Page 11 of Longing for Liberty

SIX

STATE NEWS: NATIONAL PRAYER REQUEST: BLIGHT IN WESTERN FIELDS WILL AFFECT AGRICULTURE AND LIVESTOCK!

“Libby Carson,” Kathy called out, looking me over as I approached her in the maid office. “Stop the frowning.”

She was one to talk. I softened my face, trying to relax.

“I see you put on makeup, but you still look like you didn’t sleep.”

She had me there. Again.

“Sorry,” I said, just like yesterday, though it wasn’t like I was up late partying.

She handed me the basket. “Do you still have the codes memorized?”

I recited them in my head. “Yes, ma’am.”

She lowered her voice. “And how did it go yesterday?” My stomach wobbled.

“It went fine, ma’am. Thank you.”

She eyed me like she was trying to spot a lie.

“Alright then. I saw you when you walked past at the end of your shift, and you looked like you’d been dragged by the hair.

” Geez . Someone behind me snickered, but I kept my attention on Kathy.

“You represent the Secretary now, so keep up appearances. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She finally nodded. “Be blessed.”

I whispered it back and felt the nerves of yesterday return full force as I walked out, each step taking me closer to Amos Fitzhugh.

Like day one, the Secretary wasn’t home when I arrived. My eyes went straight to the roses, which had relaxed into something more risqué, beginning to open. It still felt strange to look at them, like they didn’t belong in this new version of the State, not even here in this penthouse.

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as I brought the basket of food into the kitchen. I immediately spotted a tray on the counter with a covered plate, and stopped short, my heart giving a hard pound. Putting my basket in the fridge, I walked to the counter and saw the note in scratched handwriting:

Liberty. Eat all of this.

I tried to calm my heart rate as I lifted the lid and pressed my lips together to hold back a sound of surprise when the scents hit me.

A fluffy biscuit. Small ramekins of fresh butter and a reddish-purple jam.

A pile of scrambled eggs. Two pork sausage patties.

Sautéed spinach with almond slivers. And slices of honeydew, cantaloupe, and blueberries.

I stared at the plate and all of its colors for what was probably a full minute or more before pulling myself together.

This was as much food as four of us had eaten last night.

My eyes burned and watered as I buttered part of the biscuit and brought it to my mouth, the flavors invigorating my palate and reminding me of a time we could have gone to a diner and ordered this meal.

Guilt filled me as I filled my mouth. The richness was…

a lot. I felt full after only a third of the plate.

But my eyes went to the note. Eat all of this.

I ate more. After two-thirds, I was literally nauseous. I had to stop. I hadn’t touched the spinach or fruit yet. The proteins and carbs sat heavily, and the fats coated my tongue.

Breathe. Breathe.

He didn’t say I had to eat it all at once. I pressed a hand against my stomach and decided I would come back once everything had digested. That should be okay, right?

I was beyond uncomfortable, my stomach overly full, as I hustled back to the primary bedroom to strip the bed.

At one point, I had to stop and lean against the bed, dizzy, realizing the breakfast situation was triggering my anxiety.

Too much of anything could overstimulate my system, not just the food but the guilt I felt.

You’re okay. Be numb. It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.

Breathe.

When the linens and towels were in the wash, I decided to check the curtains. A hard pat sent a lot of dust motes into the air, so I decided to pull them down and clean them. It was no small undertaking.

Even working fast, it took hours. Close to four o’clock, I caught sight of myself in a mirror and thought about Kathy’s comment. Yeah. She wasn’t wrong. My hair was definitely giving cavewoman vibes.

I reapplied the dark lipstick and brushed my hair, wishing the elastic in my hairband were a little stronger. My hair was heavy, always pulling my ponytail to the side as I worked.

I headed to the kitchen and started the Secretary’s dinner. Again, I marveled at the meat: a thick boneless pork chop. On the side was a sweet potato, and I would make glazed carrots. Damn, he was lucky. I shifted from foot to foot to relieve tension in the balls of my feet and heels as I cooked.

As I was plating everything, I heard the beep of the entry pad, and my heart raced when the front door opened. The Secretary, again in a navy blue suit, scanned the space until he spotted me in the kitchen.

“Hello, sir,” I greeted in a shaky voice. “I’m just finishing your dinner, and I’ll be out of your way.”

