Behind the President

Chapter TwentySomething Has Changed-Rin

I woke up thinking about flowers.

Which was ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

I opened my eyes slowly and stared at the ceiling of my bedroom.

For a few seconds, I didn’t remember why flowers were the first thing on my mind.

Then I remembered.

Gideon.

The inauguration.

My apartment.

Thirty-seven missed calls.

His ridiculous argument about Senator McCarthy.

The fact that the President of the United States had somehow ended up sitting on my couch in the middle of the night.

And then—

The flowers.

I turned my head toward the nightstand.

My phone was there.

I reached for it.

There was still the message from Gideon.

Because I just wanted to give you flowers.

I stared at it.

Again.

I had already read it several times last night.

It still didn’t make sense.

Not completely.

I sat up in bed.

“Because I just wanted to give you flowers.”

That was it.

No explanation.

No apology.

No political reason.

No carefully worded statement.

Just—

I wanted to.

I rubbed my eyes.

Maybe I was overthinking it.

Flowers weren’t that serious.

People sent flowers all the time.

Friends sent flowers.

Colleagues sent flowers.

People apologized with flowers.

People congratulated each other with flowers.

It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Except—

This was Gideon.

Gideon Vance did not strike me as the kind of man who randomly sent flowers.

He was the kind of man who probably had his assistant schedule his entire day in five-minute increments.

He didn’t do random.

He didn’t do spontaneous.

He didn’t do unnecessary.

At least, that was what I had thought.

Apparently, I was learning otherwise.

I got out of bed.

I showered, dressed, and walked into my living room.

The flowers were still there.

They were beautiful.

Elegant.

Not excessively romantic.

White roses mixed with pale green foliage, arranged in a simple but expensive-looking glass vase.

I walked closer.

There wasn’t even a card.

Just flowers.

I touched one of the petals.

Then shook my head.

“You’re thinking too much.”

I said it aloud.

The flowers remained silent.

Very unhelpful.

⸻

By eight-thirty, I was at NBC.

The newsroom was already busy.

Phones ringing.

Producers moving between desks.

Reporters arguing over headlines.

Editors speaking into headsets.

The normal chaos.

I walked toward my desk with a coffee in one hand and my laptop bag in the other.

My boss spotted me immediately.

“Tanaka.”

I looked up.

“Morning.”

He walked over.

“You disappeared early last night.”

“I went home.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I raised an eyebrow.

He smiled.

“The inauguration.”

“I had a friend’s birthday.”

“Right.”

He looked at me for a moment.

Then his eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a face.”

“I have a face?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of face?”

“The kind that says something happened.”

I laughed.

“Nothing happened.”

He stared at me.

I stared back.

He sighed.

“Fine.”

He walked away.

I sat down.

Opened my laptop.

And immediately saw a message from my producer.

Need you in Conference Room B at 9:00.

I sighed.

Of course.

I opened my first file.

Then another.

Then another.

Within minutes, I was back in my normal world.

Federal contracting.

A senator accused of hiding financial ties.

An upcoming Supreme Court hearing.

A major infrastructure bill.

The administration’s housing initiative.

And Gideon.

Always Gideon.

I didn’t know when that happened.

When had covering the president become something I actually looked forward to?

I had interviewed dozens of powerful people.

Presidents.

Senators.

CEOs.

Foreign ministers.

Billionaires.

Cabinet officials.

Military leaders.

I had interviewed people who could move markets with one sentence.

People who could destroy careers with a phone call.

People who had entire teams dedicated to protecting their image.

But Gideon was different.

Not because he was the president.

Because he was difficult to understand.

And I liked difficult things.

Maybe too much.

⸻

At nine, I walked into Conference Room B.

My producer was there with two editors.

“Sit.”

I sat.

“We want you on the housing story.”

I nodded.

“Because of the First Home Access Credit?”

“Yes.”

I opened the folder.

The proposal was still being debated, but the administration had made it one of its early priorities.

“What’s the angle?”

“Implementation.”

I nodded.

“Who are we interviewing?”

“Three housing economists, two mayors, one developer, and a consumer advocacy group.”

“Good.”

“And we want an interview with the administration.”

I looked up.

“Who?”

My producer gave me a knowing look.

“You.”

I leaned back.

“Of course.”

“We want the president.”

I paused.

“The president?”

“Yes.”

“Again?”

“You’ve interviewed him twice.”

“Exactly.”

“And he keeps answering your questions.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

“You’re good with him.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I wasn’t sure whether that was true.

The first interview had been professional.

The second had been much more personal.

The inauguration had been different.

Then the flowers.

And the phone call.

Something had changed.

I just couldn’t figure out what.

“Fine,” I said.

“When?”

“We’re requesting him for later this week.”

I nodded.

“All right.”

My producer smiled.

“Good.”

I gathered my papers.

As I stood, he said, “And Tanaka?”

“Yes?”

“Try not to ask him if he’s gay this time.”

The room went quiet.

I stared at him.

Then laughed.

“Don’t worry.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I still can’t believe you asked the president that.”

“I can’t either.”

“Good.”

I walked out.

But the question stayed with me.

Not the question I’d asked Gideon.

The question I hadn’t asked.

What exactly is happening between us?

⸻

By lunchtime, I had forgotten about it.

