11. Kurt

Igaze out at the muted earth tones of the western Nevada desert as Johnny and I drive toward the state line. He's changed the radio station to some kind of twangy vintage country music, which normally I wouldn't listen to, but I'm finding myself lulled by it. It suits him. It also gives me space to think.

"I should've expected all the commotion," I mutter. "I've been to plenty of press events. I've smiled for the cameras hundreds of times. So why did this get to me?"

"Maybe because it felt more personal?"

He's put his hat in the back seat, and his hair is mussed. I want to reach out and touch it. It's distracting me from the encounter with the paparazzi.

Flashbulbs. Questions. Intrusive questions. "Yeah. It triggered me. But I don't know why."

"Because you didn't have a ready answer?"

"That's probably it." Although it could be because it felt like I've been found out.

Now the whole world has had a glimpse into my sexual preferences, even if Johnny and I haven't done anything, because people will draw conclusions from my marrying a porn star.While, as a gay man, I've somewhat defined my identity based on sexuality—and that's not a thing that American society tends to view with a high degree of positivity—it's another thing to announce that I adore gay porn. Which is what it felt like to pop up out of nowhere married to a major star.

We pass a billboard for an adult store.

Maybe that panicky feeling was shame.

Shame is the opposite of pride.

Given all the therapy I've been through, I've had plenty of practice at reducing my thoughts and feelings down to the lowest denominator. And that is always some common theme—usually shame. Enoughness is a big one, too: that I'm not enough or haven't done enough. Like with Andrei.

I chew on my lip as I watch the barren landscape, dotted only with the occasional over-the-top casino in the middle of nowhere and a ton of billboard advertising.

I'd thought I'd gotten over any feelings of shame about my sexuality. When I came out, my momther sent me to a therapist not—she said—because there was anything wrong with me, but because she thought I might want to talk with someone.

But maybe I thought there was something wrong with me. Maybe I still do. And maybe I should be a little more patient with Johnny and how he doesn't want to see a therapist. Although I think I've talked him into it.

Still—there's shame around mental health, too. I imagine he's got a lot going on inside his head, if it's anything like what's going on inside my head: a jumble of too much to handle. I realized a long time ago that I need professional help to keep that jumble from getting too overwhelming.

My phone pings, and I see it's an email from the wedding chapel. They've attached our wedding photos. More evidence that Johnny and I are really married. The certificate is one thing, and the rings another. But photos?

I click through them, and boy, I look overserved. I'm also gazing adoringly at Johnny.

My heart beats rapidly as I view the images, but I also feel a sense of weightlessness and lightness I haven't felt in a while. Am I actually happy about this, despite all the reasons it's a mistake?

"What's your email?" I ask.

Johnny cocks his head. "Why? Y'all have somethin' you can't tell me right now?"

"Ha ha. I wanted to send you our wedding photos."

"Oh, that's … hmm. Okay." He gives me his email address, and I forward them, then make my favorite one my phone wallpaper. We're standing at the altar in the cheesy chapel holding hands and staring into each other's eyes. I don't remember the moment at all, but we look like we're completely …

Completely in love.

We weren't. Aren't. I know that. But the picture makes me happy anyway.

After that, I put my phone down. I need to search for therapists for Johnny, but this is a long drive, so I have plenty of time.

I go back to staring out the window at the monotonous desert and yawn. Last night's the first time I've slept well in a while, and that was only because I was too drunk and tired to do anything but pass out. Now, though, my brain's starting to get overloaded again.

My phone buzzes, and of course, it's my momther. I decline the call, but a text comes through immediately.

Momther

Do you have something to tell us?

I'm a grown man and don't have to ask my parents for permission to live my life. I can do what I want.

None of that goes from my brain to my texting app. Instead, I decide to get it over with.

Kurt

If you saw a story online about me, it's true. Yes, I got very drunk and married Johnny Haskell in Vegas. I'm driving with him now, so I can't talk. I'll call you when I get back home.

Momther

Oh my god, honey. Who is this man? How long have you been dating him? How come you never brought him around to meet us?

Or did you keep him secret from us because of his occupation? I like to think we're more open-minded than that.

Although I do think Santangelo is going to use it against you.

Kurt

He will. The wedding wasn't planned.

Momther

If it's a mistake, you can see if you can get it annulled.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Johnny glances over at me, then returns his focus to the road.

