Page 21 of Bi-Partisan

Our eyes meet, and it doesn’t hold the same ease as last night. The tense silence stretches on for a few seconds too long before he rocks back on his heels and glances over my shoulder into my apartment.

“Sorry, come in.” I mentally shake my head to clear it and step aside to let him pass. I gently close the door behind him and take a moment to breathe and center myself.

“Are you a shoes off house?”

I turn around to find him awkwardly standing with his coat in his hand, feet poised to slip off his tennis shoes.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” I say, then hold my hand out. “I can take your coat.”

“Thanks. I don’t mind at all.” He hands off his coat then toes out of his shoes, neatly lining them up against the wall next to mine—a stark contrast to the way we both haphazardly kicked off our shoes and dropped our coats on the floor last night.

I hang his coat in the closet, then turn back to find him staring down at Joseph sniffing his shin with a hint of an amused smile.

“Which one is this, again?” he asks, crouching down slowly so as to not frighten the cat away.

“Joseph.” Last night, sometime after we made it to the bedroom for round two, both Joseph and Molly had made their presence known. Molly bolted the moment Jamie tried to pet her, of course. But Joseph was a lot more accepting of attention, much like he’s being right now.

After a few seconds of giving the attention seeker head scratches, he stands and shoves his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. “We should probably…”

I nod as he trails off, then gesture toward the dining room. While the couch would probably be the more comfortable choice, I won’t be able to sit on it, him in arms reach, without flashing back to what we did on said couch not even twenty-four hours ago. Hopefully, the formality of the dining room will make whatever this conversation will be about easier. Jamie sits at the round glass dining room table, which is the only piece of furniture in the room other than my record player in the corner and is barely big enough for the four chairs around it. Anything bigger would just be a pain to move with.

“Can I get you anything to drink? I could make some tea,” I offer, managing to remember my manners before sitting. I don’t really entertain much, and the people I would have over are Casey and Sophie, who are over enough that they feel comfortable enough to rummage around in my kitchen themselves.

“Do you have anything with ginger?” he asks.

“I’ll check.” I head into the kitchen and first fill up the electric kettle before pulling down the nice wooden tea organizer I got in a secret Santa exchange at the clinic two years ago from the cabinet above it. I pull out a packet of passionflower tea for myself, which will hopefully calm some of my anxiety, then sort through my options. I find a few packets of ginger peach, so I poke my head back out into the dining room. “Is ginger peach alright?”

His head snaps up from where he was scrolling on his phone. “Yeah, that’s perfect,” he says with a small smile. “Thank you.”

I nod then busy myself with making our tea. Thankfully, my kettle never takes too long, so it’s only a couple of minutes before I’m heading back into the dining room with two matching black mugs. I set Jamie’s in front of him, then settle into the chair across the table. For a long moment, the room is so silent I can almost hear the street despite being on the eleventh floor and my windows being surprisingly soundproof. But then, he breaks it.

“So—”

“Sorry, before you start,” I blurt, glancing up from my tea. “Can I just say… I’m so sorry.”

“Why? This isn’t your fault.” His hands tighten around his mug. “Right?”

My stomach clenches at the vulnerability in his question. When his press secretary found my LinkedIn and messaged me, I swore to her that I had nothing to do with this story. I assume she passed that along to him, but I don’t blame him for asking himself. I would, too.

I shake my head. “I would never do that, I promise. I know my promise probably doesn’t mean much since you don’t know me, but I would never participate in something like this.”

“No, it does. I believe you. I just had to ask,” he says. His shoulders relax as he lets out a controlled breath. “Why are you apologizing, though? I came here to apologize to you. I’m in the media all the time. I opened myself up to this kind of stuff when I ran for office. But you—”

“Jamie, this is not the same as being seen at a charity fundraiser or being interviewed about your platform,” I interrupt again. I try not to make a habit of interrupting people, especially practical strangers, but there’s no way I’m going to sit here and let him think that he somehow deserves this. “You were outed. Being a congressman—even one as visible as you are—does not mean that’s even remotely okay. It’s despicable. I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling right now. I mean, when I came out in high school, I was terrified, but I got to do it on my own terms. But you—that choice was taken from you.”

A sad smile passes over his face. “No, I know. Although, to be honest, I don’t really know how I’m feeling. There isn’t exactly a guidebook for processing a bi-awakening at the same time as a political scandal.”

Bi-awakening? Before last night, was he under the impression he was straight? Was last night the first time he was with a man? And now he’s been outed almost immediately without any time to process.

God, so much of last night is suddenly starting to make sense. The nervousness, how tentative he was. I thought he was just naturally shy. But that’s not the case, is it? I watched enough of his speeches earlier to know that he’s the opposite. That’s not to say that politicians or other public speakers can’t be shy, but from what I saw, he seems to thrive in the spotlight. He glows under it—not unlike how he glowed under my praise last night.

No. I cannot think about that right now.

When I don’t say anything, he swallows hard, pressing his knuckle to his sternum. “I know I probably should have said something before agreeing to go home with you. But we didn’t really talk all that much, and I figured that since it was a one night stand that it wouldn’t really matter. I wasn’t using you, though. I’ve theoretically known I'm bi for a while now. I just never really field tested the theory.”

“It’s alright. You don’t need to explain yourself,” I say gently. “You weren’t obligated to tell me anything except what you wanted to. And I didn’t feel used, or anything—at least, not like that, anyway. Like you said, it was supposed to be a one night stand, and the basic foundation of those is two people consensually using each other for sex.”

Pretty spectacular sex, at that, but I’m not going to admit that out loud.

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