7. Adrian

I hoped that maybe when I got to work, the anxiety I've been struggling with all morning might fade into the background noise ever-present in my brain. The calm that usually washes over me in the presence of animals is one of the reasons I pursued this career. But not even the sight of the clinic's cat Felix—curled up behind the keyboard at the computer I always clock in at—settles me. I just can't get over the feeling like something is going to go wrong.

It's not an unfamiliar feeling. Sudden feelings of impending doom—both unexplained or triggered by specific events—are pretty much the definition of an anxiety disorder. The body releases hormones that trigger a fight or flight response to a perceived threat. It happens with everyone—including animals. That response is what keeps us alive. It's just that with an anxiety disorder, those "threats" may not be perceived correctly or exist at all. My medication usually does a pretty good job at keeping the unexplained waves of panic at bay, but that doesn't completely prevent them. So while I don't usually wake up feeling like both of my cats are sitting on my chest when they aren't without any sort of logical trigger, it does happen every so often.

Except I didn't wake up with this anxiety. Actually, I woke up feeling pretty fantastic—surrounded by that floaty warmth that usually comes with a night of incredible sex—with Jamie's arm thrown across my back. Sure, there was a little awkwardness as he got ready to leave. He had a look on his face like he might ask to see me again, and I probably would have agreed if he'd voiced the question. It's been way too long since I had the kind of chemistry we had last night, and although I don't do true relationships, I'm not above having a friend with benefits.

But if I'm being honest with myself, my desire to see him again wasn't—isn't solely because of our physical compatibility. I liked him. He was charming. Even when he got nervous once we got back to my apartment, he had this intoxicating quality that drew me in. In the past, once I've gotten a guy home, the getting-to-know-you stuff kind of ended there. But Jamie was so endearing that I didn't even stop to listen to that little voice in the back of my head that usually tells me to pump the brakes—that voice that protects me from getting hurt.

No, this prickle on the back of my neck and the inability to draw in a full breath didn't hit until well after my morning run and shower to get ready for work. It almost feels like anticipation, like that feeling you get when someone texts you "we need to talk" without any explanation as to what about. Like that feeling I always got when my dad would come home from work with a somber look on his face that always accompanied the news that we'd be moving yet again. It's as though my body is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I try to go through my beginning of shift routine, anyway, in hopes that once I start working, that part of my brain will take over enough to drown out the screaming in my brain. I set my bag and coat in my cubby, then grab a clean lab coat from one of the hooks by the lab. Next in the routine is to go to the front to get my schedule for the day. But before I get to the door leading to the front desk, Sophie's frantic voice makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

"Adrian, thank God! Shit, sorry, didn't mean to startle you. But I need to talk to you, like, now."

My stomach sinks as I turn to face her. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Not here." She grabs my hand and pulls me toward an exam room. Once we're inside and the door is shut behind us, she whirls back around to look at me. "Have you been on social media at all today? Or read the news?"

"No, why?" I ask, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.

She lets out a sigh of relief. "Good, I got to you before you saw it."

About a dozen followup questions are on my tongue, but she keeps going before I can settle on one.

"Do you know who you were dancing with last night?"

The question makes the noise in my brain go quiet, and all I can do is shake my head.

"Okay, well, I don't really know how to break this to you, so I'm just gonna come out and say it. The guy you hooked up with last night is a congressman. His name is Jamie Montgomery. He's super smart and very active. I follow him on Instagram, actually, and honestly, I don't know how I didn't realize it was him last night. Like I thought he was familiar looking, but I guess it was dark, and—"

"Sophie," I interrupt, hoping it will remind her to get to the point faster.

"Sorry, rambling, I know. Okay, so he's pretty well known, despite this being his first term. And even though I didn't recognize him last night, someone at Lavender did and took photos—which like, total jerk move. There's a no photography policy for a reason. But also, even if there wasn't, don't take pictures of people in queer bars without their permission because you never know if it might be outing someone. Although, I guess that was the intent behind them seeing as the photos ended up in the hands of a reporter, and now they're all over the internet—which is why I came in early to try to find you."

Her words ring in my head. Congressman. Outing. Photos. Mystery man. It's that last one that makes it all sink in. "There are photos of me—of us?" I croak.

She bites her lip and nods. "You can't tell it's you, though. I only knew it was you because I was there. None of the photos get a direct view of your face, so unless any new photos pop-up that do get a clear shot of your face, you should be fine."