Shit, shit, shit. He was coming to the kitchen. His cologne hit me first, making my head fuzzy as I put the lid over his plate.

“Should I leave it out?” I asked. “Or put it away for later?”

But he didn’t answer. His eyes were on my own tray from that morning, the note still sitting beside it, making my insides drop. “You didn’t eat everything.”

I froze for a beat. “I apologize, sir. I’ll take care of that mess. I’m not used to that much food. I got full.”

He looked at me. “And are you still full?”

Come to think of it, I’d skipped lunch and was hungry again. “I… No, sir.” Maybe he would let me take it to-go, and I could share it with Jeremy.

“Then have it now.”

Oh. I hadn’t been expecting that.

“Yes, sir.”

Well, this was awkward. I lifted the cover from the plate and moved quickly, leaning over the plate to take a bite of spinach. Even cold, it was amazing. Was that vinegar I tasted? I felt overly aware of the male presence near me, which made me chew faster.

Holy crap, it was so good.

“Do you always eat standing up?” He lifted the lid from his own plate and made a sound of praise from the back of his throat when he looked at the meal.

“Um, not at home, sir. But usually at work, yes.” We weren’t exactly expected to make ourselves at home. “Can I take your plate to the table?”

“No.” To my shock, he took a fork and knife from the drawer and cut into his pork. I felt weirdly nervous and proud as he inspected the bite and gave it a nod before he put it into his mouth.

I looked away and took another bite of spinach, crunching into almonds.

“Taste what you made.”

My gaze rose to find him holding out a bite of pork at the end of a fork.

Wait, did he want me to…yep, he moved it closer to my mouth and I opened my lips, taking the meat.

The flavor and quality hit me at once, and I brought my fingers up to cover my mouth as I chewed and nodded, giving him a small smile.

“It’s good,” he said, turning his attention to his plate.

This was insane. I was eating with the State Secretary Amos Fitzhugh in his kitchen, standing up, and I now had his germs in my body from sharing a fork.

I had no idea how to feel about this. I bit into a ripe piece of melon and quietly sighed at the sweetness.

We’d had cantaloupes in our community garden this summer, but a huge rainstorm made them over-ripen overnight, most of them bursting with cracks.

We’d all been so sad the next morning, standing at the edges of the garden together.

If we’d known a huge storm was coming, we would have picked them all.

Many people still ate them, even though the flavor and sugar had been watered down, and they were mushy.

I finally finished and washed my dishes as I chewed the last of my food. I turned and took Fitzhugh’s plate when I saw that he was finished, and I washed all of his too, all the while feeling the heated energy of him at my back, watching me.

When I finished, I wiped my wet hands on my apron and turned to find he hadn’t moved. He’d only loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top two again, and put his hands in his trousers pockets, leaning back against the counter.

“Good night then, sir. Um, thank you for the breakfast.”

His eyes were locked on mine in that intense way of his as he gave me a simple, small nod, and I rushed out, hoping I wouldn’t trip and fall over my sore feet as I practically ran from the Penthouse.

* * *

Jeremy worked later than normal, so I made dinner.

Working with our rations was a stark contrast from cooking for the Secretary.

I welcomed Jeremy home with a supper of hamburger with rice and stewed tomatoes.

But it wasn’t the dinner he looked at; it was my face.

His brows came together, and I couldn’t figure out his expression, almost distasteful.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m just…” He shook his head and motioned upward. “Not used to seeing you with lipstick like that.”

“Oh.” I quickly brought my hand to my mouth, feeling self-conscious. “Yeah, my boss suggested I use it.”

He gently took my hand from where it covered my mouth and pulled it down, his expression softening. “You look beautiful.” He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

I calmed down a little at that and pulled back to give him a small kiss. “You hungry?”

“Always.”

It felt weird when we sat down to eat. I didn’t keep secrets from Jeremy. Not that I had a secret, necessarily, but I couldn’t exactly tell him about my awkward interactions with Fitzhugh, or how he made me feel. How did he make me feel? Ambiguous, warring emotions for sure.

For over six years, I’d held a simmering, deep-seated anger toward the Three.

Yet when I was with Fitzhugh, I had a hard time mashing that version of him in my mind with the man in real life.

Why? I knew from pictures that he was handsome.

That’s not what threw me. It was his whole…

essence. I hated that I felt allured by his mysteriousness and dominance.

I hated that I had to remind myself he was a terrible man.