Page 22 of The Press Secretary's Passion
I don’t want her to worry about me, so I keep it vague. She doesn’t need any more stress in her life. While I have never had one, I’m sure it can’t be good for the baby. I would never forgive myself if something happened to Grace or the baby because of me.
ME: Go relax. Stress can’t be good for my godchild. Go read that baby book you love so much.
GRACE: You’re an asshole. You know how much I hate that book.
ME: I do know, and I also know I’m your asshole.
GRACE: That you are.
ME: Go away.
GRACE: Fine. Call me if you need me.
ME: I will.
I won’t. I’m pretty sure we both know it too. But that’s all right. I’ll be fine, because I always am.
I grip my phone in my hand. It’s been well over an hour, and even longer since Rachel was rescued and Ryan was shot. What the fuck is going on? And why haven’t we heard anything? I’m pretty sure that if something happened—good or bad—Grace would have phoned. She’s my person. She wouldn’t let me down. Actually, I know for a fact that if Ryan died, Grace would be here to hold me while I cried and mourned the man who would never be mine but who I care for anyway. Her team of secret service agents would look on uncomfortably, because Grace knows, even if I’ve never shared the words with her of the complicated emotions I feel for him. She would do whatever was needed if I were headed for a crash of that magnitude. So he’s not dead.Thank God.
But still, I have to know.
So I drop my phone in my bag and scoop out my car keys before running to the garage. I open the garage door, jump in my car, and drive like a tasteful bat out of hell toward the hospital. It wouldn’t do for me to get arrested for reckless driving. The Associated Press would just love that.
I pull into the parking lot, unsure where to go, so I park by the emergency room and walk as quickly as I can through the automatic doors and straight to the desk.
“Can I help you?” the nurse asks me, and I freeze. There is no way in hell they are going to give me the information I need, so I do the only thing I think of on the spot, which is undoubtedly the wrong thing to do. I lie.
“Yes. My boyfriend was injured earlier today in a hunting accident, and I was told he’s here.”
She looks at me for a long time and must see something in me that she can trust, which is both wonderful and horrifying at the same time. The panic inside me is still welling up. I need to know Ryan is okay. Until the, I’m drowning in it.
“He went into surgery a little while ago,” she says softly, and my heart seizes in my lungs. Surgery. Oh God, it’s worse than I thought. She takes in the tears welling in my eyes and continues. “He should be out soon. You can go through those doors to the elevator and take it to the fifth floor. Heddie is the nurse there. She’ll have more info for you.”
“Thank you!” I say before I run for the doors. She pushes the button to unlock them right as I hit it and push through.
I take the elevator to the fifth floor like she said and push through another heavy door with a little rectangular glass window in it into another waiting room. There aren’t many people, but it also isn’t empty. There’s an older man holding a purse and a jacket in his lap. And then there’s a woman, probably ten years older than me, who’s beautiful with short, no-nonsense blonde hair and fair skin with just a few attractive wrinkles by her eyes. With her are two teenagers. The girl sits with the woman while the boy stands. He looks at me for a second, and then I look away.
“Hello, can I help you?” the nurse who I assume is Heddie asks, and since my little white lie downstairs worked, I try it again up here, thinking I’ll get the same results, but boy am I wrong. I would never have imagined how wrong I would be.
“Yes,” I answer with confidence I should not feel. “My boyfriend was injured in a hunting accident earlier. I was told he was up here in surgery.”
She looks at me for a moment, and I’m hoping she doesn’t realize who I am. That’s always a possibility when your face is on C-SPAN and every cable news outlet only every damn day. “And your boyfriend’s name?”
“Ryan Black.”
I am so wrapped up in my own panic that I don’t feel the tension of the room go wired. I should have. I’m good at reading a room, and that’s no lie. But this time, I don’t feel it. I’m too driven for my need to find out if he’s all right. I need to see it with my own eyes.
“What did you say?” the teenage boy asks from across the room, and I freeze.
“Nothing,” I say, turning to him with a gentle smile on my face. “I’m just trying to find out some information about someone. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
I should have noticed that the beautiful blonde and her daughter turned to look at me as well. Or that the nurse was looking a little nervous just now. I don’t take in any of these things. Instead, I press on with my harmless white lie like an idiot.
“Did you say Ryan Black?” he asks. They might recognize his name. It’s no secret the president’s aide-de-camp is named Ryan Black. It’s also a common first and last name, so who knows. Either way, I don’t think twice about answering.
“Yes, why?”
“Because this is his wife and children,” the nurse answers before the boy has a chance to. “I was trying to find a way to tell you, but sometimes ripping off the Band-Aid is best, child.”