Or tried to.

I went downstairs to the café and ordered matcha.

The barista smiled when he saw me.

“Matcha again?”

“Always.”

“Coffee guy drinking matcha.”

“I’m Japanese.”

He laughed.

“Fair enough.”

I took my drink and found a quiet corner.

I had barely sat down when my phone vibrated.

I looked at the screen.

Gideon.

I stared at his name.

Then answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

His voice.

Calm.

Deep.

Familiar now.

“Hi.”

“Are you working?”

“Yes.”

“I figured.”

I smiled.

“Why did you call?”

There was a pause.

“I wanted to check on you.”

I frowned slightly.

“Check on me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“Then why check?”

Another pause.

“I don’t know.”

I smiled.

That sounded surprisingly honest.

“You’re not very good at pretending.”

“I don’t pretend.”

“You do.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

He was quiet.

I took a sip of my matcha.

“How’s your day?”

“Busy.”

“Of course.”

“You?”

“Busy.”

“Have you eaten?”

I blinked.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Why?”

“What did you eat?”

I laughed.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head.

“Matcha.”

“That’s not food.”

“I had lunch.”

“What?”

I looked at the phone.

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“I’m not interrogating you.”

“It sounds like an interrogation.”

“I’m asking.”

“Very presidential of you.”

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

The sound surprised me.

I’d heard Gideon laugh before.

But rarely.

And never like that.

It was softer than I expected.

Real.

Uncontrolled.

I smiled.

“There.”

“What?”

“You laughed.”

“So?”

“I don’t hear you laugh often.”

“I laugh.”

“Not when you’re president.”

“I’m not president every second.”

“You’re pretty close.”

He was quiet again.

Then he said, “Maybe that’s the problem.”

I stopped smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

There it was again.

That honesty.

The same honesty I’d heard during our second interview.

The man behind the presidency.

The man who sometimes didn’t know what he wanted.

I lowered my voice.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t believe him.

But I didn’t push.

“All right.”

Another silence.

Then he said, “I wanted to make sure you weren’t angry with me.”

I looked down at my cup.

“I was.”

“I know.”

“You came into my apartment in the middle of the night.”

“I know.”

“You scared me.”

His voice changed.

“I’m sorry.”

I froze.

I hadn’t expected that.

Gideon Vance.

The President of the United States.

Actually apologizing.

I swallowed.

“Thank you.”

“I shouldn’t have done it.”

“No.”

“I was worried.”

“I understand.”

“I still shouldn’t have done it.”

I smiled faintly.

“You’re learning.”

He gave a quiet laugh.

“Apparently.”

I looked out the café window.

“Why were you so worried?”

He didn’t answer.

For several seconds, I thought the call had dropped.

Then I heard him breathe.

“I don’t know.”

Again.

That answer.

I looked at his name on the screen.

Something about the way he said it made me believe him.

Maybe he really didn’t know.

“Okay,” I said softly.

“Okay.”

We stayed on the phone for another few minutes.

Then someone called my name from across the café.

“I have to go.”

“All right.”

“Bye, Gideon.”

“Bye, Rin.”

The call ended.

I stared at my phone.

My heart felt strangely light.

Then I shook my head.

No.

Absolutely not.

I was not going to start imagining things.

He was the president.

I was a journalist.

We had a complicated professional relationship.

That was all.

At least—

That was what I told myself.

⸻

That evening, I returned home.

The flowers were still sitting on the table.

I changed clothes, made dinner, and eventually sat on the couch.

My apartment was quiet.

I looked at the flowers again.

I picked up my phone.

Opened our conversation.

Read his message.

Because I just wanted to give you flowers.

I smiled.

Then stopped.

Why was I smiling?

I leaned back.

Maybe Gideon was simply becoming comfortable with me.

Maybe he trusted me.

Maybe he liked talking to me.

That didn’t automatically mean anything romantic.

People could care about each other without falling in love.

People could be protective without being possessive.

People could be curious without wanting something more.

And yet—

I remembered his face last night.

The anger.

The jealousy.

The way he’d asked about McCarthy.

The thirty-seven missed calls.

The flowers.

The phone call today.

I wanted to check on you.

I frowned.

That was a lot.

Too much, maybe.

Especially from a man who had once told me that privacy mattered.

I wasn’t offended anymore.

But I was curious.

Very curious.

My phone vibrated.

A message.

From Gideon.

Did you get home?

I stared at it.

Then laughed quietly.

I typed:

Yes.

His reply came almost immediately.

Good.

I looked at the message.

Then typed:

Are you checking again?

Three dots.

Maybe.

I smiled.

You really are strange.

His response:

You noticed.

I laughed.

For a few minutes, we continued texting.

Nothing important.

Nothing that could be called romantic.

But it felt easy.

Natural.

And that was the part that unsettled me.

Because somewhere between the interviews and the inauguration, between the arguments and the flowers, between his late-night call and today’s conversation—

Gideon Vance had stopped feeling like just the president.

He was becoming Gideon.

Just Gideon.

And I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing.

Because I was starting to care about him too.

Not as a journalist.

Not as the president.

Just—

Him.

I looked at the flowers one last time.

Then at his name on my phone.

Something had changed.

I just didn’t know what.

And maybe—

Neither did he.