Page 100 of Beehive

35

Thomas

The plane’s engines roared as we descended into Washington. The faint vibration of my seat mirrored the tension that had been building since we’d taken off in Europe.

Will sat beside me, his gaze fixed on the small window. I didn’t think he was looking at the view so much as through it, his thoughts somewhere far beyond the patchwork of fields and roads below. I reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze, a silent reassurance that we were in this together. Always.

“Almost there,” he said quietly. “Do you think they’ll listen?”

“They have to.” I wasn’t sure I believed it. “This isn’t something they can ignore.”

The wheels touched American soil with a jolt. Once at the gate, the flight crew ushered us off quickly to where two black cars awaited, their engines idling. One of the drivers pushed himself off his car and strode toward us, while the other watched from the driver’s side of his sedan. Manakin greeted the chauffeur with his usual brusque efficiency, then turned to us.

“You only have a few moments to gather yourselves and change before we head to the White House. I’ll see you in the hotel lobby.”

Without waiting for a reply, Manakin stepped around one car and climbed into the second. Our driver, the man he’d spoken with, glanced our way. “Ready?”

I shrugged. “As ever.”

On the drive to the Willard, the hotel nicknamed “the Residence of Presidents,” Will and I found ourselves again staring silently out windows. Manakin had put us in the nicest hotel in DC—and in the same room. I wouldn’t have thought much about the gesture had there been twin beds. Partners often split the expense of a hotel stay. It was the king-sized bed that held court that caught my eye.

“One room?” It was as much a statement as a question.

Will shrugged. “You think anything gets by Manakin?”

“Yeah, I guess . . . still. This is almost more than I can wrap my head around. We’d be arrested in most states if anyone knew, well, you know.”

Will chuckled and kissed my cheek. “I know.”

Will stepped to the window and stared out at the city as I rummaged through our suitcase. Everything we owned was either filthy or wrinkled. I’d have to put the hotel’s iron to good use before our next stop.

“Feels weird,” Will said, though I was unsure if he spoke to himself or to me.

“Huh? What does?”

“Washington. The States. Being home.” He reached up and scratched his scalp, then turned to face me. “We’ve spent so long in Europe, in the middle of so much destruction . . . it’s strange to be here where the bombs never fell.”

A thousand words flooded my mind, but Will’s thoughts had stilled my tongue.

He went on. “I mean, Berlin was . . . like being on another planet. It wasn’t just the buildings. The people were as hollowed out as their homes. It felt like walking through a world of black and white.”

“And now we’re back in the land of color?”

“Something like that.” He nodded as a small snort escaped. “Even in Paris, where most of the city was still intact and beautiful, the war’s fingerprints were everywhere. We couldn’t escape them. It was in the eyes of everyone we passed, pockmarked in the buildings, painted on the walls. Paris felt whole, but it wasn’t healed.”

A moment lingered before I replied, “That’s poetic.”

“It’s fucking sad.”

“Yeah, it is.”

I crossed the room, wrapped my arms around his waist, and turned us toward the window. We stared out at one of the capital’s historic plazas. The sun shone brightly. People on sidewalks chatted and smiled. Children played and squealed and laughed.

“It doesn’t feel real. None of this does,” Will whispered.

I kissed Will’s neck and breathed in his scent. He clung and refused to let go.

The telephone rang.