I never wanted to be this kind of wife—certainly not to Matt. I never wanted to be the wife that didn't want her husband to go off, and do dangerous things, to beg him to stay home and stay safe and stay with me. Mom had never done that with dad, and she wasn't even in the Agency—she was a Vassar educated housewife and DC socialite. She was smart, but there was always something she didn't understand.
It would be hypocritical—I would have been beyond livid had Matt ever made even the briefest of implications that he would want me to avoid doing something because it was dangerous. But even beyond that, I've never wanted to insult his abilities. Matt's good. He's so good. He's a natural, and he wasn't born into this life—I know he can be insecure about that.
I don't want him to think that I've ever underestimated him, in a single day of knowing him.
But I convinced myself that Matt should know how I feel. I deserve to be able to tell him.
I don't know how long I've been repressing this feeling. Weeks, I guess.
I've known that Matt and Joe have had some kind of personal mission cooking away on the backburner for years. They've probably been working on it for longer than I've known—I've told myself that they haven't told me not because they think I would be a liability or that they can't trust me with whatever intelligence they have, but because they're typing to keep operative involvement as limited as possible. I didn't want to confront either of them about it.
But then Matt came home from Ireland, of all places, hurt and angry and frustrated, the kind of burning, simmering internal anger that just isn't like him, and he hasn't been himself since. The first week after he came home, he snapped at me, he snapped at Cam, and argued with Abby over dinner, but oh, of course, he would talk to Joe. The second week after he came home, I was walking all the way across the building at Langley, returning to my desk from a meeting, when I saw the two of them walk into a spare interrogation room.
I decided not to confront Matt about it then, two weeks ago, when it was May. But now it's June, and that means Cam's in Nebraska with Matt's parents, because it takes the separation of a time zone and a thousand miles to make sure that girl isn't eavesdropping.
And I wasn't going to ask him. I wasn't going to ask him to stop involving himself with this, to stay out of danger.
But he needed to remember.
Usually, we drive to the Agency separately—our schedules are too different for carpooling to be convenient for either of us, and even in the worst of DC traffic, it wasn't a long drive between work and home, so we didn't feel that bad about our carbon footprint. But my car was up for its yearly inspection, so Matt and I had arrived early this morning, in time for my telephone meeting with some associates in Israel, and now, long after everyone else had gone home, I was waiting for Matt to be finished with a meeting with the Deputy Director.
I was, completely, and totally bored. The bullpen was empty, I'd finished with all of my paperwork, I couldn't to go to the gym because I didn't actually know when this meeting was supposed to be over, and for whatever reason, CIA computers didn't come with solitaire installed.
So I occupied myself by cleaning up my desk—which, really, was already immaculate. I had sorted my highlighters in rainbow order and separated my paperclips by size by the time the summer sky had gone dark and Matt and the Deputy Director finally approached my desk.
"Oh, hello, Rachel." The Deputy Director said. He was permanently affable man, and more generic looking than any pavement artist that I'd ever met. "Waiting for this one?"
"Yes, sir. We carpooled."
I stood up from my desk, and glanced briefly enough at Matt's face to see the faintest flash of guilt behind his eyes.
"Ah, well. By the way, how is young Cameron Morgan? Is it time for her to go to Gallagher yet?"
"Not yet. She starts sixth grade in the fall."
"Then I'm sure Patricia and Smith are relieved they'll have another year to rest. You're not technically supposed to know this—this is a violation of etiquette, not protocol, I assure you—but your daughter's application got passed around a few offices. Oh, everyone was impressed, of course—she's got a good pedigree—but they were a little intimidated. She's a bit of spitfire, isn't she?"
"She's certainly our daughter." Matt answered. I was grateful that he had spoken up, because I really wasn't certain that I could tell the Deputy Director how I felt about how he used the word pedigree in reference to my daughter and that I really didn't appreciate his tone of voice without getting fired. Or at least suspended.
"Nothing wrong with that. Anyway, I'll leave the two of you to go enjoy the last of this lovely summer's night." And then he turned on his heel and left.
I've never liked that man.
Matt waited, patiently, as I took a few deep breaths.
"Okay," I said, not meeting his eye. "Let's go."
The long walk to where we parked at the far edge of the lot, the fifteen-minute drive home, and even the walk from the driveway to our front door seemed impossibly long. We both knew that we each had something to tell each other and for some reason, dreaded it.
Without a word, Matt flipped on the kitchen light, and we sat together at the kitchen island, and I realized that, while I was sitting, waiting at my desk, I could have figured out how I was going to start this conversation.
Matt was watching me. I felt, briefly, and foolishly, self-conscious about the emotions my face was telegraphing.
"I've known…" I said, slowly. Is this how normal people when confronting their spouses about infidelity? "That you and Joe have been working on something since we were dating. I know it's been getting to you." I took a deep breath. "I'm not going to ask you to give it up. And I'm going to trust that you have at least two good reasons why you haven't told me about it.
"But please—please, Matthew. Tell me that it's worth it."
With wide eyes, Matt nodded, sharply, twice.
"I need to know—do you have a shot at it? Whatever it is? And—and if something goes wrong—you have a plan, right? Your work and energy isn't going to go to waste?"
He nods, again, twice.
These are the kinds of things that, whether for better or for worse, people like us don't talk about often.
Trying and failing to calm my wildly beating heart, I tried to take another deep breath—but I felt myself shudder as I exhaled.
"Thank you." I muttered. "Was there… Was there something you needed to tell me?"
"The Deputy Director wants me—and a team of rookies—to tail Catherine Goode. Someone, or someone's asset, has seen her hanging around Buenos Aires, and says she's going to be there for at least a month. They want us to tail her, figure out what she's doing, and if possible, find out enough to get a grab team after her."
"But she knows you." I said. Catherine Goode has never forgotten a face in her life.
He nods again.
"Officially, the Deputy Director wants me there only as the director for the rookies, control them, set up their routes and schedules. But he doesn't see why I, unofficially, I can't offer myself up as bait."
"Well, that's because he's never been in a P&E class with her. Or been forced to be her test subject during the torture unit of CoveOps."
"Can't say I'm thrilled about that plan. It's technically up to my discretion, but…"
Matt shrugged.
"Right."
I tried to accept it. Catherine Goode isn't any better than Matt. But my tongue didn't hold.
"For the record," I said. "Everyone at Gallagher knew she was going to go rogue by sophomore year."
Matt snorted, once.
"It took me two minutes to figure out she was an emotionless, manipulative, evil—" He paused to find the right word. For some reason, he settled with, "monster."
We sat, in silence, at the kitchen island for two minutes, until I noticed the clock on the oven. 10:32, on a Friday evening. The ice cream shop three blocks away would be open for another half an hour.
"You want to go get some ice cream?"
The cloud of anxiety that had been hovering over Matt lifted, and I saw the return of the little glimmer that had been missing from his eyes all day.
He leaned forward, and we kissed.
"You are, without a doubt, the best wife in the world. And I'm not saying that just because of the ice cream."
I smiled.
"I know. I love you too."