My sweet boy. He did it, just like Carter and I knew he could.
It’s a short ride to the mansion. Carter and Owen are standing on the front porch and waiting for me when the limo pulls up. They look gorgeous, the two of them together and dressed to the nines in their tuxes, both of them in black ties. I’d been looking at my phone, and I snap a quick picture of them, for my eyes only, before I drop my phone in my purse.
My boys clean up well. Not that I had any doubt of that. They both look gorgeous on a daily basis in their suits and ties.
I keep myself planted in the middle of the limo’s backseat as the driver opens the door for the men.
Tonight, despite our previous rules, Owen has to go first. He’ll be walking ahead of both of us for the next four to eight years.
At least, he will in public.
I know our boy will hate it every time, feeling it’s not right, wanting us to walk ahead of him. But he’ll still do it, because he’s our good boy.
“Governor Taylor,” the driver says.
“Thank you.”
My boy ducks inside the limo. His smile lights fires in me after his gaze sweeps over me, taking in the sight of me wearing this gorgeous shimmering blue gown, a gown which he helped pick out.
“Mrs. Evans,” he says, smiling.
I wink. “Governor Taylor.”
He moves out of the way so Carter can get past him and sit on my far side. Owen will exit the limo first and needs to sit on the passenger side. With the door closed, Owen settles in on my right.
“Here we go,” Carter murmurs. “Public faces.”
I don’t care. My hands sneak out, to either side, and my fingers curl around their hands. Inside the limo’s darkened interior, the gesture can’t be seen. Even if someone’s planted a secret IR camera or something, it can be explained away as simply feeling nervous and wanting to hold their hands.
We’re friends, for crying out loud.
Even if I wish we could publicly come out to the world as more.
* * * *
I know the “rules” that Carter has put in place to protectus, the three of us. I was raised on a variation of them, my father taking me to many political events over the years as I was growing up. Especially as Momma grew to hate them and I usually ended up being Daddy’s plus-one for RSVPs. Giving my daddy all due credit, however, he wasn’t mean or even particularly strict when teaching me about the “public rules” he gave me. He led by action, treating me in many ways like an adult, even when I was still a little kid.
Assume we are always being watched and recorded.
Assume anyone can hear what we’re saying—and that they are recording it.
If saying something in a whisper, always cover your mouth so your lips can’t be read—but assume it’s not safe to talk in public.
Assume all mics are hot, and treat them accordingly.
Never let down your guard until safely behind a locked door with the curtains drawn and you have double-checked you’re alone in the space.
And even then, assume the walls are paper-thin, and that there are people standing outside with their ears pressed against the door, unless it’s a situation like you’re safely at home.
Even in a car, assume people can see and hear you.
No public displays of affection with each other, beyond the occasional hug.
Remember the long-game and our goals.
Never lose our cool in public.
Although Owen did break that last one during the campaign, when that stupid fucking Kevin Markos from Full News Broadcasting interviewed him the Sunday after the school shooting.
