Page 51 of Secret Service

Me: I know that one. I’m good at it.

I type, “Good at downward dog, too,” and then delete that. The fuck are you doing, Reese? Eat a boudin ball.

Brennan: Tell me about life outside?

I’m in a hole-in-the-wall joint with the smell of deep-fried grease in the paint. The kind of place where the upholstery is duct-taped together and cardboard is shoved under the wobbly table legs. Traffic was a beast, but it’s always a beast on the East Coast. I’d stop-and-go-ed for twenty miles, and by the time I parked, I was ready to down a beer, throw my feet up, and text Walker.

I didn’t want to look too closely at that last one.

The point is, there is nothing special about where I am or what I’m doing. The West Wing may be my daily office, and, sure, that’s taken a little shine off the place, but it’s still far grander than anywhere around here. If I need a breath of fresh air at Rowley, my option is to hang out on the rickety balcony surrounded by my fellow agents and smokers. If I want air at the White House, I can grab a few minutes in the Rose Garden, or walk the South Lawn, or, even better, say hello to Walker on the Oval Office patio.

Me: Not much to share. Traffic. Crowds. I’d rather be back at the White House.

Brennan: And miss out on that food?

Me: I’ll get it to go.

Walker goes quiet, which is unusual. But, I’m not the only thing on his plate. A thousand things could have come up in the past minute to drag him away, from his dinner to an outbreak of nuclear war. If I were there, I’d know. Maybe I’d be beside him on the way into the Situation Room. Or maybe we’d be having this conversation in person instead of over text. In his kitchen. In the Residence.

Leave him alone. Let him do his job. Which is being the president, not texting me because I can’t get him out of my mind.

Not even a minute passes before I text him.

Me: You okay?

Brennan: Yes.

I wait.

His text bubble reappears, three dots bouncing. Stopping. Bouncing. Stopping.

Brennan: I’m restless. Feeling a little… caged in.

I should have seen this coming.

Prior to arriving at the White House, Brennan Walker was known as something of an adrenaline junkie. In California, it wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for a weekend, then come back to Sacramento and the state capitol with a few bruises and stories of white-water rafting, rock climbing, or back-country skiing. I’d thought, and the Service thought, that those impulses had been tempered by the demands of the campaign and then the presidency.

Maybe I could figure out an excursion. Balance adrenaline-seeking and Secret Service safety.

What would that look like? A bounce house on the South Lawn?

Me: You work out, yeah? More than yoga?

Brennan: Yes. In San Francisco, I used to run the Presidio. I’d go out to Battery Park and then down to Baker Beach and back on the overlook trail. Nothing but the waves and the fog.

A beat, and then,

Brennan: Have you ever been to San Francisco?

Me: A few times with the Service. Never for pleasure.

Another long silence. I finish my boudin balls and all of my shrimp and scallops. I’m halfway through my second beer when he texts again.

Brennan: I’d love to show you the cliffs on Baker Beach.

My beer bottle stills halfway to my lips. I stare at the screen so long it goes dark, and I have to swipe to bring it back to life to reread those words.

I’m imagining this, aren’t I? He doesn’t mean, at all, the lies my mind is trying to tell me.

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