I nod. “I understand. I really appreciate you coming. I know this has been stressful but it means everything to me, having you here.”
Dad shrugs. “You’re our son. We’re not ones for making a big deal about stuff but this was important.”
I’m so close to the moment I can practically taste it.
“Besides,” Mom adds, “you don’t need us hanging around and distracting you. It’s obvious Stella’s too busy to spend time with us and you have a lot to do.”
That’s definitely a hint of bitterness sharpening her tone. Over Stella, I mean. “Mom, I always have time for you two. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you want. You’re my parents.”
Dad sniffs. “Not going to make taxpayers pay for our vacation.”
“Dad,I’mthe one paying your expenses. This isn’t given to me for free.”
That was the wrong thing to say. “Even more reason we should head back soon. I don’t want you to have to pay for our stay.”
Choking back my frustrated groan takes more willpower than I think I’ve ever mustered in my life and I know I shouldn’t admit I’m also the one paying for their stay in Blair House. “Dad, you’re my parents and I love you, and—”
Mom smiles and reaches over to pat my arm, silencing me. “It’s all right, Elliot. Your father’s right. We’ve already taken several days off and there’s so much to do. It’s not fair to ask Ben and his wife to add to their workload.”
It’s not like the neighbors have anything to do for them except feed a few cows and chickens. Secret Service keeps a skeleton crew on-site to watch the house.
“It’s winter. Yourdowntime.” Why am I persisting?
Dad nods. “That’s right. I’m in the middle of rebuilding the engine on the small combine while I have the time to do it.”
I give up and decide to drop it because it’ll only frustrate me and make Dad dig in his heels even deeper.
When we finish eating Mom looks at Dad and a silent cue passes between them, one I’ve seen plenty of times before.
“Well, this was lovely, dear,” she says. “We’ll head back to our rooms so you can do whatever you need to do before tonight.”
“You know you can spend the night here, Mom. Right? I really wish you would.” Which means giving up spending the night with Leo and Jordan but I know my men would understand.
Except I’ve already asked my parents about it several times and they won’t.
Dad shakes his head. “No, son. We appreciate it but that’s too much trouble. And it seems like there’s a lot of photographers around.”
“I can ask them to leave.”
“This isyournight, sweetie,” Mom says. “Besides, we don’t want you cutting your evening short. We’re not going to any of those parties.”
“They run awfully late,” Dad adds.
I’d arranged tickets for the balls for them, hoping they might change their minds once I got them here. I’ll attend all the balls with them, if they want to go.
But the DC social scene isn’t their thing and I can’t blame them. They don’t know anyone in this town other than me and Stella, and to a lesser extent Jordan and Leo, and they’ve never been comfortable in large gatherings. DC is the biggest public fishbowl there is.
I suspect part of it is Mom didn’t want to buy a fancy dress and Dad didn’t want to buy a tux, even though I told them I’d cover all the expenses. Nothing I say will convince them that people will see them first and foremost as the President’s parents, not as DC social rejects, but I get it.
Maybe my imposter syndrome was inherited and Stella somehow managed to escape it. My little sister can schmooze and name-drop with the best of them while I tend to take after my parents.
To Stella’s credit she did offer to pay for a stylist to take care of our parents for the event—hair, clothes, and Mom’s makeup—and I told Stella I’d chip in half. But Dad told her to save her money and from the way Stella related the story to me I know it means she didn’t bother to reveal I was going to pay half so she could take all the credit.
Fine. Whatever. No way in hell will I manage my sister’s relationship with them. Not if Stella’s going to act this way, even during the most important night of my life.
I walk them downstairs and hug them both good-bye before they get into a car with Secret Service agents to drive them back to Blair House. It’s not that far of a walk but with all the crowds and press, and the damp and chilly weather, it’s a circus and safer to drive them. Especially considering Mom’s ankle is still sore. I stand there watching, my hands jammed into the pockets of my slacks.
Jordan steps up to my side as their car pulls away from the portico. “Let’s get you back upstairs, Mister President,” he softly says. “You need to get dressed.”
