Page 137 of Enemy of My Enemy
One day rolled into two,and then into three.
Jack moved in a daze, a haze of shame that clung to him like a shroud of tangled, wet silk. The burn of guilt, of self-contempt, haunted his footsteps, a shadow he couldn’t shake.
He barely functioned as a human being, much less as the president. Elizabeth stayed with him, sitting at his side through briefings and emergency calls to the Situation Room. He quietly deferred almost everything to her, decisions on where to strike inside Russia and how to deal with the rogue General Moroshkin coming from her through him. He caught Brandt and Pete whispering in the hallway, eyes wide and heads leaning in together, but they shut up as soon as they saw him.
Stares followed him around the West Wing, chasing him from meeting to meeting. It was so much worse,somuch more so, than when he’d outed himself and Ethan. He’d grieved Ethan’s loss then, but he hadn’t been crushed with so much caustic contempt, so much self-hatred.
It ate away at him, an ache that grew larger every hour.
He could barely sleep, tortured with dreams of him and Ethan.
The bed he shared with Ethan was a no-go zone. It sat like a tomb in their bedroom, untouched, and he folded himself onto the couch, clutching a pillow to his chest like it was Ethan he held.
He tried, he really did, to imagine it was Leslie.
But hecouldn’t. He couldn’t replace Ethan with Leslie, couldn’t conjure up the love he’d once cherished for her. Couldn’t close his eyes and imagine running his fingers through her hair, like he could with Ethan. Couldn’t imagine their bodies oh-so-close, sharing breath as they rocked together.
He couldn’t imagine a future with her. Not anymore
His shame, his utter shame, bloomed like a corpse going rotten, the stench of self-disgust clinging to him, sinking into his bones.
His wife was alive, rescued from years of neglect, of manipulation and torture at the hands of a madman, and all he could do was yearn for his missing lover.
He forced himself to try. He made breakfast and dinner every day, carrying eggs and pancakes and waffles down the hall, and then steak, chicken, and pizza. Leslie smiled at him, laughed when they talked, and asked so many questions, trying to catch up on a world that had moved on without her. They watched a movie together, one of the hundreds she’d missed, and she rested her head on his shoulder and reached for his hand with her good one.
Tears rolled down his cheeks as he held her and felt nothing.
He kissed her hair and tucked her in when it was time to sleep, even though her eyes asked him to stay.
There were some things he couldn’t do. His body felt alien to him, like Ethan had the keys and had taken them with him. He was a stranger in his own skin, a puzzle with pieces out of place. A house of cards about to collapse.
Sleep evaded him again, and he watched the rise and fall of the moon through the window. Memories played through his mind, a film reel gone crazy, out of order and racing at high speed. Snapshots in time, isolated moments of love and laughter. He closed his eyes, trying to block them out, and pressed his face to the couch cushion.
When he opened them again, his gaze strayed to the mantel and to Leslie’s folded flag cased in a triangular frame. He barely remembered her funeral, except for the gun salute punching him in the gut and the warm brass shells tucked in the folds of her flag, burning his palm even through the thick fabric. He’d felt the same at Ethan’s funeral and had searched for the shells, tucked inside from the gun salute when a stern-faced soldier had presented the flag to him while “Taps” mournfully echoed over Arlington.
Rising, he dropped his pillow and went to the mantel, pulling down her flag and case.
He’d given back Ethan’s when Ethan appeared alive again. What should he do with Leslie’s?
Crinkling paper broke the silence of his bedroom as his fingers strayed over the back of the frame.
He pulled out a worn envelope, yellowing with age. The creases were frayed from being opened and closed too many times.
It was the last letter she’d written him. Her goodbye letter, only to be sent if she’d died.
He remembered reading it in the Texas sunshine outside their apartment mailbox, still numb from the official notice of her death days before. And then, her letter in the mail, like a voice from the grave. He’d read it over and over, his last link to her. Ancient tearstains warped the paper, had smeared the ink long ago. He’d slept with it, even, holding the envelope in his hand all through the night.
When he framed her flag, he’d tucked her letter in the back of the frame and left it there.
He untucked the flap and pulled out the worn, crinkled sheets.
* * *
“I decidedto come to you this morning.” Leslie smiled at Jack, leaning in the kitchen doorway and wrapped in a bathrobe. “I’m supposed to get up and get moving. Take walks.” She shrugged. “Thought I’d come here for breakfast today.”
Jack froze, hovering over the stove, spatula in hand. Scrambled eggs sizzled and toast popped from the toaster.
“Hey. Have a seat. I’m almost done.” He loaded up a plate for her and brought it to the table with a glass of orange juice.
