“Breakfast speech for a VFW group here in DC, then a visit to a library for a reading program promo stop. Somewhere in there, my morning briefing needs to happen. After that, a meeting with campaign staff. Following that, we’re free the rest of the day.” He smirks. “Unless the little fucker kicks up a storm, or something.”
“Sunday?”
“Morning briefing and staff prep for Monday, but working here all day.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “All day?”
“Besides the morning briefing, staff will be in and out until six p.m., unless something develops that needs my attention.”
“Next week?”
We go through the schedule as best he can remember it right now, knowing full well it could evolve at any time. That’s the nature of the beast. A schedule can change twenty times in twenty minutes.
No shit, I’ve seen it.
Especially when you end up on campaign time. Tossing in questions from press can bork a timeline in a heartbeat. Or when polls come in and there’s a drastic shift, for or against you, and you change appearance schedules on the fly to best leverage your candidate’s face in front of people and media.
We’re flying to Nebraska late Thursday night for an early Friday morning event at Offutt Air Force Base, then from there driving to his parents’ farm, which is nearby, for a visit, before flying back to DC that evening.
And he’s publicly declaring next weekend, at a GOTV event in Arlington on Sunday morning.
I sip my coffee as I watch him neatly stow my clothes in the dresser. “What’s the real reason for visiting your parents?”
He hesitates. “To tell them I’m declaring.” I’ll dig into why he hesitated later. I can’t help wondering if he’s hoping they’ll ask him not to run.
That would totally be like him.
He’s taking his time and being very conscientious as he arranges my clothing in the drawers. The man cannotpack a suitcase to save his life, but when it comes to dresser drawers or closets, he’s amazing. Sort of like the necktie thing. Even before now, I can’t tell you how many times I went running after Elliot to retie or straighten his necktie, or how many times Leo ordered me to go check on Elliot to see what he looked like before he had to make an appearance.
Elliot’s endearingly helpless in that way.
We all have our quirks, and Elliot’s aren’t difficult to love.
Except for the fear and avoidance behaviors, of course.
Those are a pain in the fricking ass.
He empties another suitcase and starts on the third. “How much do you still have at your apartment?”
“Not much. I’ll need to clear it out. And my storage unit. I’ll have to fly down and hire movers to pack and ship one of those small pods like I did before.” I snort. “I wonder if Leo still has the same unit.”
“He does,” he quietly says.
I study him.
Our gazes meet. “He has the same apartment keys, same alarm codes, same everything. I think he hoped every day you’d return. He’s lived his life waiting for you to come back to him.”
I don’t know what to say to that and shove back another wave of anger. “He could’vetalkedto me andtoldme that. Not like he’s a fricking psychologist, or something. I was initiatingallour contact. That’s why I finally stopped, to see if he’d contact me.” I struggle against the wave of bitterness sweeping through me on the heels of the anger. “He sure didn’t act like he missed me.”
“He really is grieving.”
I sip my coffee. “He’s not the only one,” I mutter into my mug.
“I’m sorry.”
I don’t know how to process that and know I need to consciously choose to release my anger. “I made the decision to leave.”
“Because of me.”
