Instead, I review her day’s schedule with them, in case anything changed from the one I saw earlier this morning. There really isn’t much for me to do here at the White House right now, since I’ve been passed off to Elliot for the day.
Once I take my leave of them, I step out of her study and instead of going to my desk just outside the Oval Office, I find myself a quiet corner in the Cabinet Room to think for a couple of minutes while I pull up a to-do list on my phone and figure out what I’ll need for Elliot. Knowing him, there’s probably stuff he forgot to pack.
Or his bags are packed like crap.
What am I saying? Iknowhis bags are packed like crap.
His luggage is still at his residence, the plan being to swing by there first so he can take a shower and change before heading to Andrews for the flight.
Since I’m on the clock, I can request a ride to Elliot’s with Secret Service. I stop by his office again to confirm we’re still on schedule, ask him if there’s anything he wants me to pack for him, and then run upstairs and retrieve my bags from my office. From there, a Secret Service agent I didn’t serve with drives me to Elliot’s.
Now that I know Elliot’s schedule, and his activities, I know what to pack for him. I’m sure I’ll find that he’s done a shitty job of packing for himself. I mean, to be fair, he is the vice president and a very busy man, but this isn’t a new problem for him.
Once I’m inside his house, I canthink. I’m alone, because the housekeepers have already finished their daily work and have departed. They’ll return for a more thorough cleaning and to take care of any needed maintenance once Elliot’s left town this afternoon. They work around his schedule, not the other way around.
Again, this is nothing new, and is written off as one of Elliot’s reasonably mild “quirks.” Elliot prefers minimum staff presence, and rarely asks them for anything. I overheard one of the housekeeping supervisors saying that Elliot’s the most low-maintenance VP he could ever remember, and this was the man’s fourth administration he’d served with.
I head upstairs and into the master bedroom, where his bags are on the floor at the end of his bed, and I start unpacking them.
That’s when I feel my personal phone vibrate.
I pull it out, my heart racing, only to find a text from Mom.
Just wanted to make sure you’re still alive. Haven’t heard from you in a couple of weeks.
Fuck.
My mom has this spooky way of texting me when I’m thinking about her, or even if I’m not but it’s a weird coincidence that someone’s recently mentioned her or Dad. No, I’ve never told her about it, because I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.
I opt to reply.
I’m fine. Funny you should say that. I’ll be out there this week. Work, but might be able to fit dinner in. I’ll have a better idea later. Flying out with VPOTUS.
I set my phone aside as I continue unpacking—the man cannotpack a suitcase to save his life. I don’t know why he doesn’t ask his valet to do it for him but there you have it. He might be my pet, yet he is, in his own ways, a control freak. Had I left it like this, every damn thing would have been wrinkled as hell, meaning extra work for him—now meaning me—ironing stuff before he can wear it. Even the suits in the garment bag are all rumpled, which takes a special talent to achieve that level of crappy packing.
Once I’ve finished that chore and have everything laid out on the bed to verify what’s going and what’s missing—alot—I see I have a response from Mom.
Oh, good! We’re looking forward to it. Will Jordan be with you?
For the second time this morning, I feel like I’ve been gut-punched. Work has been an escape, because no one outside the “trust box” really knew that we were a couple, or that we were anything other than good friends and roommates.
My family is among the very few people who not only knew Jordan and I were an item, but also got to meet him in that capacity. We flew out there a few times for visits, or stopped by when we were already out there for work, when Shae could spare me and Chris could spare Jordan. Or I arranged for my family to meet us at whatever hotel we were at so we could have dinner.
Of course my family doesn’t know what happened yet, because I haven’t told them.
I don’t relish telling them, either. Mom and Dad—and even Kayley—loved Jordan. Hell, they were more than hinting around last Christmas, wanting to know when we were going to get married.
Reasonable assumption, considering we lived together for over six years.
I sink onto Elliot’s bed. While I’m struggling to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to break this news to Mom, my phone vibrates in my hand from an incoming text. I start crying when I read who it’s from.
Jordan.
It feels like I’m gasping for air as I tap our ongoing text thread, which I could never bring myself to delete, and it opens.
It’s a picture of what appears to be a very tiny and bare-looking studio apartment. The bed isn’t even on a frame; the mattress is on the floor. A few moving boxes sit tucked in one corner.
Home sweet home. Work’s okay, trying to get used to how they do things now. Same department head, most of the faculty the same. Lots of new admin faces, though. Making less than in DC but it’ll work out okay.
