22. Kurt

After just one night in the hospital, Johnny seems more relaxed. There's less tension at the corners of his eyes, and he's smiling more. They told me what I could send for him to wear, which was mainly sweats with no strings, and while he should look sloppy in them, this is Velvet the Cowboy we're talking about. Even in plain gray sweats and a white T-shirt and looking ill at ease, he's still beautiful.

"They're trying some medication," he says. "It's supposed to take a while to kick in and get the dosage right, but we'll see how that goes. I'm also learning about codependency and childhood trauma. Tips on mental health."

"That's great," I say. "I mean, I'm not glad that you're having to go through all that, but I am glad that you're getting help."

"Yeah. I'm still numb, but … kind of hopeful. Sometimes. Like, I ain't better yet, but there's the possibility of improvement. And that possibility's everything."

"I'm so glad to hear that." I hold his hand.

"They gave me something for anxiety, too. I felt that right away. The nurse scared me about it—telling me not to take it too much, but the doctor said he thought it'd be fine."

"What do you think?"

"It made me feel … not happy, precisely, but it kept me from feeling bad for the first time in a very long time. Not bad is a massive improvement."

"Excellent." I lean over and kiss him again. "I miss you. I mean, not right now, when I'm here. But when I was home. From the minute I left you here yesterday."

He tilts his head. "Really?"

I nod.

"I miss you, too, precious."

My cheeks heat, but I need to confess something. "What would you think about … What would you think if I watched one … or some … of your videos while you're here? Too creepy? You know I'm a fan. I'm proud of you. I've always liked the way you present yourself in them. And it … it makes me feel closer to you. Even before we met, I've never thought of you as an object on the screen, but just … hot."

Johnny gives me a rare unreserved smile. "I think I'd be honored."

"Phew," I say. "Because I watched a favorite one last night." That makes him chuckle, and given how depressed he's been, that chuckle seems like a full-on belly laugh.

"You do what you need to do to make yourself feel good until I get outta here and I can act out those scenes for you in person. Sound good?"

"Yes." The promise in his voice makes me tremble. "I don't want to force you, though. If you're not feeling it, you don't have to, well, perform on my account."

He shrugs. "I can still take care of you."

"You don't have to."

"What if I want to?"

I smile. "Then I'll accept whatever you want to give."

"And I'll not mind a bit if you need to get your hot self off." He closes his eyes. "Now that's a pretty thought."

My face flushes more, and I kiss him to make him quiet.

I visit again the next day, and we talk about how Johnny had some time with a therapist one-on-one and that he's been trying to be as open as possible, but it's hard. I'm so curious, but I don't want to push him to tell me more than he wants to. I'm here to support him any way I can, but I'm not his doctor. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

"What have you been doing?" he asks me.

"Ugh, so much. Fundraising. Doing mailers. Coordinating volunteers. Prepping for the pre-primary debate—that's a big one. It'll be televised. And while I think most people ignore those, since I'm now notorious, I suspect there's going to be more interest than usual, so I need to be ready."

"Notorious? You mean because of … us?"

I nod. "It's … a media shitstorm. The conservative press has latched onto the story and is using it against the entire party." My cheeks heat. "We were in a lot of other people's selfies in Vegas, so we're popping up all over the place." I sigh.

"What?"

"I don't wanna pile shit on you when you're busy getting better."

"I'd rather hear the truth," Johnny says. "Keeps me from making up stuff."

"Well … Santangelo—the incumbent—is using you against me. I hate that society thinks that way."

He shakes his head. "I'm used to it. Maybe it's weird, but I was never ashamed of being in porn." He grins ruefully. "I'm ashamed of plenty of other stuff, but not that. Don't let it bother your pretty head."

"I'm trying not to. But it's hard, because the criticism's everywhere. You'd think that, with both of us in the same political party, Santangelo wouldn't be so harsh … but nope. I guess it's fair, since I'm challenging him, but it still feels crappy. Maybe I'll get him in the debate."