Oh God. For once, that feeling like something horrible is going to happen was right. This is the other shoe dropping. My chest tightens, my breathing shallows, and I immediately take a few steps toward the exam table to brace myself because I know what's next. I grip the cool metal, and it shocks my nervous system enough that it grounds me.

"Whoa, what's happening?" Sophie asks, rushing over to my side.

I don't answer her, instead focusing my gaze on my watch to watch the seconds tick by.

She rests a hand on my forearm and ducks trying to take a peek at my face. "Adrian, are you okay?"

I nod and suck in a ragged breath.

"Is this—are you having a panic attack?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and nod once. God I hate this. I've managed to go so long without actually having a panic attack, and now I'm having one in front of someone who's never seen me have one. Sophie is probably never going to look at me the same way again—most people don't, after seeing a grown man fall apart.

I hear her take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Do you want me to get you a chair?" she asks, her voice suddenly calm.

"No," I croak out. "I'll be okay. Just—" I take a slow breath, then let it out. "Just give me a minute."

"Do you want me to give you space?"

I shake my head immediately, and cover her hand on my forearm with my other hand before she can pull it away, surprising myself. Usually, I don't like being touched when I'm having a panic attack. The most I'm ever able to handle is Casey pressing his shoulder against mine to let me know he's there, riding it out with me. But Sophie is helping ground me, too, right now.

"Okay." She squeezes my arm.

Then, I focus on my breathing. Inhale, hold for a beat, then exhale. The voice of my old therapist rings in my ears, reminding me to count the breath cycles—a trick to slow the brain down as well as know how much time is passing. It only takes about ten for the worst to have passed. Then I release my grip on the table and Sophie and straighten.

"You good?" she asks, a gentle smile on her face.

I search her face for any signs of pity, but all that's there is patience and kindness. Slowly, I nod. "Sorry."

She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. "Don't you dare apologize for having a panic attack."

She reminds me remarkably of Casey in the moment, who says almost exactly that any time I try to apologize after an episode. So much so that I can't help cracking a small smile. "Okay. Thank you."

She nods, seemingly satisfied. "You're welcome. I'm going to guess and say that's not the first time that's happened," she says, her voice lilting at the end like it's a question.

"No, although it's been a while," I say, pausing before I just rip off the band-aid. "I got diagnosed with an anxiety disorder in college."

"Well, if I had known, I would have delivered the news a little more gently—maybe made sure you were sitting down or something," she says with a sheepish smile. "But thank you for telling me, and now I know for the future."

"I'm not sure sitting down would have changed anything," I say honestly.

"Yeah, that's fair." She hesitates for a moment, then circles her arms around my waist.

Exhaling softly, I hug her back, letting my chin rest on the top of her head.

"I'm going to go let the front know you're heading home sick so they can call in the on-call vet."

I open my mouth to protest, but she pulls back and gives me another stern look.

"And don't bother arguing. You just had a panic attack, and you're still shaking like a leaf. You're not in the best shape to deal with patients, right now." She holds my gaze for a long moment until I give up.

"Okay, fine. You're right," I say with a sigh.

"I know," she says cheerfully. "Go home, drink some tea, and cuddle a cat, okay? And stay off the internet."

I do not stay off the internet.

I know I should. Nothing good could come from seeing the kind of vitriol the social media is spewing right now. I'll admit that I do try to, for about an hour. But then, I get a message from someone on social media claiming to be Jamie's press secretary, and the anxiety and curiosity get the better of me. I need to at least see the article—see for myself just how visible my face is. I also need to shut up the part of my brain worrying that I accidentally slept with a Republican or otherwise terrible politician. I know I can believe Sophie, but with nothing else to distract me, I can't stop thinking about it. So after assuring his press secretary—Mina Harmon, who I recognize as the brunette Jamie was with last night—I had nothing to do with the photos getting out, promising that I have no intention to go to the press, and giving her my phone number in case she needs to contact me, I spend my afternoon delving deep into Jamie's political history.

At least until I get a text from Jamie asking if we could talk. Since we didn't exchange numbers, I assume he got it from his press secretary. I'm already on edge, so the vague "can we talk" text hits worse than it usually does. But I agree to see him, which is how he ends up at my apartment for the second day in a row.

When I open the door, the Jamie that greets me isn't the one I got to know last night. Nor is he the one in the pictures I spent the afternoon looking at. He's wearing the black peacoat from last night, but underneath is a UNC sweatshirt and a pair of gray joggers. His hair is a wild mess, like he's been running his hands through it all afternoon. There are bags under his eyes and his skin is pale. He looks almost sickly. Yet, despite the look that would probably be considered disheveled on anyone else, he's still devastatingly handsome. No wonder he's popular.

