There were, at one time, six other Democratic hopefuls, but as their fundraising and other issues made it blatantly obvious they didn’t have a hope, they dropped out. By New Year’s,we’re now down to eleven months, and three viable opponents, one of whom drops out in the middle of January after a massive campaign finance scandal comes to light.
One of his PACs has been taking money originating from Chinese donors. While he claims he didn’t know anything about it, video surfaces from three years ago that shows him in a meeting in Beijing, smiling as he shakes the hands ofsome Chinese business leaders there.
Another one bites the dust.
And then there were two.
She eviscerates both of them in three nationally televised live debates. One of them, Richard Calgary, is seventy-three, and he so horribly fumbles a question about cybersecurity that Shae actually feels sorry for him and steps in to try to help him salvage the moment and his dignity, an act of compassionthat wins her even more support and praise.
But you can’t fix stupid, and no one wants a clueless old white guy for president who doesn’t understand that power stations can be hacked by someone overseas, and that those kinds of terror threats are as potentially dangerous as ones from vicious suicide bombers or mass shooters.
Once we get through Iowa, Shae is the clear leader, both in caucusresults and fundraising, even though technically she still has one opponent who hasn’t dropped out yet.
For Shae’s VP pick, Benchley Evans advises me on weeding out contenders until we tap Rep. Elliot Woodley from Omaha, Nebraska. He’s a Democrat who used to be GOP, and he’s far more conservative than Shae in many ways. The hard limits we won’t budge on line up—he’s pro-choice, pro-civil libertiesfor people of color and the LGBTQ populations, he wants to fight voter suppression, and wants to protect our environment. He’s a military vet, Purple Heart recipient, son of a wheat farmer, former college football player, and makes Fullmer’s VP, Edward Jackson, look like Eddie Munster in comparison.
Elliot’s also single, handsome as fuck, thirty-six, and well-loved in his home state by votersof both parties. He resonates with wide swaths of voter demographics, including young voters, Independents, and moderate Republicans.
In other words, he’s a slam-dunk.
He’s also in the closet, so we agree to keep him there, at his request. If he ends up running for POTUS on day, he plans on disclosing that after the fact, hopefully—if he wins—to use it as proof that it shouldn’t matter whata person’s gender or orientation is, because when it’s not known in the first place, it obviously didn’t matter.
By March, Shae is the presumptive Democratic candidate, and I start sending her to dinner at swanky restaurants in DC with Chris.
The day after Chris retires, I personally release the news about their engagement and handle the press conference.
They’re married in a small ceremonyat the Florida Governor’s Mansion. Benchley does the honors, and the only guests are myself, Leo, Benchley’s wife, Michelle, Susa, Carter, Owen, and their three children. We do the “real” ceremony first, where Chris and I take our vows, and then Shae and I, photographed for us by Leo, before we have the official photographer come in and capture the images the public will see.
Chris sells hiscondo, and we both move in with Shae. I worried this might stir up trouble, but she’s so popular, and the GOP is running so scared of her, that they’re actually afraid to go after her in that way because we know damn well Fullmer had mistresses years ago.
But Shae has never brought that up. My girl and I struck a silent deal with Fullmer’s that private lives are off-limits. They won’t bring upquestions about how Chris and Shae met and got married, and she won’t dredge up Fullmer’s hush-money payments to former mistresses.
Everyone’s a winner, and the public isn’t subjected to diversions from what really matters—policy.
That means Fullmer keeps his PACs reined in, too. If they go low, we’ll hit hard, and no one wants that.
As we head into summer and the convention rapidly approaches,Chris hits the campaign trail with us. It’s far easier for all three of us to spend nights together. With Chris present, it drops the chances of people spreading rumors about me and Shea down to practically zero.
Secret Service steps in and works with our private security ahead of the Democratic National Convention in Memphis, because they’re in charge of the event’s logistics in that way. Theconvention is nothing more than a formality at this point, even though Martin Brown, Shae’s remaining opponent, hasn’t officially conceded. No one’s takes him seriously, except himself and his tiny but vocal contingent of mostly white, rich male supporters.
I’m not exactly sure Chris has processed that he’s now a protectee, because, sometimes, he sure doesn’t act like it. It’s almost like he’sstill on duty and has to be reminded that he’s the one being guarded.
But as I stand in the wings at the convention and watch the two of them walk out on stage together, holding hands and waving, I smile.
My gut tells me we’re going todothis.
We’re going to get our girl elected.
No one’s talking about Kevin Markos’ apocalyptic meltdown anymore. It’s not even a footnote. Neither is my bungledOwen Taylor interview.
Where they choose to hit me now is with my father, who leads a rabidly amusing attack campaign that effectively goes nowhere the harder he tries. None of the mainstream media will even give him air time, and FNB has stopped interviewing him. He’s up for re-election, so this makes it harder for him to get free coverage for his campaign.
I’m not sure which gives me greatersatisfaction—that Shae might turn Fullmer into a one-termer, or that Shae’s victory might also coincide with my father’s quite possible defeat in his upcoming re-election run.
Either way, as Shae delivers her acceptance speech, a speech I wrote, Leo stands next to me, nodding. “Final grind ahead,” he says.
“Yep. She’s got this.”
He fist bumps with me. “Yeah, she does.” He nudges me with hiselbow and smiles. “You miss your old gig?”
