Page 23 of Bi-Partisan

What the hell is this man doing to me?

His shoulders relax, and he lets out a sigh. “Of course. Thank you,” he says in a rush. “I can give you the evening to sleep on it. I wish I could give you longer, but if you decide to say no—which, again, I would not blame you for at all—I need to give my staff time to come up with another plan for damage control.”

The evening is not nearly enough time to fully process everything that’s happened today, at least without the assistance of a therapist. But I haven’t had one of those in three years since I moved back to DC after finishing vet school, relying on my psychiatrist for my prescriptions. I understand why he needs an answer as soon as possible, though, and tell him as much.

He nods. “Thank you. Well, I’ll get out of your hair. But seriously, Adrian—” This time, he does reach across the table and take my hand.

My breath catches as his eyes bore into mine again, but I swallow past it.

“Thank you. I know you haven’t agreed yet, but the fact that you even willingly heard me out—you’ve been so kind and understanding. It means a lot, especially since today has, objectively, probably been the worst day of my life since my bunny died when I was in high school. So, truly, thank you.”

“I really am so sorry this is happening to you,” I say, getting a sad smile in return. We sit for a moment longer, then I clear my throat and move to stand, breaking the physical contact. “I’ll get your coat and see you out.”

He nods, then stands to follow. As I head to the coat closet, I hear the clink of the mug in my sink. When I turn back, his coat in hand, I find him bending to slip on his shoes.

“I guess I’ll text you my decision,” I say after an awkward beat of silence. I have no idea how I’m supposed to say goodbye to him right now. Last time I saw him out my door, the goodbye had consisted of a surprisingly filthy kiss for it being as early as it was. Now that hardly seems appropriate, even if he just asked me to fake date him.

He nods and takes the coat from my outstretched hand. “That would be great, thanks.”

There’s another awkward silence, like I’m not the only one who doesn’t know what to do here. His mouth opens, but then he closes it again and shakes his head, clearly deciding against whatever he was about to say. Normally, that alone would kick my anxiety up a notch, but I think I’ve maxed out today.

Mentally shaking myself to try to get it together, I lean past him to open the door.

He shrugs on his coat and steps into the hall. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Chapter 8

Adrian

Song: Why Am I Like This? – Orla Gartland

The moment I close the door, I sink back against it with a sigh. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and take a few deep breaths. God, all I want to do is take a Xanax and crawl into bed with Joseph, who’s been following me around ever since I got home from work like he can sense the anxiety rolling off of me. Whoever says cats can’t be emotional support animals clearly hasn’t met a clingy ginger. But I know I can’t. I need to figure out what the hell to say to Jamie’s proposition, and I have no idea what I want to do.

The logical thing would be to say no. Jamie said that he wouldn’t blame me if I did—and as much as I like to pretend I’m not a people pleaser, I definitely am, so the out meant a lot. Actually, the logical thing would have been to say no immediately, but instead, I said I’d think about it. Now that I’ve had a moment to breathe, I realize I didn’t say it as a way to avoid rejecting him in person. It’s something I do a lot—say I’ll think about something to avoid an in person conflict, then say no via text or email which are my preferred methods of communication.

No, I think I’m actually considering it, which makes me feel a little insane. If the photos that didn’t even really show my face or have my name attached to them were enough to send me into a panic attack at work and in front of a person who I’ve never had one around before, then the idea of being a politician’s partner during an election cycle should have me running for the hills. But Jamie was so earnest when he talked about why he’s running, and from everything I saw today during my borderline internet stalking of him, he’s good at his job. We need more people like him in congress—kind, good, competent, willing to learn and admit when he’s wrong. It would be a shame for a media scandal of a relatively innocent night out to ruin his chances to do more good. That’s why, going into this conversation with Jamie, I’d already planned on telling him that I’d keep my mouth shut about our night together no matter what the media offered me if they eventually find me. Or more likely, when they find me. I’m not delusional. If determined enough, reporters will always find a way to get their story. It would be the least I could do.

But fake dating? There’s no way I could convincingly do that. I don’t know that I have what it takes to be the partner of a politician. I wouldn’t exactly consider myself the most politically active person, especially given the area I live in. I mean, I’m informed, of course. I’ve voted in every election since I turned eighteen and have never walked into the polls without having made a well-researched decision on who I’m going to vote for. I keep as up to date on the news as I can without it turning into a detriment to my mental health. But would that be enough? Would I be expected to actually help with his campaign? I have to rehearse exactly what I’m going to say when I call the doctor’s office. I can’t canvas or cold call people. And how much help could I even be since I’m not from his district or even his home state?

God, I think I need to talk to someone about this. I feel like my brain is on a loop, moving way too fast for me to think logically. I’m not going to be able to make sense of this enough to make a decision, which I promised Jamie I’d give him by tomorrow. Because no matter what I decide, his team is going to have to start rolling with their damage control plan soon if they’re going to have any chance at recovering from this.

Peeling myself away from the door, I head to the kitchen to pour myself another cup of passionflower tea. As I pour, I pull out my phone to text Casey, but my hands are shaking a little too much to reliably text, so even though I barely feel up to talking anymore, I call him instead.

“Hey, how are you doing? And be honest,” Casey says when he picks up after one ring, almost like he’s been waiting by his phone for me to call. Actually, he probably was, thinking about it. That’s why I love him. He’s always there for me, but also lets me come to him in my own time.

I sigh and shuffle out to the living room with my mug. “I’ve been better.”

“Sophie called me after she convinced you to go home and filled me in. Do you need me to come over?” he asks.

“Honestly, I think if I see anyone else today, I might lose it.” I settle onto the couch and barely have enough time to pull a blanket over my lap before Joseph is clamoring into my lap, purring aggressively.

“Have people been harassing you? From what I’ve seen, the media still doesn’t know who the congressman’s mystery man is.”

One of the dozens of knots in my stomach loosens at that. Despite having spent most of the day on the internet figuring out what I could about Jamie’s congressional career, I carefully avoided reading any article about last night. Once I read the original District Buzz article—the disgusting violation of privacy that it was—I decided it was best for my anxiety if I didn’t read any more. I both did and didn’t want to know if there were any updates on my status as the mystery man. I’m glad Casey kept an eye out for me. “No, and I locked down my social media at Jamie’s press secretary’s suggestion. So unless they somehow find me at the clinic or the shelter, I should be safe.”

“You talked to his press secretary? He had his office reach out to you instead of doing it himself, as if he isn’t the reason your photo is all over social media?” Casey asks, a little outraged.

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