She finally looked up at me. She started to speak, her mouth opening and closing several times wordlessly. And when finally she spoke, it was in measured words, searching for common ground. “You know who I am. You know we care about the same things. We both know what this country should be. There is no way I could have worked with Martha all these years if we didn’t share the same values. Can’t you see that?”

“I wish I could,” I said. “More than anything.” What was I doing?

She stood, wiping away the last of her tears, regaining her composure. “Do you want me to go?”

“No. Absolutely not.” I took hold of her hand. “We’ll figure this out.” I was fumbling for the right words, but there was no going back. We had staked out our positions. “Listen to me. I love you, Jen. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. And we’re not going to let this drive us apart.” I caught her eyes. “You understand?”

She nodded. She inhaled deeply and forced a wan smile. “Yes.”

Later that night, as we watched an old episode of Curb, she rested her head on my shoulder. I slipped my hand under her pajama top and began rubbing her back; then I reached around and began stroking her breast. She sighed and cuddled deeper. We were trying desperately to hold together a cracked relationship, turning back to what had always worked, but I think each of us knew the truth.

For the next few weeks we held it together as best we could, like a favorite old rocking chair held together with duct tape and love. And maybe, just maybe, we could have made it work. But we never really got the chance.

It took three shots.

The president, first lady, and members of his cabinet were safely ensconced in an enclosed reviewing stand, waving happily to marchers on Pennsylvania Avenue as America celebrated our first Military Appreciation Day. It was a magnificent spring morning; puffy white clouds were playfully creating bizarre animals in a sky the color of watered-down ink. The long parade of troops, tanks, and brightly shining missiles had almost reached the end of the route and the Marine Corps band was playing the introductory notes of “America the Beautiful” when the shots were fired.

Three shots. Each one followed by a brief pause. Boom. Echo. Pause. Boom. Echo. Pause. Boom. Echo. Pause.

At first I thought someone had dropped a coffee cup. Reality clicked in when I looked up at the monitors and saw people running. “Aw, jeez,” somebody said. “Here we go again.”

Seconds later Cher alerted me, “Rollie, there has been an important event.”

Howie had come out of his office and was looking up at the wall-mounted monitors. His sleeves were rolled up and his hands stuck in his back pockets. His time-to-do-journalism pose. He was chewing on one of those green plastic flossers, but his mind was already at work planning coverage.