Chapter Six

Elizabeth gazed out the window of the limo as her motorcade zipped through the streets of D.C. Everything was reduced to a blur of grey; even Mike's voice, as he tried—once again—to brief her on the hearing, was no more than a distant haze.

She'd searched everywhere for the tablet, riffled through the desk drawers and cleared its surface several times, though she knew she hadn't put it down. The only sense she could make out of its disappearance—other than the lingering fear that she might be in the thrall of a psychoactive compound (Was it really beyond belief that terrorists or political adversaries might weaponise LSD?) or that she was in the midst of some kind of mental breakdown—was that the tablet had appeared in her life for a reason, and after it had nudged her to the realisation that she needed to speak to Henry, it had disappeared for a reason too. For the reassurance that she sought—reassurance she was making the right decision, reassurance their marriage was unsalvageable and going through with the divorce was the only option—would never be found in an app. That was just a distraction. If she wanted closure and peace, if she wanted to spend the rest of her life free from the murky shadow of What if…?, she needed to hear the truth—no matter how much it might hurt her to hear it—directly from him.

"Will Henry be at the hearing?" she said, interrupting Mike mid-sentence. When a stunned silence met her in lieu of an actual response, she turned to face him.

He was staring at her with a poorly-veiled exasperation, much the same look one might give an eight-year-old who was unable to retain the answer to, 'What's for dinner?' for longer than three seconds. "As I explained not two minutes ago," he said, so slowly that 'patronising' was but a border town, now no more than a dot in the rearview's skyline, "if a divorce is uncontested, the non-filing party is not required to attend the hearing, and when I spoke to his attorney—"

"Just a 'yes' or 'no' will suffice."

"No," he said, slower still—and 'patronising' vanished, swallowed by the horizon.

"Great." She flashed him a taut non-smile, then turned away, readying herself to grab her driver's attention. "Then, I'm gonna need to go to the horse farm."

oOoOo

The gravel crunched and collapsed beneath Elizabeth's every step as she made her way up the path towards the front porch of the farmhouse; the flaking white paint, the snaggletoothed slates and the whisper of coal-smoke lingering on the breeze all seemed faded somehow, as if she were walking through a memory. Over a year had passed since the last time she trod that path, the day before her inauguration. Back then, with Henry at her side, airing no protest as she clutched his hand a touch too tightly, her whole body had hummed with anticipation as she found herself equally nervous and eager to embark on the next phase of their presidential journey; now, anticipation fizzed up inside her too, albeit in a way that was less pleasant and more unwelcome, as she found herself equally wanting (because she still loved him) and not wanting (because she still loved him) to see Henry.

(Closure might be desirable in theory, but when it came at the cost of hearing the one person you were meant to be with—literally crazy-mindfuck-app-Universe-certified meant to be with—tell you he'd rather be anywhere else than with you…? Yeah. No wonder she felt conflicted.)

She trudged up the porch steps, the creaks of the boards playing their familiar tune, and automatically reached for the handle of the screen door, before remembering—Right… No longer your home. Can't do that anymore—and, hoping none of the security detail who lined the road behind her had been watching her too carefully, styled out the near-handle-grab by converting it at the last second to a drawn-out prod on the doorbell. The shrill sound did nothing to soothe her nerves.

From the house came silence, so deep that it momentarily made her doubt the Secret Service intel that placed Henry inside—and would it be such a bad thing if he turned out not to be there, would it really? Then, came footsteps: faint at first, but growing louder. A pause. The clatter of the handle, and a low, drawn-out whine accompanying the arcing open of the inner door.

On the opposite side of the screen stood Henry, clad in the same blue-green button-down and faded jeans she'd seen him wear so many times before, though greeting her not with the old warm smile and a 'hey, babe' but instead a heavy stare and an even heavier frown.

Once, she would have been able to read his expression with the same effortless ease as of any language in which she was fluent, but now she couldn't be sure if his frown was due to displeasure at seeing her (displeasure at the realisation she wasn't currently standing in front of a courthouse judge if she was there, standing in front of him) or just confusion.

