I was aware of David quietly saying something under his breath next to me, but I didn’treallyhear him. My eyes were locked on Wyatt’s face—on the gravity in his expression—cataloging the slight pause he used where he let his words sink in, and the way he stared resolutely into the camera so it would catch his practiced sincerity.
I knew every beat of his performance because I’d once been the architect of it. Had helped him perfect it late at night in his living room with a bottle of bourbon passing between us.
“With the full support of my loving wife, Celine—” He turned to her, tipping his head toward her and pressing his hands together in front of his chest in a gesture of gratitude, his face set in an expression that looked, for all the world, like adoration. He held the pose long enough for every camera present to capture it before he turned back to the podium, gripping its edges tightly. “—I also stand before you to announce my candidacy for the President of the United States of America.”
A collective gasp went through the room. Maya’s hand shot to her mouth, and Michael took a step backward, knocking into a chair and falling into it.
On screen, Wyatt began taking questions. A reporter near the front asked for clarification about the relationship he’d referenced—the revelation about his sexuality apparently more salacious than his political ambitions—and whether he’d be willing to share more about that.
Wyatt gave the man another one of his smooth, camera-ready smiles. “I’ll only say that he was my best friend, and it was one of the defining relationships of my life. But he’s not out, so I must ask that you respect his privacy.” He cleared his throat. “Next question, please.”
It took everything in me not to scream at the television. Respect my privacy? Wyatt had practically handed my identity to them on a platter and begged them to dig deeper.
Michael’s eyes cut to me. “Did you know about this?”
Did I know your political hero sucks dick like a champ? That he likes it rough? That he needs to dominate his partners. Yes. Yes. And yes.Did I know he was going to tell the world he was queer? Not even a little bit.Did I know he was planning to run for President this cycle? Absolutely not.
“No.”
He adjusted his glasses. “I have a hard time believing he never mentioned it, or that you weren’t somehow involved in this.” He pointed in the general direction of the TV.
I released my grip on the chair I’d been white-knuckling and nudged it under the table. “Hastings and I aren’t as close as we once were,” I said, turning to leave. I didn’t owe him any more explanation than that.
Back in my office, I yanked my coat from the rack. The fabric caught on a hook, and I jerked it free with enough force to make the stand wobble.
Before I could shrug into it, David appeared in my doorway again.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” I grabbed my bag off the shelf next to the coat stand, knocking a few books to the floor. I kicked one of them into the corner with a muttered curse.
“Sebastian.”
I turned to him, my expression no doubt pleading. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. Just ... I’m here if you want to talk.”
I didn’twantto talk, but I felt like maybe I had to. I was pulling apart at the seams, frustration and anger and rage leaking out of me. I wanted to be with Taylor right now, but he was at the arena, preparing for tonight’s game against Boston.
David was my next best option.
My desk creaked as I perched on it, the edge digging into the back of my thighs. The hallway was empty behind David, but this wasn't a conversation I wanted anyone to overhear.
“Close the door.”
David slipped inside and clicked it shut behind him.
“Wyatt showed up drunk at my apartment last week.”
I could instantly tell that wasn’t what he had expected me to say by the way his mouth literally dropped open, his eyes going wide. He looked like a cartoon depiction of a surprised person.
“What happened?”
My fingers trembled as I raked them through my hair. “I was sitting there enjoying my evening for once when, bam, there he was banging down my door.”
“Isn’t that place supposed to be secure?”
David sank onto the couch, his elbows pressed into the top of his thighs, his fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin.
