Madame President - Tara Sue Me Page 0,32

act as if this is an everyday thing for me. We pass several people, a few of them raise an eyebrow when they recognize me. It comes as a surprise when we stop in front of the Oval Office. My guide speaks to one of the agents stationed at the door, and within minutes I’m inside.

It’s natural, I suppose, for those of us who don’t see it on a daily basis to be awed upon walking into such an important and historical room. I’ve been in the Oval Office once before while on assignment and interviewing Anna’s predecessor. I’m thankful it’s not my first visit because the significance of the room is not lost on me, but fortunately, the overwhelming emotion I felt the first time is absent. And while I’m sure the pictures on the wall and some of the decor has changed, I don’t take the time to notice the details.

My attention moves to the current occupant of the office. Anna stands by the large wooden desk. She’s wearing a light blue suit with black detailing and it looks amazing on her. I’m not certain why her appearance always seems to throw me for a loop. Maybe it’s her charismatic personality, but she has an air about her that’s utterly captivating.

Even knowing what she’d said to me the last time we were alone doesn’t deter from her overwhelming presence. She appears calm once more. None of the anger I saw before is present when she looks at me now. I’m shocked at the disappointment I experience upon that realization, until it occurs to me it’s not so much the anger I want, but the presence of any emotion other than this calm she’s showing.

“Madame President,” I say.

“Mr. Hazar. Thank you for coming.” She motions toward two chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

I sit down and wait for her to tell me why I’m here.

“I asked for you to come by my office today, so I could say what I needed to in person,” she begins. “I want to apologize for the last time we spoke in private. I acknowledge I was out of line and lacked control.”

I’m shocked when she first starts to apologize because it’s huge. For someone with all the power she has to admit she was wrong, to a peon like me? But then she stops at being out of line and lacking self-control. Nothing about how hurtful her comments had been, or that they were horribly rude and condescending. No, only being out of line and lacking control.

She sits there and waits.

For what, I don’t know. Maybe for me to compliment her on how magnanimous she is?

Will. Never. Happen.

“Frankly, Madame President,” I say. “Your lack of control should be the last thing you apologize for.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “What?”

“I liked it more when I could tell there was a person behind the aloof and ever calm President Anna Fitzgerald,” I say. “Even if that person was angry at me.”

I’m not sure which is funnier, her surprise that I’m not following the script she thought I would, or her irritation I’ve called her an ice princess in a roundabout way. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I take that to mean I should keep talking.

“Did you think I was going to fall all over you because you called me into the Oval Office and gave me a half apology?” I ask.

“No,” she stands, and damn it all, that means I have to stand as well. “I thought we could talk like two rational adults.”

I laugh, and finally, I see a flame of anger. “I can’t believe you said that,” I say.

“Said what?”

“That we could sit and talk like two rational adults,” I say. “No matter what happens, you and I will never be two rational adults because you will never be just another person. You will always be President Anna Fitzgerald. Always.”

I’m not sure what it was I said, but at once the anger flees her face, replaced by a look of sorrow. Damn it. I’m not sure what I said that could make her look as though I’ve kicked her puppy.

“You’re right,” she says and I sense she’s struggling to reclaim her calm. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

If I was a gentleman, I’d take my cue and leave after she makes that statement. She’s obviously upset by something I’d said, and the right thing to do is to leave and let her compose herself privately. But I’m not a gentleman, I’m a prick.