Skills check.
Yeah, I am that sadistic.
And, yes, I have made a few online purchases and had them shipped to me. Secret Service has to screen my mail and packages, and they know not to say a damn word about what I buy.
I add my notes and send it back, then head downstairs again to refill my coffee and make Elliot’s.
I still haven’t responded to Leo’s latest text, although I did screenshot it.
Elliot hasn’t asked to see the burner phone, or if I’ve checked it for messages from Leo.
Maybe this makes me evil, but I awoke with a small yet tenaciously growing thought deeply rooted in the darker side of my soul.
That maybe the last thing I should do is discourage Elliot from running.
Because Elliot’s promised to keep me with him. I get him elected twice, that’s eight years. Ten, altogether.
Tenyears that Leo fucking Cruz will be unable to ignore me, because I’m in Elliot’s bed every night.
Maybe I’m hoping, just a little, that Elliot will come to love me and put me on a higher pedestal than Leo.
Yeah, I know that’s expert-level petty, and I’ll own it.
It’s even pettier because this is totally self-inflicted. I left of my own volition—Leo didn’t send me away. Elliot didn’t ask me to leave.
If I’d stayed, though, without a drastic change in circumstances, I would have grown resentful.
Well,herewe are.
It comes in waves. Sometimes gentle and barely lapping at my mental shores, and sometimes crashing through my thoughts like a tsunami. I know it shouldn’t bother me, because I’m a functional adult and fairly in touch with my emotions.
But damned if six fucking years of not being included by Elliot hasn’t snuck up on me.
Leo could have forced him to accept me.
Hell, Leo wouldn’t have had to force him. He could’ve gotten Elliot so fucking horned up he could barely remember his own goddamned name and then smushed us together, and it would have made Elliot’s light bulb pop on.
But Leo fucking Cruz couldn’t do that. Nah, that sadist had to have a line just short of that point, a line he wouldn’t cross.
Just like he wouldn’t come after me, wouldn’t order me to stay.
Maybe I fucking wanted to be ordered to stay.
Maybe I wanted a tangible sign from him and Elliot both that I was more than a convenient hole to fill, or errand-runner, or safe alibi to keep the chatter from heading in the wrong direction.
Maybe I just wanted to fucking be included.
To feel wanted.
I suck all those thoughts deep within me and lock them in a vault. Elliot’s a goddamned train wreck emotionally, and he can’t help it. Spending time around his parents the other day drove that point home to me. Stella’s obnoxious as fuck, and Elliot’s terrified of his own shadow. Two extremes.
It’d be easier to be a dick to Elliot if he wasn’t so.
Fucking.
Nice.
By Saturday night, Elliot’s a nervous fucking wreck. I’m trying not to step in and take over and make this decision for him—yes, against him running, fuckinghell—when he finally has a flash of insight that honestly makes me wonder about the full-time depth of his emotional engagement with his own soul.
