After Afterall

20

It's Thursday morning and my interview with Diane Sawyer is in four hours. I repeat the Diane Sawyer part over and over again in my mind, trying to find some semblance of understanding somewhere. It makes no sense at all.

I've taken another day off work, but I've promise Richard—and more importantly myself—that I won't be taking any more days off for a while. Richard has been understanding, but I'm not so comfortable with the idea. My life is surgery and now my life is Derek and surgery. I don't want to forget about the second part just become of the new inclusion of the first part. Luckily my patients are being well-tended to and tomorrow my life will be back on track.

I'm actually afraid for tomorrow. The last five days have been surreal, but they've also been full of Derek. I know that's going to end. We'll be able to be seen together, but I worry that being seen together doesn't necessarily mean we'll have more time together. I haven't asked many questions, and honestly the answers might scare me, but I have an idea that going public will mean my new job won't just be the President's arm candy, but also his First Lady.

I know Derek won't really make me his First Lady, but the public might try to put me into that role and I'm not ready for it. Hell, I'll never be ready for it. I don't want it.

But my future role is unimportant right now. I have the interview to think about.

Oh and this massive house I'm living in.

With Derek by my side Tuesday night, I didn't have a lot of time to really gape at the hugeness of it all, and with work yesterday, I was barely even here, but now I have time to sneak and explore.

First and foremost, the townhouse is only a townhouse by definition, which claims a townhouse is a city house, tall and narrow, having three or more floors. Yes, this house is tall and it's narrower than let's say the White House, and yes, there are...FIVE floors. So yes, this place is a townhouse. But it's also a freaking mansion.

Downstairs there are six rooms: two living spaces (one called the parlor....seriously), a dining room, a kitchen, an office, and a piano room. A room for a piano. The second floor has another living space and three bedrooms with their own bathrooms. The third floor is more like a loft overlooking the third floor atrium. An atrium. The fourth floor is the owner's quarters, including the master bedroom, two baths, and four walk-in closets. The final fifth floor has a sauna, a yoga studio, and another office. To top it all off, the house is basically plucked from a West Elm catalog. Everything looks so damn expensive; I'm afraid to sneeze.

Derek told me this is one of the two residences owned within the city limits, besides the White House. The other is the Blair House, the guest house of the President. He says the home I'm living in now has no name because it's not to be known to the American people. I doubt this place will be kept secret for long. I told him this place is too big, but he said it'd be the safest place for me.

I haven't seen Derek since Tuesday night. He didn't stay, not that I thought he would, but he barely had five minutes to show me the house. He had to get back to the White House. I'll be seeing him in a few hours, so that is something to look forward to. We're planning dinner after the interview.

Yesterday, after work, I spent the whole evening with a woman named Fran, who was my publicity coach. She explained how I should act and what I should say in my interview. I also received a call from Derek's newly appointed crisis management manager who wanted to ask me more about my dead patients and their upset families. She asked me if I had to be a surgeon and I told her yes. Either way, the conversation wasn't great. At least Fran doesn't find me to be a complete wash.

At the end of the day, this is all very surreal. I'm not sure what to think.

I'm busy checking all the drawers in the downstairs office when my cell phone rings.