Julia
“Is everything all right?" my mother asked. “Are you on your way home? Do you need our help?"
I inhaled as I sat straighter, my phone in hand. While Van had gone to his office to call his press secretary, I'd stayed in my suite. We'd maintained the schedule Van had stated earlier in the evening—f*****g, dinner, and more f*****g. The second round was in my suite, in my bed. Now, after enough time to gather my breath and clean up, wearing only a robe, I stepped from the bedroom and into the sitting room with my phone in hand.
“Mom, please get Dad. I want to talk to both of you."
“Julia, tell me," she pursued, “is this something bad?"
“No." I shook my head, trying to believe my own words.
What I was about to tell them wasn't bad.
It was a shock.
“Please get Dad," I repeated.
