The Bodyguard (30)

Jack let me leave, which was a relief.

I didn’t want to talk, or process, or explore my feelings, for God’s sake—and even if I had wanted to do any of those things, I would never in a million years have done them with him.

You don’t talk about your life with clients.

You just don’t.

You wind up knowing everything about your principals—but they never know anything about you. And that’s how it has to be.

But here’s the thing: The clients never understand that. It feels so much like a real relationship, it’s hard to keep it clear. You’re traveling together, going to bars together, skiing together, hanging out at the beach together. You’re there for their ups and downs, their fights, and their secrets. Your purpose in their lives is to create security so they can feel normal.

If you’re doing a good job, they do feel normal.

But you never do.

You never lose sight of your purpose. And part of keeping that focus is knowing—backward, forward, inside out, and upside down—that they are not your friends.

Friends might wipe the tears off your face with their shirtsleeves, but clients never should.

Which is why I had never once in eight years cried in front of a client.

Until today.

You have to maintain professional distance, or you can’t do your job. And the only way to do that while spending every minute of every shift together is to never, ever share anything personal. Clients ask personal questions all the time. You just don’t answer. You pretend you didn’t hear, or you change the subject, or—most effective of all—you turn the question back on itself.

The answer to “Are you scared?” should be “Are you scared?”

The answer to “Do you have a boyfriend?” should be “Do you have a boyfriend?”

See how easy that is? Works every time.

And what’s more? They never even notice.

Because mostly, when people ask you about you, what they really want to talk about is them.

Right?

It’s hard to describe the maelstrom of emotions churning around inside me as I made my way out to the driveway with the singular goal of getting to my car and heading home. Shock, agony, humiliation—all there, sure. But add to that: a sense of deep disappointment at letting myself get caught by a client in a real moment of emotion.

Was there a way to recover?

He’d seen the tears, yes. But he couldn’t know for sure exactly what they meant.

I’d go home, regroup, and then—only then—if there was time and I was so inclined, would I let myself think about what I’d just witnessed.

Or maybe not.

Because if I just witnessed what I thought I did, it meant that in one short month, I’d lost every single one of the three most important people in my life.

Mother. Boyfriend. Best friend.

And now I was truly alone.

The realization threatened to bring me to my knees.

I had to get out of there. I had to make it to my car.

But that’s when Robby—not even on the team—showed up again a few feet away.

He stopped walking when he saw me, and I did the same back to him.

“Oh, hey,” he said.

Could he see my face? Could he tell that I knew?

“Shift’s over,” I said, maxing out the syllables I could access. “Heading home.”

“Great. Yeah. I think we’re good here.”

I put my head back down to keep walking.

“Hey—” Robby said then, taking a few steps fast, like he was going to intercept me. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Just for a minute,” he said, surprised at my answer.

“You’re not even supposed to be here, Robby. Don’t make me report you to Glenn.”

“Thirty seconds.” Was he bargaining?

“I’m tired,” I said, shaking my head.

But now Robby jumped around to fully block me. “It’s kind of important.”

Was I going to have to fight him? For God’s sake, I just wanted to go home. “Not today,” I said, starting to gird my strength for whatever I needed to do to not have this conversation.

But that’s when Robby looked up right behind me, and then I felt a weight settling on my shoulder.

It was Jack Stapleton. Draping his arm around me, as I’d already given him permission to do.

“She’s pretty tired, Bobby,” Jack said, pulling me sideways against him in a squeeze.

“It’s Robby,” Robby said.

“I’m getting a vibe like she really just wants to go home right now,” Jack went on. “Maybe it’s from the words she’s saying.”

Robby, of course, couldn’t go against the client.

He looked at me, but I looked away.

“You’re not going to make her report you to Glenn, are you?” Jack turned to me. “Or if you’re too busy, I could do it.”

I felt more than saw Robby’s shoulders drop in defeat.

Jack gave it another second, as if to say “Are we done here?” And then, decisively, he steered me down the driveway toward my car, leaving Robby staring after us.

Later, in an effort to get Robby in trouble, I’d report everything but the kissing to Glenn.