighborhood restaurant. Five people injured and taken to area hospitals. No one confirmed dead. Not yet, at least. Gas company officials investigating. Authorities keeping the public far away until the area was safe again.
Cummings’s words taunted me: “This was no gas explosion.”
Then what was it?
I checked the time on my cell phone for probably the forty-third time in the past half hour. I desperately wanted to call Gav, but knew that I couldn’t. When he was busy with Yablonski, he had no time for interruptions. He’d call me when he could.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. When Agent Cummings had brought me back, food had been the last thing on my mind. He’d walked through my apartment exactly the way Agent Romero had the first time she’d brought me home, and he assured me that he, or a colleague, would remain outside my door all night.
That was small consolation now when what I wanted most was to have my husband here.
Alm
ost as though I’d willed it so, my cell phone came alive in my hand. Gav’s ring. “Are you okay?” I asked the moment we connected.
“I’m fine,” he said in a far more brusque tone than I would have expected. “Have you eaten?”
Startled by the question, I hesitated. “No, but—”
“Meet me at the car,” he said. “We’ll grab something.”
“But—”
“Ollie.” His tone was off. Way off.
“Okay,” I said. “How soon?”
“Two minutes.”
I hung up, grabbed my coat and keys, and flung open the front door, having momentarily forgotten about my bodyguard. Agent Romero stood there. “Cummings had to go,” she said. “Looks like you’re stuck with me again.”
“Gav’s meeting me downstairs,” I said by way of explanation.
She frowned. A second later, her phone rang. She held a finger up, indicating that I should wait while she answered. Less than thirty seconds later, she ended the call. “I’m to escort you to him.”
Romero and I took the elevator down and, true to her word, she stayed by my side until Gav wrapped his arms around me, thereby relieving her of duty. “Thank you very much,” he said. “Are you here all night?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Have a nice dinner. I’ll see you both when you return.”
The moment we broke apart, I asked, “What in the world is going on?”
Gav didn’t answer. Instead, he held out his hand. “Let me see your phone.”
I gave it to him.
He examined it closely. “This hasn’t been out of your possession recently, has it?”
“Not at all. I keep it with me wherever I go. This was in my pocket when my purse was stolen.”
“What about at the White House? Do you ever leave it unattended?”
“No, never.”
He handed it back. “When you made our dinner reservations for Suzette’s, did you use this or the apartment’s landline?”
I thought back. “The landline.”
“Let’s walk,” he said.
He led me through the sea of parked cars to the main street. The same street we’d taken earlier this evening. Instead of heading south, however, we walked north. Gav and I were notoriously quick-paced, but tonight we strolled.