"Elizabeth?" he said, still staring, still frowning. "What are you—? Aren't you—? I thought—"

While at the same time she said, "Can I come in?"

oOoOo

Elizabeth sat stiffly at the head of the kitchen table, fighting the urge to fiddle with her wedding ring, while she watched Henry make a fresh pot of coffee, the clunkle and burbling of the machine the sole sound amidst a strained silence. Every movement he made seemed laboured, as if he'd been sentenced to struggle beneath a weight greater than that of Sisyphus, and that slowness of movement, along with the way his head hung, cast a bleak cloud around him.

Did seeing her really make him so unhappy?

It shouldn't surprise her that it did, but her heart ached to be confronted with it nevertheless.

No matter.

As soon as she had her answers she would leave him be, grant him the divorce he so desperately wanted.

Henry ambled over, his gaze firmly fixed on the cups of coffee he carried in one hand. He lowered the cups, till their bases tapped the oak tabletop, then slid one cup towards her, before settling himself in the adjacent seat. Even once seated he continued to stare at his coffee, his gaze lost deep in the rising steam, as if locked into each tendril were a glimpse of another world—a world in which he would rather now be.

"What happened to us, Henry?"

The words came unbidden, tumbling from her mouth of their own accord, far softer than she would have liked them to be, giving her an edge of vulnerability.

And that rawness, it seemed, caught him off guard, for his gaze snapped up to meet hers, his expression full of alarm.

She forced herself to hold his gaze, forced herself to sit still rather than squirm in her seat, and as she spoke again she tried to rid her voice of the emotion, but only succeeded in causing the words to come unnaturally slow and gravelly.

"I understand you don't want to be with me," she said, "but I need to hear it from you."

Somehow it still sounded like a plea.

His expression darkened. What was it? Anger? Frustration? Confusion?

Her mouth opened automatically, ready to defend herself—up until now she'd asked nothing of him, had given him more than any sane person would dare hope for or offer in mediation; common decency alone said the least he could give her was this—but then she heard him:

"Of course I want to be with you!"

And she stopped.

Paused.

Rewound.

Played it again.

Of course he wanted to be with her.

A puzzled frown tensed her brow, and as she leant back in the chair, folding her arms across her chest, her gaze slackened into the middle distance and slid away from his.

Of course he wanted to be with her…?

But…that made no sense.

Her frown took on an incredulous edge and, gaze sharpening once more, she turned it on him. "But you left."

Give him his due, he didn't snap at her or avoid the issue by finding interest in his cup of coffee again, but nor did he answer her. Instead, he held his silence. The way his mouth twisted suggested he was chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"I don't understand," she said. "If you didn't want to leave me, then why did you…well, leave me?"

Still, no answer. Just that silent cheek-bite and stare, till what she might generously have termed 'reluctance' veered dangerously close to 'petulance'. And though she'd promised she would never pull rank on him, God help her, she was this close to reminding him that, wife/soon-to-be ex-wife or not, she was, in fact, the president and if he didn't start explaining himself, like, immediately, it'd be akin to insubordination. And, no doubt, he'd nitpick every last flaw or logical fallacy in that argument (with a perverse degree of enthusiasm), which, of course, would rankle her no end and, as experience had long since taught them, would lead them nowhere fast, only thrust them headlong into a death spiral of bickering.

But fortunately (or maybe unfortunately? Right then she really wouldn't have minded bickering with him), before she could not-so-subtly pop-quiz him on American History, vis-à-vis POTUS 46's identity, he let out a long sigh, so heavy he might well have been holding it in since long before he left, and with all the fight draining from his expression, leaving him looking tired in the way of a man who's resigned himself to the fact he's already lost everything so what more could he possibly lose, he said, "You remember how when you first took office the media kept on suggesting I was secretly running things behind the scenes?"

Which, being so far from any reply she'd expected, so far from anything she deemed relevant, threw her enough to shake off the rising irritation and cast her back into confusion.

"Of course," she said. "It was insane and misogynistic and we pushed back—hard."

The press ought to have been more concerned about all the hours she and her team had wasted in strategy meetings thanks to them, all those hours that could—and should—have been spent on governing. And don't get her started on the nonsensical comparisons to Edith Wilson. A woman elected president couldn't possibly be running the country, in truth it had to be her husband, and here's proof in that when a man elected president was no longer fit to run the country, his wife allegedly took over for him…? Really…?