"Hi," he says, the exhaustion plain in his voice.

"Hi," I reply.

Our eyes meet, and it doesn't hold the same ease as last night. The tense silence stretches on for a few seconds too long before he rocks back on his heels and glances over my shoulder into my apartment.

"Sorry, come in." I mentally shake my head to clear it and step aside to let him pass. I gently close the door behind him and take a moment to breathe and center myself.

"Are you a shoes off house?"

I turn around to find him awkwardly standing with his coat in his hand, feet poised to slip off his tennis shoes.

"If you wouldn't mind," I say, then hold my hand out. "I can take your coat."

"Thanks. I don't mind at all." He hands off his coat then toes out of his shoes, neatly lining them up against the wall next to mine—a stark contrast to the way we both haphazardly kicked off our shoes and dropped our coats on the floor last night.

I hang his coat in the closet, then turn back to find him staring down at Joseph sniffing his shin with a hint of an amused smile.

"Which one is this, again?" he asks, crouching down slowly so as to not frighten the cat away.

"Joseph." Last night, sometime after we made it to the bedroom for round two, both Joseph and Molly had made their presence known. Molly bolted the moment Jamie tried to pet her, of course. But Joseph was a lot more accepting of attention, much like he's being right now.

After a few seconds of giving the attention seeker head scratches, he stands and shoves his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. "We should probably…"

I nod as he trails off, then gesture toward the dining room. While the couch would probably be the more comfortable choice, I won't be able to sit on it, him in arms reach, without flashing back to what we did on said couch not even twenty-four hours ago. Hopefully, the formality of the dining room will make whatever this conversation will be about easier. Jamie sits at the round glass dining room table, which is the only piece of furniture in the room other than my record player in the corner and is barely big enough for the four chairs around it. Anything bigger would just be a pain to move with.

"Can I get you anything to drink? I could make some tea," I offer, managing to remember my manners before sitting. I don't really entertain much, and the people I would have over are Casey and Sophie, who are over enough that they feel comfortable enough to rummage around in my kitchen themselves.

"Do you have anything with ginger?" he asks.

"I'll check." I head into the kitchen and first fill up the electric kettle before pulling down the nice wooden tea organizer I got in a secret Santa exchange at the clinic two years ago from the cabinet above it. I pull out a packet of passionflower tea for myself, which will hopefully calm some of my anxiety, then sort through my options. I find a few packets of ginger peach, so I poke my head back out into the dining room. "Is ginger peach alright?"

His head snaps up from where he was scrolling on his phone. "Yeah, that's perfect," he says with a small smile. "Thank you."

I nod then busy myself with making our tea. Thankfully, my kettle never takes too long, so it's only a couple of minutes before I'm heading back into the dining room with two matching black mugs. I set Jamie's in front of him, then settle into the chair across the table. For a long moment, the room is so silent I can almost hear the street despite being on the eleventh floor and my windows being surprisingly soundproof. But then, he breaks it.

"So—"

"Sorry, before you start," I blurt, glancing up from my tea. "Can I just say… I'm so sorry."

"Why? This isn't your fault." His hands tighten around his mug. "Right?"

My stomach clenches at the vulnerability in his question. When his press secretary found my LinkedIn and messaged me, I swore to her that I had nothing to do with this story. I assume she passed that along to him, but I don't blame him for asking himself. I would, too.

I shake my head. "I would never do that, I promise. I know my promise probably doesn't mean much since you don't know me, but I would never participate in something like this."

"No, it does. I believe you. I just had to ask," he says. His shoulders relax as he lets out a controlled breath. "Why are you apologizing, though? I came here to apologize to you. I'm in the media all the time. I opened myself up to this kind of stuff when I ran for office. But you—"

"Jamie, this is not the same as being seen at a charity fundraiser or being interviewed about your platform," I interrupt again. I try not to make a habit of interrupting people, especially practical strangers, but there's no way I'm going to sit here and let him think that he somehow deserves this. "You were outed. Being a congressman—even one as visible as you are—does not mean that's even remotely okay. It's despicable. I can't even imagine how you must be feeling right now. I mean, when I came out in high school, I was terrified, but I got to do it on my own terms. But you—that choice was taken from you."

A sad smile passes over his face. "No, I know. Although, to be honest, I don't really know how I'm feeling. There isn't exactly a guidebook for processing a bi-awakening at the same time as a political scandal."

