I also worry because they don’t know my pet the way I know him. They don’t know how to make sure he eats enough of the right kinds of food. They don’t know the signs to watch for to cut an event short. They’ll let him insist he’s fine and then work himself to exhaustion, and will let him talk to “just a few more people” when he should have left the event an hour earlier.
They can’t soothe him and allow him to sleep more than an hour or two at a time by helping chase his nightmares away.
Honestly, if hehadsomeone like that who wasn’t me, I’d probably hate that person’s guts with a blinding passion.
Someone other than Jordan, of course. Which was my original plan.
My pet’s not the only territorial one, though.
At the dinner tonight, there’s a social portion at the beginning, where Elliot’s supposed to mingle with everyone. After all, that’s why the attendees paid buttloads of money to be here tonight.
I follow him, with his chief of staff and press secretary hovering close by, all of us surrounded by Secret Service as Elliot works the room.
This is where Elliot shines even though I know that this is one of the most draining parts of what he does. He’s friendly, genuine, and because we’re only moving a few feet at a time, his limp really isn’t noticeable tonight.
I honestly don’t give a shit about the goal of tonight’s dinner. The topic is nearly always irrelevant, to me. My only concern is Elliot’s safety and well-being. I survey the room, my head swiveling as we move, studying every person who walks up to speak with him or take selfies or pictures with him. Everyone probably assumes I am Secret Service, which is fine. I don’t care who they think I am.
Secret Service manages the crowd, only letting one or two people approach Elliot at a time. I hover just behind him, to his right, where I can always see the other people’s left hands. There’s about a hundred people in the room tonight. It’s a fundraiser, and all the attendees have gone through a physical screening before being allowed this close to Elliot.
Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t care if every other person in here was naked, I’d still stay alert.
His presidential campaign is going to give me a fricking ulcer, I just know it. Of course I was worried about Shae during her two campaigns, but I’ve never slept with her. She’s not…mine.
There’s a far deeper personal connection for me with Elliot than with Shae. As part of a presidential campaign, Elliot has to make hundreds of appearances, work rope lines, shake thousands of hands.
All it takes is missing one person, overlooking one clue, allowing one split-second opening.
While part of me is silently dying inside because I know I’ll never be making these rounds as his husband, there’s another part of me proud as hell of him.
Maybe he is where he is right now because I connected him to the right people at the right time, but hedeservesto be here.
He deserves to go even farther.
And he’s mine, for now.
There’s no way to explain how that makes me feel. To know that just a little while ago I held him in my arms, and then I knelt in front of him and helped him put Duck on…
And now everyone in this room tonight, who paid to be here, that is, is dying to spend a few minutes talking to Elliot.
Talking tomypet.
My pet is the center of attention.
While it isn’t noticeable to anyone else, Elliot occasionally reaches back and brushes his hand against me.
Another of our silent codes, a way for him to anchor himself to me while he’s feeling overwhelmed.
My psychologist can watch him and notice little cues here and there and spot his stress, the PTSD, the anxiety.
But over the years, Elliot’s done such a fantastic job of training himself, combined with relying on tricks we have as Master and pet, that he can usually compensate long enough to make it through one of these events.
His anxiety and PTSD are things that he doesn’t talk about with others. Not even with a trained mental health professional, other than me. I wish he would but that’s not my call to make, and it’s how he’s decided to handle it. I think he could be a great spokesman for it. He’s far from the first veteran to come home dealing with it.
His fear is that if those issues are widely known, combined with his leg, that it might make him look like a weak candidate. And he trusts no one other than me, Shae, Kev, and Chris.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. Which is why we engage in the charades about his leg, or about his medical equipment that he might need.
Once he’s elected POTUS, I have a feeling that will go a long way toward finally helping him process and deal with stress in a healthier way.
