Page 113 of The Liar's Reckoning

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GRAHAM

One year later

NYC Ballet Gala

The man Silas is escorting this year is a visiting choreographer. He’s young—or at least younger than the man he was with last year. This one looks like he’s in his forties.

Silas wasn’t kidding about “gala season” last year when the topic of running into him in his role as an escort came up for the first time. I still remember the way he smelled that night on our couch. His scent has changed some since. I love cologne, and I’ve probably gotten him a dozen different fragrances, which means he’s constantly changing things up. It fascinates me the way his natural scent combines with expensive cologne—only ever making them smell better.

Last year, Avery recognized Silas immediately, even pointing him out to me and asking, “Do you think he’s, you know, being paid?”

“Anything’s possible,” I answered unsurprised that Avery, as a former escort of Katia’s herself, would put the pieces together so quickly.

“Good for him,” she’d said then. “I had a feeling he was gay.”

This year, she also spots him before I do, leaning in to whisper who he is to her best friend—an heiress named Marianne Hayes. They met at this same gala last year when Avery was on the hunt for new friends. They clicked immediately. I’m tagging along with them tonight since Marianne’s husband is out of the country. The women are closer than Avery and I now are, making me the third wheel. They barely notice how little I pay attention to them.

My wife and I have been living separate lives for months, no longer sharing dinner or even coffee in the mornings. While she still makes public appearances with me, at home, we’re nothing more than roommates. Strangers who were once friends. Over the last few months, Avery’s distance has been more pointed. She comes and goes from the apartment without so much as a word my way. She often spends the night out, not coming home until the next morning. She no longer calls me when I’m in DC.

When we do speak, we fight—about money, politics, the way I load the dishwasher. She’s even distanced herself from my parents, which my mother has taken personally. The upside of all this is that I can see Silas whenever I want. It’s led to much more time with him, and so it’s hard to be too upset with Avery. I blame Marianne in part for the change. Her disdain for me is thinly veiled. Still, my ongoing relationship with Silas is the reason Avery wanted distance in the first place, which makes the current state of our marriage my fault.

I wouldn’t trade this last year for anything, which is selfish and shameful in and of itself, and yet, Silas has managed to make me happier than I’ve ever been.

Everything about him tonight is discreet, hanging back during introductions, often waiting for his “date” at their table.He and I are both sporting full beards now. Mine is closer shaved, while his is darker and fuller and so sexy. It’s softer than it looks and feels incredible on my skin.

“Excuse me,” I tell the ladies. “I’m going to say hello to my parents.”

Avery sighs, turning back to Marianne who ignores me, already scouting celebrities. Marianne knows everyone. She’s curt and cold with me, not a fan of being associated with a Republican. I’m well aware of where the Hayes’s spend their money when it comes to the politicians they support.

I have been, to my father’s never-ending pride, living up to my conservative potential. As I’ve grown slightly more comfortable as a senator, it’s required some position-taking on my part. With midterms approaching and my party’s chances of hanging onto the senate in jeopardy, I’ve had to make more public appearances, endorsing candidates whose values and politics are more conservative and extreme than mine, helping them to moderate for crowds of skeptical voters.

I’ve learned the trick on the campaign trail is to make people believe you’re willing to work across the aisle to maintain balance and prevent jarring changes to their way of life. But what I’ve learned in Washington is that no one wants to work together at all. Even when they do, it’s a numbers game.

It’s in my own interest to get as many Republicans elected as possible. It provides me cover for the occasional vote or public statement contrary to my caucus. One of my own campaign promises was to representallNew Yorkers, which occasionally necessitates bucking the party line. I’m still considered moderate in the senate. If the Dems were to take the majority, my votes won’t matter. However, this year, we’re heading for a virtual tie where I’ll either need to fall fully into line or break publicly with the party in order to keep my constituents happy and keep the dream alive of being re-elected.

Campaigning for other congressional hopefuls has meantmore traveling when I’d usually be in New York, which is why I’m so intensely greedy for any time with Silas.

On a night like tonight—when I know another man will have him—the need to stake my claim is visceral. I need inside him like I need to breathe. It’s difficult to tear my gaze away when I join my parents. My father wraps an arm around my shoulders and introduces me to the director of the ballet we just watched.

I give my compliments and listen politely as the small, Russian man chats with my parents.

“What did you really think?” my dad asks once the director moves on.

I frown. “About the ballet?”

He nods, like he’s actually interested in my opinion. I shouldn’t be so surprised. I’m not sure if Paul Lawther is feeling his mortality or what, but he’s been inserting himself into my life more and more often, picking my brain about more than politics.

“It was—moving, I thought,” I tell him. “Maybe my favorite yet.”

“Their new principal dancer—the Ukrainian fellow? Did you see his leaps?”

I grin. “I did.” There was a lot I couldn’t help but notice about their newest dancer. The men’s costumes don’t leave much to the imagination.

“Avery looks lovely,” my mother cuts in.

I follow her gaze and take second to admire my wife in her beaded couture gown. It’s the same color of the champagne she’s holding. She glitters beneath the globe chandelier. “She does,” I agree.

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