Page 200 of Bona Fide

? Bad Romance — Thirty Seconds to Mars ?

Tucked awayin the wooded hills of Catoctin Mountain Park, not only was Camp David beautiful but Wade was right, I don’t belong here. The suited men who escorted me here have been making me nervous since boarding me on a plane and driving me here to the not-so-modest cabin. They don’t speak, they cryptically search every angle and corner that we tread on. I feel as though every one of their eyes fall on me no matter where I walk in the house, silently judging me for stepping foot on something that belongs to the President of the United States as a civilian.

I wasn’t his wife. I was just the bitch who sent him a video and ripped his heart out while I continued on my way—sort of.

When I left the hospital, Wade barely looked at me, issuing out orders to a man named Marshall. I made a mistake by coming, but I’d do it again just to reassure myself that he wasn’t in critical condition since the news knew nothing about how he was fairing.

And Emmy didn’t answer any of my text messages.

Wade squeezed my hand and told me to stay put here. I strived to ask him more questions, ones I had no right in asking, but I couldn’t help myself. He abruptly cut off every single one, repeating that he just needed me in a spot where I could be safe.

Safe.

Well, what about him? How could the President of the United States be in the same room with someone and a gun? Did every room he entered become like Area 51—danger didn’t exist. No inevitable threats step foot within a ten block radius of him.

How is he so calm during this? Why am I so pushy when Wade already had me set in place to be protected? Why won’t I let myself break free from him so that someday we’ll be semi-whole again?

He pressed a longer than necessary kiss to my forehead before resting our foreheads together.

“Remember that the Yankees are the best. And that you’ll always be my Sox.”

A cracked chuckle left my lips, he was trying to lighten the mood, but our relationship and future was already shattered into a million pieces. No amount of glue would assemble us back together.

It’s Day Four, sunny and bright, the warm rays urging me to feel somewhat happy and lucky that it’s such a nice day out since the last three days have matched my mood. I’ve already explored every inch of this place—four bedrooms, five bathrooms, a beautifully done kitchen with black marble countertops, and a study with hundreds of boring-ass books on history and geography. The landscaping is impeccable, the pool is perfectly maintained, and, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m ready to go home.

It may not be ideal, but it’s somewhat comfortable, the monotonous days and nights of my life, even the sporadic thoughts of Wade from time to time. But this is a whole other level, I’m not supposed to be here.

“Reagan Mae, did you put on some sunscreen before laying out on that lounge chair?”

No.

“Yes, Mama.”

“What time did you wanna eat dinner?”

“Whenever you want, I’m flexible.” Thankfully, my back is to her, and my focus is along the freshly cut grass and mountaintop that caps over the greenery of the woods.

I’m flabbergasted that she didn’t ask more questions when she arrived here in an infamous SUV with the Suits and believed Marty when he told her that he got a weekend here for free. That President Lockwood was lending his vacation spot to people of the military.

I mean, who is she going to ask to confirm that?

“The Boston Sox game is on,” Mama continues. I clench my eyelids harder, my cell in my hands itching for me to just give in and text Wade with that number I had before. I’ve already done some damage when I looked up news on what was happening outside this oasis of solitude and impatience.

Wade finally emerged from the hospital yesterday with news that the bodyguard who saved his life had passed away.

His face was solemn as he mindlessly read off the piece of paper in front of him. A man that resembles the gentleman, Francis, who was killed, stands at Wade’s side. Wade offers his condolences to the family and friends of the fallen Secret Service member and promptly leaves the stage, not taking any questions.

Demi hasn’t left the White House to the media’s knowledge. They haven’t released a statement about her alleged love child with Senator Lockwood, and my heart felt like it had been battered like a pinata after reading the article over and over again.

A clandestine love affair, one that had DNA tests explicitly out for anyone and everyone to read. Senator Lockwood has failed to make an affirmation about it, and when the media asked Wade about it after he spoke of his fallen agent—he just stared out in the open. I noticed the man next to him gently nudge him back into reality, and he further said that he wasn’t going to talk about it at this time.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I quickly power on the screen.

Marty: How are you and Mama?

Me: Good. Where are you? You said you’d be here.

Marty: I’ll let you ponder on that for about an hour.

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