“Well, I made a deal with the devil today.”
“What do you mean?”
I pull the blanket around me, furrowing my brow. It’s not so much the words that bother me, although they’re ominous in themselves. It’s the tone that he’s using, the almost lack of warmth, the void of any sort of energy that has me biting my lip.
“I called Monroe. Made a deal on the Land Bill. It’s done.”
“Oh, Barrett . . .” My spirits sink to the floor, knowing just how much he didn’t want to do this.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he sighs. “The poll numbers are too tight.” He growls into the phone and I want to reach out and pull him into a giant hug.
“Why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself? Not me?”
He chuckles. “Because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“Then why did you do it? Why did you go against what you wanted to do?”
“I had to.”
“No, you didn’t,” I implore. “What you want, what you put your name on, that means something, Barrett. That means more than anything else. You aren’t responsible for everyone’s lives. People can find jobs. People will find a way to make it and you don’t even know for sure if that would even happen.”
“You’re supposed to make me feel better about this,” he laughs sadly.
“I’m not enabling your behavior. I’m not going to sit here and pretend like you did the right thing when I can hear in your voice that you don’t think you did.”
“I had to,” he repeats.
I try to think of how to explain what I feel. It’s so hard over the phone, nearly impossible to ascertain what he’s thinking without seeing into his eyes.
“You have to start believing in yourself,” I say, my voice soft. “Don’t you realize how smart you are?”
He snorts, dismissing me. But I continue.
“You are. The people deserve to hear what you think, for you to do what’s best for them, not what you think you have to say.”
“I wish I could,” he mumbles.
We sit for a long while, each of us quiet, each of us processing what he’s done. My heart twists for him, hurting that he’s in some self-inflicted prison. Finally, just as the back door opens and I hear Huxley rumbling through the fridge, Barrett speaks.
“You know the worst part of all of this?”
“What’s that?”
“Hearing the disappointment in your voice.”
“Oh, Barrett,” I say. “I’m not disappointed in you.”
“Yes, you are. I hear it. And if I were there, you’d be looking at me like everyone else looks at me. Like I’m just a fucking idiot for one reason or the other.”
“Barrett, that’s not true. I’m . . . I’m disappointed that you feel like you have to do things you don’t want to do. When you’re with me, you’re strong, confident. You’re happy and funny and kind. And then you go to work and you’re still all those things, just with a buffer built around you to make you more . . . I don’t know, palatable to the public?”
He takes a deep breath and blows it out steadily. “I need to go catch up on work. I got behind today. Can I call you later?”
“Of course you can,” I whisper. “Anytime. I hope you do. I’m worried about you.”
A long stretch of silence falls over us, but it’s not a lonely type of feeling. It’s swollen with a feeling that’s so heavy, so comfortable, I can barely breathe.
“Ali?” he rasps.