Ren: Can I assume Mr. DeWitt handled that news with maturity and decorum?
Me:He’s apoplectic.
Ren sent me back a picture of a very gray-looking Mr. Paige in his hospital bed, posing with a tired but satisfied smile and both thumbs up. His pneumonia had come back with a vengeance, so I was relieved to see him in good spirits.
I’d asked Ren if he thought our little gathering on the rooftop had anything to do with the illness, and Ren was adamant that it hadn’t. There was more to the story, but Ren was keeping the details to himself.
Beckett had continued to support the Paiges, and based on the way he got tight-lipped whenever I asked him for an update, I was guessing that it had been a helluva lot more serious than they were letting on. Thankfully, Mr. Paige was well on the road to recovery, and his doctors were saying he’d be out of the hospital in the next day or two.
I refocused on the proceedings and bit back a laugh when DeWitt sent a snarl toward Tristan. It was his grassroots social media campaign that packed this meeting to the gills.
“Seguin has no place for this kind of faith practice, if you can even call it that. Catering to those who mock Christ’s sacrifice is a one-way ticket to Hell for the citizens of this town,” DeWitt argued.
The mayor did a fine job of keeping her face neutral, but I could tell it was a struggle. She’d taken a lot of heat for trying to prevent the worst of the discriminatory legislation flying around the state from hitting our little town and had zero patience for any bills that smelled of the church meddling in state business.
“Sorry, Mr. DeWitt. This matter is closed.”
DeWitt stomped out of the council chambers, muttering promises that this subject would never be closed. Of course, no one was under the impression that the DeWitts were anywhere near done with Beckett, but at least his little church was okay for now.
Unfortunately, now that this bit of local drama was handled, I had my own bad news to face.
Tristan’s campaign had gotten a big boost, not to mention some attention at the state level, when Hen had reposted it to his two-point-three million followers. That was great for Beckett’s cause, but it had also turned heads in a progressive energy company in Houston, which wanted Tristan’s skills for a wind farm campaign.
Tristan had wanted to intern for a state or local government, but this still had him policy-adjacent, and it paid well. Worse, it started on Monday.
Speaking of.
“I wonder where my boyfriend went off to,” I said to Beckett, scanning the departing citizens of Seguin.
“Some Chamber of Commerce muckety-muck had some questions about his social media campaign.” Beckett pointed off to the side. “There he is.”
I followed Beckett’s direction and caught Tristan’s eye. God, he was beautiful. Beaming, actually. Pushing my way through the remaining crowd—I swear, Seguin had the most involved citizenry on the planet—I reached him, caught in the undertow of his brilliant smile.
He’d shaved his scruff and cut his hair into a fashionably wavy flop in anticipation of his new job. I missed his arty, college-boy aesthetic, but I couldn’t deny how hot he looked all spruced up.
“Whatchu smilin’ about?” I asked, leaning in to nip at his ear.
“I dunno, whatchu smilin’ about?” he asked, comfortably setting his hands on my hips.
“I’ve got a sexy-ass boyfriend.” I sighed. “Who I’m gonna miss so much it’ll hurt.”
He tapped his chin, that familiar mischief in the tilt of his smile. “What if the brand-new executive director of the Seguin Housing Authority, who is campaigning for more resources for the unhoused, loved my Meeting House campaign so much that she created a position just for me?”
My mouth flew open. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope.”
I whooped, grabbing him up into a twirling hug, not caring who saw. “I can’t believe this,” I said, kissing his forehead.
His smile widened as he dipped his chin. “It’s less than what the Houston folks were gonna pay me, but it’s also fewer hours. I’m thinking Allie’ll let me take a few shifts here and there to make up the difference. There’s only one problem.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“My lease in Austin was month to month, so—technically speaking—I’m homeless.”
His boxes had been residing in my guest room since the last time he’d gotten back from Austin, and, well, that was mighty convenient if you asked me.
I set him down and raised my brow as high as it would go.