Bi-awakening? Before last night, was he under the impression he was straight? Was last night the first time he was with a man? And now he's been outed almost immediately without any time to process.

God, so much of last night is suddenly starting to make sense. The nervousness, how tentative he was. I thought he was just naturally shy. But that's not the case, is it? I watched enough of his speeches earlier to know that he's the opposite. That's not to say that politicians or other public speakers can't be shy, but from what I saw, he seems to thrive in the spotlight. He glows under it—not unlike how he glowed under my praise last night.

No. I cannot think about that right now.

When I don't say anything, he swallows hard, pressing his knuckle to his sternum. "I know I probably should have said something before agreeing to go home with you. But we didn't really talk all that much, and I figured that since it was a one night stand that it wouldn't really matter. I wasn't using you, though. I've theoretically known I"m bi for a while now. I just never really field tested the theory."

"It's alright. You don't need to explain yourself," I say gently. "You weren't obligated to tell me anything except what you wanted to. And I didn't feel used, or anything—at least, not like that, anyway. Like you said, it was supposed to be a one night stand, and the basic foundation of those is two people consensually using each other for sex."

Pretty spectacular sex, at that, but I'm not going to admit that out loud.

He huffs out a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. "I never really thought about it like that, but yeah, you make a good point. And it was pretty great sex."

I smile slightly. "So your theory was confirmed, then?"

"Oh, yeah," he says with another laugh, this time more genuine. "Although, it was pretty much confirmed the moment you smiled at me from across the bar, if I'm being honest."

I feel my face heat, and I look down at my tea to cover it. Is he really flirting with me right now? "So, in your message, you said you needed to talk about the photos. Was it just to apologize, or was it something else?"

"It was something else." He takes a deep breath as if to steel himself. "My team has been on damage control all day trying to figure out what to do about this. I don't know if you've seen the photos—"

"I have."

"Okay, so then you know that there's really no way I can deny or spin any of this. Honestly, I'm not sure if I would want to anyway. It was always my intention to come out publicly at some point. Queer rights has always been a major part of my platform, and I've never been one to hide who I am. But I was going to wait until after the election. I didn't want it distracting from the issues. But now that it's out there, we thought it best to lean into it."

"So you're going to come out?" I ask.

"Yeah. Mina's already drafting a few options for Instagram captions," he says.

"Are you planning on addressing the photos?"

"That's kinda why I'm here."

My grip around my mug tightens as I brace myself for what could possibly come next.

"I want to preface this by saying that I completely understand that what we had was a one-time thing, and what I'm about to ask you is not my way of trying to, like, trick you into something more. Honestly, I don't really have time for anything more, anyway. I work close to eighteen-hour days sometimes when we're in session, and when we aren't, I'm back and forth between DC and my district in North Carolina. Plus, I'm up for re-election, so my campaign takes any free time I do have." He hesitates a moment, a quick look of nervousness passing over his face before it's replaced with one of determination.

"That being said, the optics of admitting that this was a one-night stand are not great. Voters tend to trust politicians who are in committed relationships over those who aren't. I haven't had a big problem being single, which is largely because I'm still young. But in the eyes of the public, a one-night stand makes me look non-committal and irresponsible. And that's not just a hypothetical. The frontrunner to be the Republican nominee for my district has already Tweeted out something to that effect, and people are agreeing."

Usually, I'm not an impatient person. But the longer he talks without getting to whatever it is he wants to ask me, the more my anxiety frays what's left of my composure. "Jamie, is there a question somewhere in here?" I ask, my voice coming out like a croak.

His face softens, and for a brief moment, it looks like he wants to reach his hand across the table to cover mine in some reassuring gesture. But he doesn't. "Sorry, darlin', I'm getting there."

My breath catches at the slip of the endearment, but thankfully he doesn't notice my reaction as he continues. Actually, he doesn't even seem to notice he said it, unlike the first time it slipped out last night.

"So, about half of the internet is saying exactly what you'd expect. But some people—actually a surprising amount of people, both supportive and homophobic—are under the impression that we're a couple, which is where my team's idea comes in. They think we should lean into the assumption."

Molly, with her impeccable timing, chooses that exact moment to jump up on the table. But my brain is too stuck on what Jamie said to bother with scolding her or even moving her. I just stare at him, dumbfounded. There's no way he's suggesting what I think he's suggesting, is there? "You mean…"

"They think, and I agree, that if when I come out, I frame last night as a night out with my boyfriend and my friends, that we have more of a possibility of saving my chances of at least making it past the primaries," he clarifies.

Okay, apparently he is. "Oh."