"How are you feeling about that?"

"Disillusioned. I can talk passionately about issues for days, and I've worked with my campaign strategist and Paige on the talking points, so I have them down by heart. We practice with them lobbing questions at me on a variety of topics." I sigh. "But I'm so far behind in the polls that I don't think there's any chance of winning."

"This coming from the optimist?" he says.

"Yeah. This coming from the optimist. I have to try, though."

"You don't, actually. I'll support you in whatever you want, but Mama says there's no shame in quitting if the deck is stacked against you."

"She sounds smart."

"I think her actual words were ‘You can warm your socks in the oven, but that don't make 'em biscuits.'"

I snort. "How did you get ‘There's no shame in quitting' from that?"

"Some things just ain't what you want, no matter how much you wish they were," Johnny says.

"Wow. Isn't that the truth?"

"But I don't mean to discourage you. Is there some way I can help?"

"You just focus on getting better," I say. "That's your only job right now. Promise me you'll stay alive until I see you again?"

He nods. "Yeah, all right. I promise. And if you need to post something about us, you have my permission to say whatever you need to that will help your career."

My throat grows thick. "While I'm grateful for that, I care more about helping you get better."

"You're already doin' that. And thank you." He gives me another look. "You sure divorcing me won't help your campaign?"

I shake my head. "I have no idea, but I don't care anymore what people think about it. And my mom's election is still two years away. I don't want to divorce you. Do you wanna divorce me?"

"No," he says quietly. "I don't."

I'm sitting in my campaign headquarters, which is a nondescript office space in the San Fernando Valley, with Paige. She's an energetic twenty-nine-year-old who interned for my mother and worked on several other campaigns before becoming my campaign manager. But she's still grouchy at me for going off script with Johnny.

"Should I post something about the wedding on Ad/VICE?" I ask. "Or other social media? The hubbub's not going away."

"Yes, we need to talk about that." She stares at the ceiling and seems to mutter a prayer. "The way I see it, you have several choices of how to respond—not react, respond. Let's evaluate which one works best. First, there's always the no-action alternative."

"Meaning no comment?" I shift in my seat. "I kind of like the no-action alternative. It's none of their fucking business, and I like being married to Johnny. Let's leave it at that."

She raises an eyebrow. "The advantage of saying nothing is that you imply it doesn't matter. The disadvantage is that you don't get to make the narrative go the way you want it to."

"Okay. And I assume you want to control the narrative."

"I always want to do that. So if we throw out the no-action alternative, the question is what kind of public statement you want to make. Are you acknowledging the marriage? Saying that you're getting a divorce or annulment?"

"No divorce. No annulment. He and I agreed."

"Okay, I thought we were evaluating alternatives, not rejecting them out of hand, but this is your campaign."

"We're evaluating alternatives for what we say. Not alternatives for what I do. I'm not leaving Johnny, so you need to give me possible statements that work in that reality."

"Fine," she says unconvincingly. "Then your statement should be along the lines of you're pleased to announce your surprise wedding to John Haskell, and that you were dating a long time but decided to formalize the relationship recently."

That makes my stomach dip in a really unpleasant way. "I don't want to lie, either. I was required to lie about Sam for years. And I don't like playing into the idea that a relationship isn't legitimate if we haven't been together a long time."

She stares at me. "You don't make my job easy."

"You're good at your job. You don't need easy," I say. "Can't we just keep it simple?"

"What, like, ‘The Kurt Delmont campaign congratulates Mr. Delmont on his marriage to John Haskell last weekend. Mr. Delmont is looking forward to a long life of happiness with his new husband'?"

Her words make warmth and happiness bloom in my chest. "Yeah," I say huskily. "That works for me."

Paige puts her face in her hands for a few seconds, then sits up with a sharp breath. "Okay, then let's not waste any more time." She pulls up my official account, then pauses. "Do you have any photos of you two where you don't look wasted?"

I roll my eyes and forward her the email from the wedding chapel.

