Page 126 of Tips and Trysts

“—but you, me, and the shit we’re about to stir? Yeah. I knew.” I wink before I take her hand, kiss the palm, and place it back on her lap. “Eyes on me,” I say before I stand and push in my chair.

Beverly is at the front of the tent, clutching her tablet as usual and waiting for me. “Are you ready?” she asks when I’m close.

“Sure am.”

She pats my shoulder, firm and reassuring. “Good luck, Everett.”

I step onto the tent’s makeshift stage—an elevated wooden platform with two flags on either side: the US flag and the Virginia state flag. There’s a screen centered between them: twelve feet with the state seal projected on it. The seal is an image of Virtue standing over a collapsed man with the state motto emblazoned on the bottom:Sic semper tyrannis.Thus always to tyrants.

The microphone squeaks when I remove it from the stand in the center of the stage, drawing attention. From here, I can see the hundred twenty, maybe thirty people who came to this luncheon. Most of them are members of my parents’ circles, butI also recognize reputable members of state society and even DC politics—including Felix.

A lot can be said about Warren E. Logan, but one thing is for certain: The guy has connections coming out of his butt.

“Afternoon,” I begin, speaking into the microphone and sliding my hand into the pocket of my suit to take on a casual stance. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Everett, Governor Logan’s son, and I’m excited to welcome you all to this luncheon for Warren E. Logan for Senate: A Voice for Virginia’s Values.”

A burst of applause fills the tent, and my father, seated at the front table with my mother, the lieutenant governor and his family, and Cora, is beaming like he just paid the college tuitions of every public-school student in the state (which he would never do, for the record).

“Most of you don’t know this about me, but I’m an avid photographer,” I begin. “Landscapes, mostly, but I do take the occasional portrait.”

Cora’s expression is placid and comforting, but a few chairs over, my father is clenching his jaw—perhaps from just now learning I’m an avid photographer, but perhaps from trepidation over the last time I made a speech. I smile at him, hoping to ease him.

It works.

It works as well as it did when I called him after the dinner from hell at the Cunningham and told him Cora and I were ready to cooperate for the sake of his campaign—and the assurance that he wouldn’t release the alley video.

“When my father was finishing his first term as governor, it was an interesting time—to say the least,” I continue. “As you know, Virginia prevents governors from holding consecutive terms, which meant my father would have to move out of the mansion and do something else with his time.”

“Work on his swing!” my grandfather shouts from the next table and gets quite a few laughs even though he’s not remotely close to being funny.

“I photographed my father that day in his office,” I go on. “He was staring out the window and didn’t know I was there, and right then, I realized: This man would belostwithout politics.

“I look at that picture a lot. I think about my father and how he would do anything for this state—maybe even our country. That’s love, isn’t it? Giving up everything for someone you care about.” I look my father dead in the eyes. “Dad, I’m happy you’ve found something to love.”

The applause drowns out the sarcasm. The disdain. The hatred. It drowns out the hours I also spent staring out this mansion’s windows, pleading to the universe for an escape.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for Governor Warren E. Logan, future Virginia State Senator,” I finish before gesturing to my father, inviting him onstage.

My father pulls me into a hug. For the first time in decades, I hug him back, holding his head close to mine while he whispers, “Good boy. You did well, Everett.”

When I return to my seat, Cora gives me a nod. I nod back.

Showtime.

Onstage, my father comes to life like a dragon unfurling its wings after lumbering out of its cave. His face is bright, and his speech is chock full of platitudes I can recite like my life depended on it but never will again. I examine the distinct lines of his face, wondering if he sees himself in me. I memorize his cadence and the motions of his hands. I note his gentle simper and the way his hair bobs. I take it all down, knowing full well that this is it—this is the last time I’m ever going to see this man.

When he’s done, my father steps back from the microphone and motions at the tech guy.

That’s what he calls him—the tech guy. I heard it with my own ears earlier this morning when my father whisper-hissed at Beverly, “Make sure that deadbeat tech guy plays my video at the right time.”

I, on the other hand, know the tech guy’s name is Pete. Pete is a twenty-nine-year-old college dropout who has done tech support for my father for the last eleven years. My father never bothered to learn his name, but I know Pete.

Pete smokes weed, Pete is petty, and Pete likes money.

Loves it, actually.

My father’s smile beams, perfectly white and broad enough to save ships on a stormy sea at night. His campaign video starts playing on the twelve-foot screen behind him, crisp in high definition with the sound of trumpet-fueled, patriotic stock music blaring over the tent’s speakers.

My father’s beaming smile lasts for all of eight seconds. It quickly melts into shock—and then horror—when his only son’s pierced cock appears onscreen.

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