Behind the President

Chapter Twenty-TwoThe President Is Acting Strange-Rin

Something was different about Gideon.

I knew it the moment our interview ended.

Not because he had said anything particularly unusual.

Actually, that was the strange part.

He had been unusually careful.

Careful with his words.

Careful with his distance.

Careful with me.

And I noticed.

I noticed everything.

It was part of being a journalist.

You watched people.

You noticed what they didn’t say.

You noticed when someone’s hands tightened around a glass.

When their voice changed.

When their eyes moved toward the door.

When they answered a question too quickly.

When they avoided answering it at all.

Gideon had always been difficult to read.

But today?

He was readable in a completely different way.

He was trying not to be.

And somehow, that made him easier to understand.

I sat in the back of the car after leaving the White House, staring through the window at Washington passing by.

My mind kept replaying our conversation.

I’m glad you’re okay.

I shouldn’t have come to your apartment.

I shouldn’t have called that many times.

I was jealous.

That last sentence stayed with me.

I was jealous.

He had actually said it.

Gideon Vance.

The President of the United States.

Jealous.

Of Senator McCarthy.

Of me.

I still didn’t know what to make of it.

Maybe he didn’t either.

That was the problem.

Gideon didn’t strike me as a man who admitted things he didn’t understand.

He was too controlled.

Too disciplined.

Too careful.

He had built an entire life around knowing exactly what he was doing.

Yet lately, whenever it came to me, he seemed to lose that certainty.

And I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t noticed.

⸻

When I arrived at NBC, my producer was waiting for me.

“How did it go?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

I looked at him.

“Yes.”

He smiled.

“You and the president have a very interesting definition of the word fine.”

I laughed.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because everyone knows better than to tell you what they’re thinking.”

I shook my head.

“I’m going back to work.”

He let me go.

But I knew he’d noticed something too.

Everyone seemed to notice something.

Maybe there really was something there.

I just didn’t know what.

⸻

That evening, I went home earlier than usual.

I removed my jacket, loosened my tie, and placed my bag on the chair.

The flowers were still on the table.

I looked at them.

I hadn’t thrown them away.

I didn’t want to.

That realization surprised me.

They were just flowers.

But they were from Gideon.

And somehow that made them different.

I walked over and touched one of the white roses.

I remembered his message.

Because I just wanted to give you flowers.

No explanation.

No excuse.

Just because.

I smiled.

Then immediately frowned at myself.

“Stop.”

I told myself.

I walked into the kitchen.

Made tea.

Returned to the living room.

The flowers were still there.

I sighed.

Maybe I was becoming ridiculous too.

My phone vibrated.

I looked down.

Gideon.

Again.

I stared at his name for a second before answering.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“You’ve called twice today.”

“I know.”

I smiled.

“Is there a reason?”

There was a pause.

“Do I need one?”

I sat down.

“No.”

“Good.”

I laughed quietly.

“You’re strange.”

“You’ve told me that.”

“Because you are.”

“I’ve accepted it.”

There was something warm in his voice.

Something softer.

I leaned back against the couch.

“How was your evening?”

“Quiet.”

“That’s good.”

“What about yours?”

“Quiet too.”

“Good.”

We both went silent.

Neither of us seemed interested in ending the call.

It was strange.

We had nothing important to say.

And yet I didn’t want to hang up.

“So,” I said, “how was your meeting after the interview?”

“Long.”

“Everything is long for you.”

“That’s because everything is a meeting.”

I laughed.

“True.”

He laughed too.

Then there was another silence.

A comfortable one.

I looked at the flowers.

“Gideon?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“The flowers.”

“Oh.”

His voice changed slightly.

“You liked them?”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“I’m glad.”

I smiled.

Then said, “You know, you didn’t have to send them.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

There was silence.

Longer this time.

I could almost hear him thinking.

Finally—

“I wanted to.”

I closed my eyes.

That answer again.

Simple.

Honest.

And somehow much more complicated than it should have been.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

We stayed on the phone.

I didn’t ask him what he meant.

I didn’t want to.

Not yet.

⸻

The next morning, I woke up to another message.

Good morning.

I stared at the screen.

Then smiled.

I typed:

Good morning, Mr. President.

His response came immediately.

Don’t call me that.

I laughed.

Why?

Because you know my name.

I looked at the message.

Then typed:

Good morning, Gideon.

Three dots appeared.

Better.

I shook my head.

“Ridiculous.”

I got ready for work.

But all day, I kept thinking about him.

Not constantly.

Not obsessively.

Just—

Often.

His voice.

His laugh.

The way he had apologized.

The way he had admitted jealousy.

The way he had deliberately kept his distance after that.

That last part mattered.

Because Gideon could have behaved differently.

He was powerful enough to make almost anyone uncomfortable.

He could have demanded my attention.

He could have insisted on knowing where I was.

He could have used his position.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had apologized.

He had stepped back.

He was trying.

And that made me respect him more.

⸻

That afternoon, I had another interview.

Not with Gideon.

A senator.

A difficult one.

The kind who usually gave journalists nothing.

I spent forty minutes asking questions.

He gave me thirty-nine minutes of carefully rehearsed answers.

Then, during the final minute, I asked one question he wasn’t expecting.

His expression changed.

He answered.

And by the time the interview ended, I knew I had what I needed.

My producer met me outside.

“How did you get him to say that?”

I shrugged.

“People usually tell you what you need to know if you let them talk long enough.”

He smiled.

“That’s why you’re good.”

I thanked him.

Then my phone vibrated.

I checked it.

Gideon.

How was the interview?

I smiled.

I typed:

Good.

His reply:

Did you get what you wanted?

Yes.

Good.

I looked at the screen.

Then typed:

You really do check on me a lot.

There was a pause.

Then:

I know.

I smiled.

Why?

This time, the answer took longer.

Much longer.

Finally:

Because I care about you.

I stopped breathing for a second.

I read it again.

Because I care about you.

It wasn’t a declaration.

It wasn’t romantic.

People cared about friends.

People cared about colleagues.

People cared about people they respected.

It could mean anything.

And yet—

My heart had reacted before my mind could explain it.

I stared at the message.

Then slowly typed:

I care about you too.

I sent it.

The response came almost immediately.

Good.

I smiled.

And for the first time, I wondered if maybe I wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

Maybe Gideon was changing.

Maybe I was changing too.

Maybe whatever this was—

It wasn’t something either of us understood yet.

But it was there.

Quiet.

Growing.

Impossible to ignore.

And somehow, I wasn’t afraid of it.

Not yet.