30. Johnny

I'm tired and raw.

I'm at therapy by myself. Kurt's gone to his campaign headquarters, because I told him I didn't need him here.

That was a mistake. I thought I was on a high from feeling so close to him. Feeling like I was understood.

But it's all crashing down. Seems I'm not out of the woods yet. My brain ain't all the way untangled.

The problems started when Christian asked, "When you went to visit your mom last weekend, did you tell her that you'd planned to kill yourself?"

A violin shrieks in my head.

I cough and look out the window, then decide I'm being a coward and face my therapist. "No."

"Why is that?"

Because no matter how hard I try, I'm not good.

"I don't want to talk about that with her. It's dark. Bad."

"So you don't want to hurt her."

"Yeah, that's part of it. And … I still feel fragile. I hate saying it that way. But I don't feel totally right every day, all day."

She smiles. "Not many of us do."

We look at each other.

"Y'all want me to tell my mama, don't you?"

"I think that she might have something to say about it. And sometimes the things we don't want to hear are the most important ones."

I nod. "Yeah, okay. I guess. But can you tell me what's going on? Was it the rape that got me all fucked in the head? Or was it my childhood? Am I codependent, or depressed? What the fuck is going on, excuse my French."

Christian studies me. "I'd say it's all of that, although I wouldn't use the term ‘fucked in the head.' I think you have a history of needing to care for a parent and facing financial uncertainty, both during some formative years. You couldn't control what was happening then, and in response, you've put all your energy into controlling the world around you. Give yourself credit for the big responsibilities you handled. Are handling, rather. Your mother is truly sick, has a chronic illness, and you've helped her immensely. But you went too far when you considered suicide as a solution. You'd spent most of your life doing the best you could under tough circumstances, but then after the assault, you got off track. That feeling of control was taken away. You couldn't help your mother the way you wanted to, and your personal world, the privacy of your body and your sense of strength, wasn't safe anymore. You also had some chemical imbalances, likely, with lower dopamine and serotonin levels. A few other things going on, too, I imagine."

Just hearing her list out all those problems is overwhelming. "Can I ever be fixed?"

"In some ways, yes. With proper treatment and care, suicidal thoughts will lessen, depressive mood will improve, you can feel healthy more of the time. But mental health can fluctuate, just like physical health—and like physical health, after a serious illness, you need to monitor it even more closely. It can be steady for a while but then get off track, and we need to bring it back around."

"Kurt says the only way out is through."

"Then this is more of that ‘through'," she says.

"I havta say, ‘through' sucks."

She chuckles. "Give yourself credit for showing up to do the work."

The following Saturday, Kurt asks, "Want to go have lunch with my folks this afternoon? They're in town, and they want to meet you."

That's kinda intimidating. The lieutenant governor of the great state of California wants to meet … Velvet the Cowboy, porn star? I've gotta be brave, though, so fine. I nod and ask, "How much time does your mom spend in Sacramento?"

"A lot. She's down here seasonally—when the legislature isn't in session, and during vacations, and so on."

"How does that work for your dad?"

"He can work anywhere. Usually, he's where she is." He smiles. "They have a good marriage. I think you'll like them."

"Okay, then. Let's meet your folks." I look down at my jeans and western shirt. "Should I put on something else?"

Kurt smiles and shakes his head. "Nope. I think you should be exactly who you are at all times. I don't want you to change anything for her whatsoever."

"If that's what you want," I say, but I'm still nervous.

We drive to his parents' house, which is in Brentwood, and it's immediately apparent yet again that Kurt comes from a different world than me. The half-timbered house is like something from a fairy tale, with gates and luscious lawns. Flowers. Fountains. It's decorated for Christmas in a very restrained style.

Aww heck, I really don't belong here. I get this itchy feeling all over my skin, and the violins—which had been generally tending more toward quiet—start up again with a loud, discordant symphony.

"This isn't my childhood home," Kurt says as he turns off the car and reads my face. "You know that, right?"

I shake my head.

Kurt squeezes my hand firmly and looks into my eyes. "I'll give you a tour of the old neighborhood sometime, okay? It's not at all like this. You and I aren't that different."

I look at him dubiously but choose not to argue.

"What does your dad do?" I ask.

"Computer shit that I don't understand. Hence the early investment in Amazon. Mom was a marketer. Between hard work and a lot of good luck, they really hit the jackpot."

We walk up to the large, ornate front door, where his mom greets us. It's apparent that Kurt gets his coloring from her—she's got the same kind brown eyes.

Those eyes alight on me, and either she's an astonishingly good actress, or she doesn't actually mind having a porn star for a son-in-law. I think it's the former, but I can deal with that.

"Hello, ma'am. Pleasure to meet y'all," I say, holding out my hand.

Melissa Delmont smiles warmly and shakes my hand, her grip somewhere between businesslike and friendly. "Johnny. Welcome. And welcome to the family. It's nice to meet you."

I'm watching her carefully, looking for any sense of insincerity, but I suppose that ain't giving her a proper chance. Still, I think she suggested Kurt should get our marriage annulled, so maybe I'm not out of whack. But I guess she's decided to embrace me—politically speaking, of course.

Kurt's dad, Ron, also greets us. He sizes me up more coolly, but he's not rude at all and shakes my hand firmly. I think he's just reserving judgment, which I can completely understand.