"My mom found out about our marriage," I say. "Figures."

He gives me a wary look. "How's she taking it?"

"I'm reading it as she doesn't know if she should be supportive or if the best thing is for her to recommend that we get an annulment."

"We still could do that," he says, but my stomach sinks.

"No," I say. "I don't think that's the right way to go."

"How come?"

I'm not sure if I can articulate why I don't want an annulment, but I give it a shot. "The reason to annul a marriage is so that it's a … well, a nullity. Like it didn't happen. But word's gotten out, and people know that it happened." I wave my phone at Johnny. "So what's the point of pretending it didn't? I'll look even more volatile and untrustworthy if I do that."

"Perhaps you've got somethin' there," Johnny says.

"I think it's better if we stay married for a while—until the election, I guess. Then after that, we can quietly get a divorce."

My stomach aches as I say the words, and I realize that I don't think I want a divorce. Not right away, and not after the election, either.

Also, I hate the pained look on Johnny's face as I tell him I don't want him in my life permanently.

He swallows. "Makes sense."

But I have to look at this logically: My impulsive wedding to Johnny throws a big wrench into my plans. I decided to become a politician so I could do something great for society. I was going to devote myself to the cause.

Marrying Johnny was about the worst thing I could do in terms of my chances at the ballot box. And my brain starts spinning as I think about all the implications of our marriage and how they will affect the election.

I need a break from my own head.

That brain escape is part of the reason why I like my graphic design job. Even though most of the time I'm designing junk mail, I can get into the flow of fussing with kerning—the spacing between letters—or something like that, and I stop worrying about my life. Everything just falls away.

Which is how I felt last night with Johnny. All I cared about was being with him. I didn't think about the election once, and I don't think it was only because I was drinking.

I glance over at him. He's wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans with a thick belt, his big biceps naturally bulging as he drives. Fuck, he's sexy.

But he's also misguided. I'm so upset that he thought that ending his life was a good idea. And for what? To buy his mom a black market kidney? He didn't say that, but I don't know how else she'd jump a donor line. Are there places that arrange organ donations for the right price?

I don't know the character of Johnny's mental issues, or whatever it is that's making him act this way, and I don't want to trigger him. I probably should be careful with my words around him.

Except I also want to say what's on my mind. I clear my throat.

"What's up, precious?" Johnny says.

"You said we should be honest with each other."

"I think that's a good idea. Don't you?"

"Sure." I do my best to say my next words as gently as possible. "But then we have to talk about some tough stuff."

My attempt at a soft touch doesn't totally work, since Johnny seems to need to steel himself before eventually saying, "Fine."

"If you did kill yourself, don't you think that would hurt your mom more than the disease she's suffering from now?"

I watch Johnny bite his lower lip. "She can't die, though."

"Babe, everyone dies. That's a fact of life. And mostly, unless there's some kind of accident or other tragedy, parents die before their kids do." Maybe it shouldn't be so easy for me to call him babe, but every time I look at him, I get a rush of warm affection.

"Shucks. That's harsh."

"You don't have to like it, but it's true. It's the natural order of things."

"I don't feel like it's natural for her to have a body that don't work."

"Has she struggled a long time?"

"She's been sick since I was a kid. Got diagnosed when I was eleven."

Maybe I shouldn't press, but that hasn't stopped me yet. "What was your childhood like?"

He sighs. "Like I told ya, I grew up on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, Texas, where my folks worked. That's where I learned to take care of horses, rope cattle, all that. When I was fourteen, my mama couldn't work there no more. Owners kept her on as long as they could, but eventually, they had to let her go. They were gonna sell the ranch to some developers anyway. Times were tough all around. The ranch foreman had a friend with a line on some work she could do at a packing house in Fresno, so we headed out. Drove west. Lived in her car for months. I was in school and doing the best I could to scrounge up a few dollars here and there. But my baby sister plays the violin like a virtuoso—she started with the fiddle back in Texas. In Fresno, if you're a street musician, there ain't no subway to play in, like in New York City, say, so she'd just go stand in front of an auto parts store in a strip mall, pull out her beat-up amp and her too-small electric violin, and put up a cardboard sign that asked for help for our mama—for rent, food, medicine."

My heart seizes at the image.