But she digressed.

Back to the more pressing issue: What did any of that have to do with Henry's not-wanting-to-leave-and-so-leaving?

She was about to ask, about to re-rail the conversation, but before she could, he continued.

"I hoped it was just growing pains"—he shrugged, so big that, in his lap, his hands fell away from each other, then came back together again—"I hoped it would all just blow over. But all that negative coverage, all the conspiracy theories, they were creating enough cover for senators to waver on ESI. And it wasn't only ESI at risk: it was your whole presidency—your future effectiveness depended on that first win. But if only we could get them to back off enough that ESI would pass, it felt like maybe then, with that momentum…"

He trailed off, the thought left unfinished and hanging in the air between them. She didn't need him to continue in order for her to see where it would have led, nor did she need him to rewind and explain what by 'if only we could get them to back off' he meant, and the bitter mix of realisation/dismay that had crept over her as he spoke was clear in her voice when she said:

"That's why you wanted to step back?" Not to focus on the new book he was writing or to create a role for Stevie, one that would give her a platform for her human rights advocacy after every single organisation she'd applied to had turned her down, citing issues with accommodating her security. "You thought it would get them to back off."

"I didn't lie to you," he said hurriedly, the look in his eyes begging her to believe him. "I did want to work on my book and I did want to help Stevie…but yes, I hoped if I put a little distance between myself and the presidency—myself and you—maybe then they would stop blocking your agenda. Only, of course"—he shook his head, and his gaze fell away from hers again—"they took me stepping down and Stevie stepping in as a sure sign I intended to play an even bigger role in governing. Senators were no longer just wavering—they were actively using the conspiracy theories as an excuse to back out of ESI. We were haemorrhaging votes. Someone had to do something. So, I thought if I was no longer in the White House…"

"They wouldn't be able to say you were running things."

He nodded, held her gaze. "And it worked. Without me there the stories stopped and ESI passed and shortly after that you had the success with the Korean free trade agreement. You were achieving so much—you were doing everything you'd planned to do with the presidency—and I didn't want to jeopardise that…so I thought it was best that I stayed away."

And now it made sense.

He hadn't left her; he'd left the White House.

He'd left the ridiculous rumours, the false narratives, the metastasising conspiracy theories; he'd left in the hope that in doing so he would save her presidency.

She ought to have been relieved at the revelation, happy to hold the hope that he still loved her as much as she still loved him and there might be a way forward for them, but instead she actually felt kind of sick—sick that all of this had happened, sick that she hadn't found out sooner or been able to prevent it.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she said.

He looked down at the table as he shook his head, so casually dismissive that she got the sense he had debated the notion of reading her in on his plan many, many times, with different aspects of himself cast in the parts of Affirmative, Negative and Chairman, and never once had he not come to the same conclusion. "Because I knew you wouldn't agree. You would insist that I stay on as First Gentleman, even if it cost you the presidency. And, whether you decided to quit or you kept going with your agenda being blocked at every turn, it would be my fault, and one day you would resent me for it. Things between us were bad enough after Baghdad. If you lost another career because of me—this time with the presidency—I don't think we would have survived it."

While the first part was true—she wouldn't have signed off on his plan to step down as a way to rid them of negative media, would have insisted that, no matter what, they were in it together—never would she, never could she, have resented him for some people's unwillingness (or was it inability?) to accept a female commander-in-chief crippling her presidency.

And as for what happened with Baghdad? Well, that was a totally different kettle of fish. Back then, there had been an ultimatum. Back then, he had been the one to put her in an impossible position that had all but forced her to quit. But now? With this? He held no responsibility for any of it.

She was about to tell him as much, but he didn't give her a chance; instead, he looked up at her again, this time with a sad tweak at the corner of his lips, an expression which suggested he was trying desperately hard to find some kind of humour—no matter how bleak—in it:

"The irony is I came here hoping to save our marriage, but in doing so I ended up pushing you away and hurting you so much that you filed for divorce anyway."

