By the time the two of them make it upstairs, Chris is cooking breakfast for them—he’s a damned good cook and enjoys the hell out of doing it for his family. They both look exhausted as they greet the kids and me and slump into chairs at the table. Kev’s loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt, his sleeves now rolled up to his elbows.
I suspect there’s more office time in store for Kev today. He’s damned dedicated and good at his job. He currently holds the record for longest-serving chief of staff in a position that usually sees a minimum of two or three turnovers by this point in a president’s second term.
He’ll never leave Shae’s side, though. Not willingly.
Because he loves her, and Chris.
The three of them together are pure magic and have been for years. They’re not the only political poly triad out there, either. That’s why I was stupidly dead-certain I could capture that same magic for myself, Elliot, and Jordan.
Now I’m left wondering if I’ll still have Elliot by the time Shae leaves office.
How horrible is it that a tiny part of my soul is starting to rot and ask,So, what?when I think about losing him?
I know Jordan wanted me to continue taking care of Elliot, but damned if I have the emotional strength to do so right now.
Hell, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m friends with Chris, Shae, and Kev, I’d have walked away from everything two weeks ago.
Except I know that’s not what Jordan would want me to do.
The psychologist hidden deep inside my wounded and battered soul also recognizes that it’s my pain and grief chattering at me. That I need to give myself time to heal and not make any rash decisions while consumed by the blazing fires of my personal pain.
That I’d eventually hate myself even more than I already do if I abandoned Elliot and everything we have together.
What little of it there is, anymore.
I realize Kev’s watching me, his brow furrowed slightly. I shake my head once, because I don’t want him asking me if I’m okay.
I’m not.
Besides, I hate lying in front of the kids.
* * * *
I’m “Uncle Leo” to the kids, the way Elliot is “Uncle Elliot.” Yasmine, their nanny, is off today. It was supposed to be a family day today, but Shae and Kev have to focus on the North Korean clusterfuck.
Kind of theirjob.
That’s why, right now, I’m heading downstairs in the elevator with twins Ivy and Myla, and their little brother, Hudson, and two Secret Service agents, in search of a tortoise.
That’s not a euphemism or code phrase.
Hudson is towing a small folding wagon behind him. We’re in search of their pet tortoise, Pecan, who gets the run of the downstairs at night.
Pecan is a Sulcata tortoise, and they get huuuge. Right now, he’s only twelve inches long, and weighs a couple of pounds. The girls are using the special “Pecan tracker” tablet the Secret Service set up for locating him. An elastic strap around Pecan’s middle holds the tracker in place on top of his shell so they can easily locate him the next morning. The tablet is secure. The only apps enabled on it are the tracker, and the interface the kids use to turn on and off the “tortoise cam” that posts live video to their website.
Pecan gets frickingfanmail. He has Halloween and Christmas costumes, and costumes for other holidays and special occasions.
I shit you not. He even has a tux. Hell, he has his own Instagram account.
Angela Shibata, our press secretary, receives several questions a week about Pecan at the daily briefings. He’s been featured on all the major late-evening talk shows, and on some of the national evening news broadcasts.
Every morning, he’s located and returned to his pen in the residence, so he’s not wandering loose while public tours are underway. Sometimes during the day, if Jordan had the time, and there were press around, and there was nothing horrible going on in the world requiring the press deluge comms staff with questions, he would bring Pecan downstairs and let him make his rounds. Pecan’s very sociable and enjoys being petted on the head. Now, the job falls to Chris, when he’s around.
It used to be one of Jordan’s favorite things to do at work. I loved watching the joy in his face as he answered questions about the tortoise, and how he got a kick out of watching people take pictures with Pecan or try to get selfies with the tortoise.
You have never snickered so hard in your life as when the prime minister of Great Britain is lying on his stomach on the floor of the Oval Office, with his cell phone out, trying to capture himself and a tortoise in the frame, with the president of the United States photobombing the shot behind them, and a dozen pool reporters and photogs and cameramen climbing all over each other in their eagerness to get pictures of it going down.
After school and on the weekends, the kids take Pecan outside. Then the press goes batshit having fun taking pictures of him.
