All three of these statements are true.
Unfortunately, I don’t know how long I can keep holding out on the third one.
* * * *
Friday night, three days after the November general election.
My sweet pet belongs to the world now. For the next four years, at least.
I feel…resigned.
Which is horrible, right? Shouldn’t I feel proud and happy and pumped by the ensuing chaos that is now a transition team in full swing?
You’d think.
Except…no, not so much.
This evening, we’re all at the campaign headquarters, which are now the transition team’s operations center. It’s after ten p.m. when I leave Shae’s office and walk down the corridor to Elliot’s office.
Under his door there’s a spill of light, meaning he’s in there.
I hesitate outside his door and close my eyes, imagining him on his knees for me, remembering that first weekend we spent together—a thousand other memories and emotions swirling together and threatening to take me out at the feels.
I love this man.
He’s the love of my life. We have intelligent conversations that can effortlessly last for hours on a wide range of topics. We have many interests in common.
He begs for my dark, sadistic side andwantsthat part of me.
Needs it.
Loves mebecauseof it, not in spite of it.
ButIneed more than we currently have. I don’t care about him staying in the closet. Not allowing me to spend nights with him at home when he knows damn well the guys working The Shift won’t say anything about it takes away the one tiny bit of normalcy we could possibly have. It’s not only hurting me—I know the toll it’s taking on him to keep me at arm’s length the way he is.
Almost like he’s deliberately sabotagingus. Like he wants to manufacture any possible excuse to force me to leave him without him having to ask me to go.
Could I order him to let me come over, or even just show up?
Of course I can. I have free access to him and to Shae.
But if I do that, it means he once again doesn’t have to take responsibility for his decisions.
If he wants me to be in charge, that’s great. It’s my preference.
He still has toaskme for that.
Maybe he really does want me to leave him so he can fail to take responsibility for that, too.
Despite my degree and all my training, I’m not exactly a practicing clinical psychologist. I shouldn’t need a goddamnedDSM-5to understand my fucking boyfriend.
Of all the languages I can fluently speak and understand, I still haven’t mastered the secret code that will completely unlock full and unfettered access to Elliot Gerald Woodley’s soul.
It’d be easy to give in to the urge to give up, walk away, and then Elliot can once again silently excoriate himself for yet another “failure” in his life, blame himself, and add another lock to his closet door.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly turn the knob and open the door.
He’s sitting at his desk, glasses on, and working on his computer. Immediately, his head snaps around and our eyes meet.
