Page 125 of Tips and Trysts

I, for one, am thrilled to let Everett make his own choices for once.

There’s a tripod next to the bed, the same one I use for camming. I get up, turn off the recording on my phone, and check it for good measure.

Everything is here—and we look astounding together.

I glance at Everett, and even though I know the answer, I ask anyway: “Are you ready?”

“Absolutely,” he answers without missing a beat.

There it is.

Nodding, I look Everett in the eyes, wink, and presssend.

Forty-Five

EVERETT

The Governor’s Executive Mansionwas built in 1813 in Richmond, Virginia. It’s a Federal Style monstrosity, garish by most accounts, but chock full of historical significance: Presidents and diplomats have dined over plates of Brunswick stew and peach cobbler, dignitaries have conducted important state business, and the state of West Virginia was even created here during a meeting with Abraham Lincoln and Governor Francis Pierpont during the Civil War.

In my opinion, maybe the most notable thing to ever happen in the Executive Mansion was Dalton getting plastered off a rare bottle of Susumaniello wine when we were sixteen and losing his virginity to the French Ambassador’s daughter, who was later quite offended to learn he fucked her after chugging an Italian wine—but I’m no historian, obviously.

As I stroll through the cavernous, air-conditioned event tent currently occupying the north side of the property, my hand is wrapped around a crystal old fashioned glass with two fingers of bourbon. The vertical, straight-line cuts press into my skin—a vance cut, I’m certain. My father made me memorize the patterns on spirit glasses when I was fifteen, insisting I know the fine distinctions in the different styles. Dignitaries would appreciate it, he said. Monarchs, perhaps.

So far, the only thing it’s gotten me is a sideways glance from my girlfriend.

Cora is at a roundtable decorated with a butter yellow linen tablecloth and an elaborate hydrangea arrangement in the center. Her pastel blue dress has flower patterns in the fabric, and if I stare long enough, I can find the outlines of her nipple piercings through the bodice. Otherwise, she’s modest and campaign-approved, even sporting a silky blue headband in her dark hair and pearls in her ears. She matches my pastel blue tie perfectly—so perfectly, in fact, my mother air-kissed her when we arrived at the mansion this morning.

Now, I slide into the white wooden folding chair next to her, relax, and sip my drink.

“Bourbon?” Cora says, tilting her head closer before she asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’ll save you the trouble of going over there,” I reply, ticking my chin in the direction of the spread of tea cakes and fruit and little crustless sandwiches on the opposite side of the tent. “They’re using a crystal punch bowl, not the cauldron you’ve surely misplaced.”

“I mean it,” she continues, placing her hand on my thigh. “Are you okay? I know this isn’t….”

“Felix is here,” I comment. “I’m sure you saw.”

“He came over and said hello earlier,” she replies before muttering, “Prick.”

“We wanted him to be here.”

Cora scoffs. “I still hate him.”

“And I love you. And I’m excited. To be honest, even if I didn’t love you—even if I were sort of lukewarm on you and pretending to like you so I could get into your amazing pussy—”

“You are so fucking weird.”

“—I would still be excited.” I kiss her lips. “All that said, I do love you.”

Cora’s hand rises from my thigh and goes to my cheek. “You’re the biggest surprise of my life,” she whispers.

“Funny. I always knew it would happen like this.”

“Likethis?”

“Not likethisthis,” I admit. “I didn’t think the first time I’d solicit you would be in a hospital—”

“You’re seriously the fucking weirdest.”

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