"She'd play ‘All of Me' or some Disney princess song, but this haunting violin version. People would stop to see her. Young girl, not yet a teenager. Brown hair parted down the middle." He gets a wistful smile. "But she was a violin prodigy. She still plays for fun, but most of the time, she's managing a Taco Bell."

"Why didn't she stick with the violin as a career?"

"Stuff like that costs money. Lessons, private schools, I don't even know." He sighs. "Anyway, she'd play, and we'd be able to get some food or whatever. I did whatever jobs I could, but I ain't very good at reading or writing." He pauses. "I just have a little trouble reading fast, that's all. When I turned eighteen, I left so Mama wouldn't have to pay for me no more. I figured I'd go make some money in Los Angeles and send money to them, since the jobs in Fresno sucked. I walked into town, and a porn producer found me in a coffee shop. I coulda said no, of course, but"—he shrugs—"I like having sex. I said yes, because the money he offered was more than I could make at any other job I was likely to get. And I guess the rest is history. I'm not ashamed."

"So you've been doing porn since you were eighteen?"

He nods.

"How old are you now?" His date of birth was on our marriage certificate, but I didn't study it closely.

"Thirty-five. You?"

"Thirty-two."

We fall quiet for a while. Johnny drives in a sure, confident manner. And, unlike some of my friends who get all distracted when they drive, his eyes stay on the road, paying attention to the drivers around him. I like that. I exhale and settle more comfortably in my seat.

Holy fuck, the past day has been … unreal.

I burst out laughing.

"What is it, sugar?"

"It's all just hitting me. That I'm married to you. That I have to figure out a way to salvage my campaign. That we need to fix things for your mom. And you."

"You're a fixer, eh?" Johnny asks.

"Yeah."

"Well, good luck fixing me."

"I don't think you need to be fixed, exactly," I say. "More like help you to be a little healthier. You're not broken. You just have something going on that's got you off course."

That reminds me that I need to get things set up for when we get to LA. Right now, Johnny may look like he's functioning fine, but he had a plan in place to carry out his own death just a few hours ago. I can't let his charming demeanor make me forget that. He needs help.

I log into my job's employee site and download the benefit forms on my phone, and when we stop for gas and snacks, I ask Johnny to get our marriage certificate out of his bag so I can snap a photo of it to upload with the application. I'm glad he can get automatically enrolled right away even though it's Sunday. Next, I start searching for mental health treatment centers.

I'm sure the reason it's so important to me to help him is only partly about Andrei and partly about my longtime crush on Johnny, but whatever. I can have crushes. I am worried about what will happen when we ultimately have to disentangle ourselves, but it'll be fine.

I hope I'm not violating the honesty thing that we agreed on when I tell myself that.

"Johnny?" I ask. "I need some information so I can put you on my health insurance."

"Y'all don't have to?—"

I hold up a hand. "We talked about this: You need care. I can make it possible for you to get it. Please let me help. I think my work insurance will cover most of your treatment, and even if it doesn't, what do I have money for if it isn't to do the right thing? My parents invested in a little company named Amazon in the late nineties. They're set for life, and they created a trust fund for me. While I try not to dip into it too much, this seems like the perfect reason to."

Johnny's quiet for a moment. Then he tells me his birth date and other personal info, and I upload it to the benefits portal. I also enter his cell number in my phone, trying not to sigh audibly at having OMG Velvet the Cowboy's number. Instead, I keep searching for possible treatment options—I want him to get the best care. I make a tentative appointment with a therapist with great credentials whose online scheduling says she's available tomorrow and bookmark sites to discuss with Johnny when we get to my house.

I don't know why I care so much, given that I just met him. I feel like I know him to some degree, I suppose, having watched him on the screen. Maybe it's, again, that false sense of familiarity. I feel it with him the way others feel it with me and my momther and Sam and Jules.

But I also feel … possessive. He's my husband. I'm going to take care of him.

He's mine.

After I accomplish all those administrative tasks—which takes up quite a bit of the drive—I make the mistake of checking social media.

Herb Santangelo, our incumbent senator and my opponent, says on his social media account:

"Kurt Delmont wants people to think he's an upstanding, trustworthy candidate—but his drunken antics in Las Vegas aren't the kind of leadership California needs. Check the photos and decide for yourself. Vote Santangelo."

And from one of my mom's rivals:

"Melissa Delmont is now the mother-in-law of a GAY PORN STAR. Keep her out of the White House."

Shit.