And of all the revelations she'd faced that day, from the existence of parallel universes, to the infinite inevitability of her parents' deaths, to she and Henry being soulmates, to the real reason why he left, this—the fact he seemed to believe she'd been the one to want the divorce—was the most stupefying, the one she couldn't accept.

"I only filed for divorce because I thought that's what you wanted!"

She didn't mean to yell at him, truly she didn't, nor for her tone to sound that sharp. And as for throwing her hands up so sudden like that? Well, she hadn't exactly planned that either.

But, seriously!? How could he possibly think—?

But the look on his face, a heartbroken bewilderment, said he had thought it—and he still did.

Her whole body ached, the feeling spreading through her like a gut punch played out in slow motion. When she spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper, but what it lacked in decibels it made up for in disbelief and desperation.

"You knew how I feel about you. You have to have known."

Did he, though?

After all, when it came to what he'd felt for her, she hadn't known. So perhaps what was so obvious to her wasn't so obvious to him.

She leant forward in her seat and slid her hand across the tabletop towards him, the grain of the oak rough beneath the heel of her palm. Halfway between their two coffee cups, she stopped, her arm and hand forming a half-bridge, hoping for completion. "I love you, Henry. And I want to be with you."

She held his gaze, while he searched her eyes as if there were truth to the assertion they were the window to the soul.

And if that saying was true, then from her perspective, what with the wariness his eyes showed, she'd have an easier time convincing him she'd witnessed their alternate realities on a magical tablet than getting him to believe in their actual reality—the truth of her feelings for him—right then.

But he had to believe her. He had to.

Her hand slid a touch further, reaching for him of its own accord; at the movement his gaze flicked down, found the pair of rings he'd once given her—a plain silver band, and another studded with sapphires and diamonds—which still hugged her third finger, exactly where they belonged.

When he met her gaze again, the wariness in his eyes had dimmed, just enough for a glimmer of hope, bright but tentative, like a flame battling the wind, to shine through.

"You do?" he said.

She offered him a gentle smile. "I do."

And for a split second her heart warmed: maybe things were going to be okay, maybe now that they'd realised their mistakes—the steps that had unwittingly led them to the brink of a divorce that neither of them wanted—they'd be able to move forward.

But as quick as that smile formed, it faltered. It was one thing for them to realise their mistakes, but that went no way to reversing the path they had taken, nor the hurt that had lined it, nor their separation. Maybe things between them had irrevocably changed, maybe he no longer felt for her the same way, maybe he'd moved on.

Atop the table, her fingers flinched, instinctively curling towards her palm, and she fought to hold her hand still as it threatened to withdraw a fraction.

"That is…if you still want to be with me?"

Henry grasped her hand, and only then did she see what, up until that moment, she'd managed to miss, it being both so unremarkable before and so unexpected now that it had eluded her notice: a gleam of gold, soft in the afternoon light that streamed through the windows of the kitchen, from the band on his finger—the wedding ring that he too still wore.

"Of course I want to be with you," he said. "I love you! But the press, the presidency—"

With a shake of the head, she cut him off. "I'm not interested in a presidency that perpetuates the myth that men and women can't work together as equals or that women can't have power without it costing them their relationships."

Which was true…

But more than that—

She turned over her hand and curled her fingers, causing them to interlock with his. "And I'm not interested in a life that doesn't involve you."

She'd thought maybe the tablet had appeared to prompt her to seek closure, that it was the Universe's attempt to prevent her from spending the rest of her life doubting her decision to divorce and wondering what if…?, but maybe its appearance had served a different purpose, maybe it was the Universe taking extreme measures to change her course and right fate, because she and Henry were soulmates and she was meant to spend the rest of her life—the rest of her every life—with him.

And even if that weren't the case, even if she and Henry hadn't been soulmates and the 'What if…?' app had been able to show her an existence where the two of them had never met, nothing that alternate universe could offer her—no career, no riches, no other relationship; not even the survival of her parents—would make her want to trade away the life she and Henry had built together in this universe nor the chance she had now to spend the rest of it with him.

"Come back to the White House with me," she said. "Come back, and we'll figure this out—together."