Long May She Reign (91 page)

“I mean, it's way more than—” Jack stopped. “This just isn't what I'm looking for, Meg.”

Did he
have
to be so god-damn honest?

“I just, you know, want to screw around,” he said.

No kidding.

“Literally, but also—well, if there's anything
difficult
, I don't want to—” He stopped again, and shook his head. “This really isn't—I'm sorry. I don't think I can do it.”

Once again, he was living up to her worst expectations. “Well, lucky for you, your long national nightmare is over,” Meg said. “You can go off and find someone shallow, and uncomplicated, and promiscuous as hell. Play your cards right, and I bet you'll score before morning.”

He stared at her. “You know, I may be an immature asshole, but you can be an absolutely
glacial
bitch.”

Glacial. Oooh.

“Is she anywhere close to being as mean as you are?” he asked.

What, was he an idiot? “Well,
yeah
,” Meg said, and laughed, except that it made her throat hurt. “I mean, she pretty much gave the terrorists
permission
to kill me.” Practically put the guns in their hands. “Where would you score that on the Mean Scale?”

“Pretty high,” he said.

Yeah. Pretty fucking high all right.

She reached back to use the table for support, and slowly eased up onto her good leg.

“I had a really crappy time in New Haven,” he said.

She was overflowing with sympathy.

“It was mostly okay while I was actually playing,” he said, “but other than that, I was down there, and you were way the hell up
here
, and I missed you.”

She shrugged. “Probably should have found someone to make out with, then.”

He shook his head. “I missed the stuff you say, and how you think all the time, and the way you look at me when you forget you aren't sure whether you actually
like
me.”

Oh.

“But then, when you walked into Psych, you wouldn't even come
near
me,” he said. “And today, you didn't show up at all.”

This came as a surprise, somehow? Besides, he had been the one who stayed away from her, hadn't he?

She didn't want to forgive him. Didn't want to take the time, or make the effort, and try to work this out. Didn't even, really, want to get to know him better. It just took up too god-damned much energy.

A couple of dismissive words, and she could end this right now. Be off the hook. Try to meet someone who would never dream of pressuring her, and would spend a lot of time making remarks like, “Of course, Meg, you're right. You're always right” and “Sure, whatever you want, Meg.”

“Josh ducked,” she said.

Which, judging from his expression, must have seemed like a complete non-sequitur.

“He came running out when it happened, and they were shooting everywhere,” she said, “so I yelled at him to get down—and he did.”

Jack nodded. “And feels all emasculated now, because he didn't save you.”

Unfortunately. “Yeah,” Meg said. “But they would have killed him. They shot my agents without thinking twice.”

Jack—probably involuntarily—glanced around, as though a wild flurry of machine-gun fire might break out at any second. “You must have really loved him, if you thought of him right in the middle of all hell breaking loose for
you
.”

Yes. She shrugged. “It was a reflex, mostly. But, yeah, I loved him.” Which the guy had figured out right away, because he'd spent a lot of time trying to knock her further off balance by telling her that Josh had been shot repeatedly—and had died. She had believed it right up until her mother had had someone bring him to her bedside to see her in the hospital.

“Still sort of fits into the whole hero zeitgeist,” he said.

Christ, hearing the word “hero”
once
was already two thousand times too many, especially when the sentiment was so very misplaced. But, she made a point of not correcting him, since that would just prolong the issue. “Don't tell your beach dude friends that you like to use the word ‘zeitgeist,'” she said.

“Yeah, you're probably right,” he agreed.

Well, it was nice to be right.

They looked at each other.

“I'm really sorry about my agents,” she said. “I think it was an honest mistake, but they shouldn't have treated you that way.”

He shrugged. “Everyone around you's scared all the time.”

Serious understatement. “Yeah, but I should have warned you that it might happen. But, we had been—” No point in embarrassing both of them—and whichever agents might be within earshot—with a play-by-play. “I was distracted,” she said.

He nodded.

“I've, um,” she lowered her voice, “never slept with anyone before.”

“Well, no kidding, Meg,” he said. “I already know that.”

And now, in all likelihood, Nellie, and possibly Ronald, knew, too, since they were standing the closest. She carefully didn't look at them, hoping that they were tactful enough not to be listening. “I meant
literally
,” she said. “And so, I didn't stop to think about whether I was going to wake up screaming.”

“It's okay,” he said. “I just got scared, and—I really thought I
might
have hurt you somehow, by accident.”

Made sense. She shook her head. “You didn't. I'm just—I don't know—still trying to find my way back. And, I have to be honest, I don't know how long it's going to take, or even if—well, I might not ever be able to get there.”

Strangely enough, he didn't disagree.

Which left them, where?

“I've never made love with anyone,” he said.

Could have fooled her. But she looked around to make sure that her agents were all a safe distance away, which seemed to be the case.

“What I do, is
have sex
,” he said. “A girl says yes, I say, ‘Yay!,' and away we go.”

Which wasn't likely to happen here. It wasn't any secret that she was going to need a hell of a lot more from him than that.

“I don't even know if I know how,” he said. “And if I try, I'm going to do stuff wrong, and you're going to get your feelings hurt sometimes, and I'm going to get
my
feelings hurt, and—well, I don't know.”

“So, we both feel like running away,” she said.

He nodded.

This entire conversation was making her feel even more tired than usual.

“Does your mother give your father that ‘I'm not sure if you're even worth the effort' look?” he asked.

An expression she could picture all too easily on her own face. “No,” Meg said. “He gives it to
her
.” As a rule.

Because her mother had gone out of her way to pick an equal, instead of someone who would let her completely run the show.

“I hate that look,” Jack said.