She scrolls through the images. "Good lord, you did indulge last weekend, didn't you?"

"No comment."

"Ah. The no-action alternative." She smirks. "Well, if I crop the photo to show your rings and use a black-and-white filter, that should class it up."

"Thanks," I say dryly. "I'm glad you can make me classy."

"You know what I mean." With a few taps on her phone, she sets up a post and then holds it out for me to review.

I have to admit I'm impressed. By focusing on our hands, she's made what could be construed as a drunken mistake look like something with way more dignity and romance. A lump forms in my throat. I nod. "Post it."

Paige's finger hovers over the button. "Done." She smiles. "Now let's work on the rest of your campaign."

On his third full day of inpatient care, Johnny tells me, "A lot of shit has come up. Will you come with me to one of my sessions with Christian after I'm out of here, so I can tell you both at once? I've already had to tell the story too many times to the lawyers, and it's … hard. For me."

I really want to know what he's talking about—now, not sometime in the future—but I won't press. I don't want to make things more difficult for him. Besides, it sounds like this is something private, and we're surrounded by other patients visiting with their loved ones. "Of course. Anything you need."

"Thanks."

"I know you've been asked a lot, but how's your mental state? I was pretty shocked when you told Dr. Gray how much you think about suicide."

"Yeah, that's not goin' down that much. Maybe a little bit. The meds help. It's like those bumper things at the bowling alley—they keep me from falling into the gutter."

"They don't stop the thoughts entirely?"

"Nope." He scrubs his face. "It's hard to explain how shitty it is to be plagued with a recording in my brain that tells me, over and over and over again, to kill myself. That the world'll be better off. Mama'll be better off. That I'll show them, and they'll all be sorry."

"What do you mean they'll be sorry? Sorry for what?"

"Hell if I know. Maybe that they pushed me to this. That they're bad people."

"Who are bad people?"

"I'm talkin' about shit with my lawsuit again. And it's all a mess inside my head—suicidal thoughts, thoughts that I guess are just depression, I dunno what else. I dunno if it's from my childhood or from more recent shit. I just …" He holds up his hands helplessly. "I don't have it all figured out."

"You don't have to," I say.

"I keep repeating to myself, ‘the only way out is through.'"

"Is that helping?"

"Definitely." Johnny's eyes look a little red, and he leans closer. "Can we talk 'bout somethin' other than me, please? I'm getting a little tired of that topic."

"Sure, babe. Anything you like."

"Then, how's the campaign going?"

"Paige posted this press release." I hold out my phone. "Hope that's okay. Sorry for doing it without asking."

Johnny stares at the black-and-white image for a while. Paige had disabled comments, but there are tens of thousands of likes.

He clears his throat, his cheeks pink. "It's mighty fine with me."

I smile at him, lean over, and kiss him.

When we left Vegas, I thought I had to fix Johnny. I don't feel that way anymore. It's more like he's simply someone I'm dating, who I care about a whole lot.

But does he see me like that? Or am I imagining things that don't exist?

He's starting to look healthy. I hadn't realized how defeated and wan he was before, since that's the only way I knew him. Now, though, he's got rosy cheeks and his eyes are brighter, even though he has a few days' worth of stubble. He's more animated, and he mentions wanting to get a part-time job so he'll have something to do once he's out of here. We start brainstorming possibilities that won't bore him to tears.

"You like working with horses, right?" I ask.

Johnny nods.

"Then let's see if we can get you work on one of the ranches in Hidden Valley. That's not far from our house." I look at him. "I guess I'm making assumptions, and I shouldn't do that. But I have some friends who have horses, and I can ask them if they know anyone who's hiring a ranch hand or someone to help with riding lessons. Do you want that?"

"That'd be mighty kind of you," Johnny says.

When I call, I'm delighted to find out that they do have a need for him whenever he wants to start. Excellent.