Melissa has us all come into the kitchen, where trays of cold cuts and cheeses, various types of bread and condiments, and bowls of salad are set out. It's way more low-key than I was expecting. I'd been worried about which fork to use. But this is almost like a picnic or a cookout. In fact, it's the way my mama used to set out food for the hands when I was young.

I immediately feel more at home. We get drinks, fill our plates, and sit down at the kitchen table.

"I know you've worked in the adult industry," Melissa says, not beating around the bush. "That's not a constituency that I come in contact with all that often, so I hope you'll forgive me if I take the opportunity to gather some information. I'm wondering if there are any reforms that we should be looking into. Anything to keep the performers or other people involved safe?"

I'm floored. I'd have been content with polite tolerance. Instead, she's asking how she can help?

I swallow.

"Well, ma'am, I think the laws that are in place are pretty good. The problem is the people who don't follow them. So I think it's more of an enforcement thing rather than a legislative thing. Maybe there could be some stricter penalties for people who don't follow the rules."

She pulls out her phone and—Lord bless her—starts taking notes.

Kurt is looking at her as if this is totally normal behavior. It may be for her, but it's sure enough not what I was expecting.

"Don't you feel uncomfortable talking to me?" I blurt out.

She gives me a patient look. "No, Johnny. I'm not uncomfortable. You're a person, and you're someone my son is apparently quite taken with. While your relationship is less than ideal for his image—for him to get married out of the blue, and, yes, to a sex worker—I think we need to have less shame around issues of sexuality and intimacy. I can't say that in public too loudly, because I'd be stoned. But pretending that people don't have sex has caused a lot more problems than accepting the fact that they do and making how they do it safer for everyone." She closes her eyes. "I don't need any specifics on my son's bedroom activities, mind you. That's a line I'm never going to cross. But I'm happy to champion the rights of workers everywhere."

That sounded a little practiced, but I'm not going to be mad about it.

"And you, sir?" I say, addressing Ron.

He clears his throat, then looks me in the eye. "I'm wary about trusting anyone with my son, but I can tell that he cares for you very much. The bottom line is, I'll support Kurt in anything that's good for him. If that describes you, then I'm happy to have you in the family."

"I'll be good for him," I say, and it sounds like more of a vow than our wedding vows—which, admittedly, I don't remember. I reach out to Kurt and hold his hand. "I'll take care of your son. I promise."

Kurt snorts. "I don't need taking care of?—"

"We all do," I say.

I think my honesty gets to him, because he nods and puts his hand over mine. "Yeah, okay. I understand."

"How is your mother doing, Johnny?" Melissa asks. "I'm told she has kidney issues."

"Insurance denied her coverage for a transplant, which meant she got taken off the donor match list even if we could find the money to pay for it ourselves. Neither me nor my sister are matches. Guess there's some kind of treatment you can do to let someone donate anyway, but it means the risk of rejection is higher, and I want her to have the best chance."

"I'm not a match, either," Kurt says. He tells her Mama's blood type.

"Well, I wonder if I am. That's my type," Melissa says.

That floors me again. "What? Why?" I start. "You don't know her?—"

"I'm told that donating a kidney can help you to live longer," she says with a half smile that I recognize, because I've seen it on Kurt's face. "Let me talk with her and her doctors."

Kurt's looking at her, his eyes wide. But they're soft, too.

"I'll take any help we can get, ma'am," I say.

She nods. "You're family now, Johnny."

I don't know what to make of that statement. When my mama said it about Kurt, it felt normal. When the lieutenant governor says it—in the context of potentially donating an organ—it's extraordinary. But I'm sure not going to complain.

After we finish eating, Kurt takes me upstairs to his old bedroom. It's packed with art.

"Do you really think your mother would donate a kidney?"

He nods. "She's pretty determined. If it can be done safely, I'm sure she will." He stares hard at me. "No black market shit."

"I wasn't gonna do something where they, like, stole a kidney. It was just more … people who needed to sell an organ for some reason. It's not legal here, but I figured my mom could fly somewhere else for the surgery. But your mama's giving me hope." I clear my throat. "It doesn't always feel right to have hope."

"Maybe not, but remember you're talking with an optimist. We're going to make things better for your mom, one way or another."

He goes to move on, but I reach out and grab his elbow, looking him in the eye. "Thank you." I try to let him know how much it means in those two words, but it's hard.

I think he gets it, though. "You're welcome, babe." He kisses me, and I kiss him back but pull away before we get too hot and heavy for his parents' home.

"We gotta get you to do more art," I say, gesturing to the colorful paintings everywhere. "It's obvious it's part of you."

"I know." He sighs. "I don't think I've created anything original since I gave Sam one of my paintings and Jules ended up using it on an album cover."

"That's super cool."

Kurt smiles, but it's a little sad. "I've just been so busy with work … and my mom's campaigns … and then my own campaign."

"And me," I supply. "But let's see if you can make some time to do this. You're talented. If it's something you like doing, then you should do more of it."

"I'll try to find some time for it, then. Thanks." Kurt rubs his face. "Can I confess something?"

"Always."

"I'm thinking about quitting the race."

I raise an eyebrow. "You are? That's not just jitters ahead of the debate?"

"That might be part of it. But I'm also wondering …" He sighs. "I'm wondering if I'm really cut out for this. Campaigning, and even legislating, seems so far removed from the action. I want to be helping people. And spending my time asking for money or making speeches seems like the opposite of that."

"You'll get there, darlin'. But you know I've got your back, whatever you decide to do."

I just hope quittin' the race doesn't mean he's quittin' me. He says he won't. But can I count on that?