"Yeah," he says with a grimace. He swallows and presses his knuckles to his sternum again. "Look, I know this is weird, but please know I wouldn't be asking you this if I could see another way for me to potentially recover from this scandal. I don't know how closely you follow politics, and out-of-state politics at that, but North Carolina was redistricted."

I nod, remembering an article I saw a few weeks ago. "I read something about that. The potential new district lines are being contested due to gerrymandering, right?"

"Yeah, please don't get me started on that, or else we'll be here all night," he says through clenched teeth before taking a deep, relaxing breath. "Anyway, my district was chopped up, so now it's much more conservative leaning than it was before. I could have probably tried to run in one of the more liberal nearby districts, but there's no way I could stand a chance at making it past the primaries against their incumbents. Besides, Cary is my home. I was born there. My parents live there. And the frontrunner for the Republican nomination is everything you think of when you think ‘awful Republican.' He comes from old money and has been in politics longer than I've reliably been able to tie my own shoes. He's pro-gun, anti-abortion, and pro-family—which seems to be political code for ‘I want women to stay at home popping out children and baking pies like it's the fifties.' He also wants to bring North Carolina back to its traditional roots—which, again, seems to be code for ‘I'm homophobic and racist.'"

He glances down at where Molly is sprawled out on the table, then reaches out to scratch her head as his voice takes on an almost defeated tone. "My point is, I really can't afford to lose this election, not if I don't want to see the good I've managed to do in the past year go to complete waste. There's still so much change I want to make happen. There are so many things I want to get done—that I promised to get done—and I feel like I've barely made a dent."

He's so earnest that I can't help feeling a little moved. After everything I looked up about him and his platform earlier today and hearing him talk now, I'd definitely consider voting for him—if I could, that is. And the vulnerability in his voice and on his face almost has me reaching across the table to take his hand like he seemed to want to do a few moments ago.

"I know I probably have no right to be asking this, especially when we barely know each other and we were under the impression that we would never hear from each other again. And I will completely understand if you say no. Really. There would be no hard feelings."

He lifts his head and locks eyes with me, and it's almost too much. But I also can't look away.

"But if you would at least consider doing this, I would owe you big time. If there is anything you need or want in return, all you have to do is ask, and I'll do everything I can reasonably and ethically do to make it happen."

I should say no. He's giving me the out. I should take it. In fact, I open my mouth to do just that. But instead, what comes out is, "Can I have some time to think about it?"

What the hell is this man doing to me?

His shoulders relax, and he lets out a sigh. "Of course. Thank you," he says in a rush. "I can give you the evening to sleep on it. I wish I could give you longer, but if you decide to say no—which, again, I would not blame you for at all—I need to give my staff time to come up with another plan for damage control."

The evening is not nearly enough time to fully process everything that's happened today, at least without the assistance of a therapist. But I haven't had one of those in three years since I moved back to DC after finishing vet school, relying on my psychiatrist for my prescriptions. I understand why he needs an answer as soon as possible, though, and tell him as much.

He nods. "Thank you. Well, I'll get out of your hair. But seriously, Adrian—" This time, he does reach across the table and take my hand.

My breath catches as his eyes bore into mine again, but I swallow past it.

"Thank you. I know you haven't agreed yet, but the fact that you even willingly heard me out—you've been so kind and understanding. It means a lot, especially since today has, objectively, probably been the worst day of my life since my bunny died when I was in high school. So, truly, thank you."

"I really am so sorry this is happening to you," I say, getting a sad smile in return. We sit for a moment longer, then I clear my throat and move to stand, breaking the physical contact. "I'll get your coat and see you out."

He nods, then stands to follow. As I head to the coat closet, I hear the clink of the mug in my sink. When I turn back, his coat in hand, I find him bending to slip on his shoes.

"I guess I'll text you my decision," I say after an awkward beat of silence. I have no idea how I'm supposed to say goodbye to him right now. Last time I saw him out my door, the goodbye had consisted of a surprisingly filthy kiss for it being as early as it was. Now that hardly seems appropriate, even if he just asked me to fake date him.

He nods and takes the coat from my outstretched hand. "That would be great, thanks."

There's another awkward silence, like I'm not the only one who doesn't know what to do here. His mouth opens, but then he closes it again and shakes his head, clearly deciding against whatever he was about to say. Normally, that alone would kick my anxiety up a notch, but I think I've maxed out today.

Mentally shaking myself to try to get it together, I lean past him to open the door.

He shrugs on his coat and steps into the hall. "Have a good night."

"You too."