The next day, though, Johnny's still in bed when I arrive, and it's the middle of the afternoon. When he gets up, his posture's sagging, his feet are shuffling, and he's got a vacant stare that worries me. I kiss him, but he seems utterly listless.

This is part of his illness. The part he doesn't show anyone. The part where he withdraws.

I try starting a conversation about something unimportant, a TV show I watched last night, but he's just not responsive.

Rather than force him to talk, I sit with him on a bench outside and watch the birds flit around and the deer amble on the main lawn. I hold his hand. At the end of visiting hours, he kisses me on the forehead and says, "Thanks, darlin'. Sorry I wasn't up to it."

I hug him tight, trying to will strength into him. "That's okay. I guess some days are going to be like this. I'm still here for you. Just please promise you'll still be here tomorrow."

His voice is dull, but he promises.

After five days of inpatient care, the hospital deems Johnny ready to be discharged. When I arrive to pick him up, he's waiting for me at the reception desk, holding four paper bags filled with the clothing and toiletries and books that I've brought him, and my eyes sting with tears. I'm so grateful I get to take him back home with me.

"Hey," I say, relieving him of two of the bags.

"Hey, darlin'." Johnny leans down and kisses me, and even though we've been kissing more and more, this kiss feels like a victory. He's not magically cured or anything, but he seems stable. For today, anyhow. That's a win. "Can we get these filled?" He hands me several prescription slips.

"Of course." I drive us to the nearest pharmacy.

He's going to have to go to outpatient care every day for a couple of weeks, then back to Dr. Gray. This is going to be a lot of work. But I have faith that he can feel better.

He's kept promising to stay alive for just one more day.

I'll still be watching out for him, of course. Besides, I want to keep him close to me for other reasons—as in, the fact that I like him. That I want to have a relationship with him.

He looks around the condo when we walk in, and his eyes catch on where I put his lifetime achievement award up on a prominent shelf in the living room. He swallows hard but doesn't say anything.

"Let me know if there's anything you need," I say. "Also, you can use the Volvo to go to the job interview. After that, we can get you a different car, if you'd rather, or a truck?—"

"Hold it, hold it," he says. "My tab is getting way too big."

"What tab?"

"I'm gonna pay you back for all this you've spent on me."

While I want to wave my hand and go "pfft," I know he wouldn't like that. Instead, I nod. "Okay. Just so you know my position, I don't care if you pay me back or not. But I can tell it matters to you. We can keep the spending low, so it's manageable. Right now, it's not much—an increase in my car insurance, a few deductibles, and the therapist until insurance picks it up. How does that sound?"

"It's more than that, but okay, yeah. Thanks. I 'preciate it."

Johnny has a pride streak a mile wide, I think, which is why he had to get so low before he asked for help.

In fact, he never actually did ask for help—but he accepted it, and that's what matters.

Johnny takes a shower and puts on some of the new clothes I got him. (Oops, I suppose he'll add that to his tab, too.) I cook some steaks and grilled veg. Alcohol might not mix with his meds, so I pour us tall glasses of seltzer rather than beer, and we eat dinner outside on the balcony, looking at the highway and the ocean.

This is all I've ever wanted. Someone to be with me.

"It may be too early to tell," I say, as we watch the sunset, "but do you think it was a good idea to check yourself in?"

"It was the best idea," Johnny says sincerely. "I didn't know how tangled up I'd gotten until I sat still for a moment and looked at the knots."

"I'm proud of you for going. It takes a lot to set aside all the shit and face your demons."

"Pretty sure I haven't even started to face my demons," he says. "But I do think I'm headed in that direction."

"Looking forward to the next step?"

He shrugs. "Kinda? It's scary, too. I'm not sure what to think."

"I have faith in you," I say. "I know you can do it. And I'll stand next to you and slay whatever demons I can."

We fall into bed in each other's arms, but we're both exhausted. Before I even have a chance to think about asking to do anything, Johnny's snoring quietly behind me, one big hand on my waist.

I love having him home with me.

I grin into my pillow and fall asleep.