Yeah. Josh had hated it, too. So, she nodded. “Well, maybe you can study up on the making love business, and I'll work on the trying to do a better job of letting you in part.”

Jack grinned at her. “Works for me,” he said.

50

HE HELPED HER
up from the picnic bench, and she was shaky enough so that she leaned against his arm for a minute, until she was sure she could stand on her own. Then, he kissed her good-night, they looked at each other, he kissed her again—and they left it at that.

For the time being.

Although she
did
call Beth—who was very pleased—the second she got upstairs.

She had dinner with him the next night, and they went out for a very long session of coffee and pastries down on Spring Street the following day. Spent a fair amount of talking on the phone, and sending lots of cryptic, flirtatious emails and instant messages, too.

Both Maureen and Hannah emailed her advance copies of
The Washington Post
profile, and while it seemed to be very well done, she felt uncomfortable reading about herself, and stopped after the first couple of paragraphs. Regardless, she arranged to have flowers sent, with a “
Great job! Thanks— Meg
” note attached.

Jack's ankle was still pretty bad, and he probably had no business being out on the field, but the team was playing at home on Saturday, and she and Juliana and Mark went to watch. He seemed to
love
having her as an audience, and did quite a lot of showing off, but also made some sparkling plays along this way.

If it hadn't been a required uniform, and he had been able to take his shirt off, it would have been a nearly perfect afternoon.

They spent most of that night alone in her room, closing the door for the first time since the nightmare. She was pretty sure that he was trying to take it slow—but that didn't last long, and she knew that she was getting very much closer to saying
yes
, and probably would once she was sure the birth control pills she'd finally started taking had really and truly kicked in.

Right before midnight, he used his cell phone to order some pizza, and she ended up eating three pieces, while they watched a replay of that afternoon's Red Sox victory on NESN, and took time to fool around at odd moments. It was erotic, and entertaining, and just a hell of a lot of fun.

They hadn't discussed whether he was going to spend the night, but it was getting late, and they were both drowsy, and it seemed to be inevitable. Plus, Martin was out there on overnight duty, in his staunch way, which made her feel less anxious about what might happen, if things didn't go well.

Once the light was out, and they were lying together, she got the nerve to bring up something which had been bothering her.

“Are you a Republican?” she asked.

Jack laughed. “What?”

“Are you?” she asked.

“Well, I think, lots of times, entitlement programs cause more problems than they solve,” he said.

What? She sat up. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Don't you?”

Oh, dear. Although her mother was a devotee of Moynihan's works, and entitlement strategies sometimes seemed to lead to a certain infantilization, and large bureaucracies didn't tend to breed efficiency, but it was still potentially troubling. “Gun control, freedom of choice, estate taxes, states' rights, big government, gay marriage, medical malpractice, affirmative action, the separation of church and state,” she said.

“I don't know.” He sat up, too. “Yes, yes, no, mostly, no, sure, out of control, sometimes, and maybe.” Then, he frowned. “Is this a
litmus
test?”

She nodded.

“Oh.” He frowned. “Jesus, hope I didn't get them out of order. Did I pass?”

Hmmm. “You got an incomplete,” she said.

“The
President's
kind of centrist,” he said, sounding very annoyed. “Why can't I be, too?”

She herself was also closer to the middle than the left, in many cases, but— “Separation of church and state,” she said.

He folded his arms. “What's the big deal if someone wants to put up a damn Christmas tree? If someone else comes along, and says, hey, can I add a menorah or something here, why can't
they
do that, too? I mean, what the hell. A person feels like saying, ‘God bless America,' it doesn't wreck my day.”

“Okay,” she said, and tilted her head to look up at him, squinting to see in the very dim light. “Gay marriage is fine?”

He shrugged. “People loving each other and getting married? Sure. Besides, my brother's gay, and what if he wants to have a family or something?”

She would have to give him a full passing grade, simply for apparently not being at all bothered by the fact that his brother was gay. “Is your father upset about it?”

“Pretends he doesn't know,” Jack said. “But his partner, Bucky, stayed with us during the holidays and everything, and he can't be
that
dense. I don't think.”

Interesting. “What do your parents think about my mother?” she asked.

Jack shrugged again. “Mom likes her, mostly. Dad says at least she turned out to be an Iron Lady, so the country will probably still be here once we get someone good back in office again.”

Not a rave, but not a disaster, either.

He grinned. “My brother says it was like getting to vote for Emma Peel.”

She grinned, too. “Gay brother, or straight brother?”

“Greg,” he said. “So, gay brother. But, Phillip started calling her that, too.”

Jack, and his unexpectedly Anglophilic family. Hell, when she'd visited his dorm room, she'd even seen a whole sketchbook devoted to little line drawings of London and the English countryside.

“I think it's why she won,” he said seriously. “I mean, yeah, she's incredibly smart and all, but she also charmed the hell out of everyone.”

“It didn't hurt that the other guy was so smug,” Meg said. And wishy-washy. And seemingly perpetually angry, in an off-putting smiley way.

“No,” he agreed, “but in the debates, and with the press and all, the harder they went after her, the more sparkly she got, and it was fun to watch. Like you really wouldn't mind having her all over the place for four years. Wouldn't get sick of seeing her. And Greg'd be sitting there, pumping his fist and pissing my father off, saying, ‘You go, Mrs. Peel!'”

Something she would definitely have to run by the President, who was probably going to be very pleased by the comparison, regardless of whether she admitted it.

“That's who the country voted for, and that's who they want back,” he said, very seriously.

Because the President was no longer—jaunty—in the same way. No longer necessarily fun to watch go through her day. “Maybe she'd rather do theater,” Meg said.