36. Kurt

It's mid-January, and I've been busy with the campaign in advance of the primary. Practicing for the debate. Cold-calling voters. Canvassing neighborhoods. Going to fundraising dinners.

Despite all my efforts, I'm falling farther behind in the polls, which feeds the part of me that thinks I should concede. Maybe Santangelo's not that bad—and even if he is, it's up to the voters if they want to keep him. I don't need to single-handedly solve all the world's problems. I have enough to do, taking care of Johnny and myself. If I drop out of the race, I can follow up with Sam's partners about the nonprofit they started. See if that's more up my alley.

But then I'll see a news story about some state making a law that belongs in the eighteenth century, and I'll be invigorated again.

Johnny taking over in the bedroom is helping clear my mind. I love that there's one area of my life where I don't have to think. And he seems to be enjoying the dynamic. So at least both of us are winning somewhere.

I'm standing at a lectern in a Los Angeles hotel under hot spotlights. There's a small in-person audience and multiple cameras trained on the proceedings.

The Democratic field started out larger, but it's now down to just Santangelo and me. Guess everyone else was smarter than I am, knowing the incumbent will be hard to beat.

But I'm going to see this through.

"We're here today with Herb Santangelo and Kurt Delmont, contenders in this year's Senate race," the moderator says from behind his desk. "This is an opportunity for the public to get to know the candidates before the primary the first week of March. This debate will be a modified town hall style. We've selected questions from audience members, and I will relay them to the candidates. Answers will be timed, and each side has a total of thirty minutes. Shall we begin?"

I straighten my spine, trying to look more intimidating—or at least confident—than I feel. Because this isn't my thing. I like debating issues, sure, but not as a performance. I like it to be real.

This isn't going to be real at all. The layers of makeup I'm wearing tell me that.

Johnny sits off to the side, but in my sight line, wearing a western-style suit and a bolo tie, his white hat in his lap. Whispers broke out when he walked in. Now he gives me a small smile as the bright lights make sweat bead up on my hairline.

"The first question comes from Lori in Camarillo: ‘What are you going to do about the traffic on the 101?'" The moderator chuckles. "Quite a Southern California question. Mr. Delmont?"

I hadn't planned on answering questions about traffic. I figured it was a given, like the weather.

"Traffic and Los Angeles have gone hand in hand for decades," I say, trying to come up with something. "The traffic engineers are working on the issue, and I trust them. But I do think that better public transit will help ease congestion and get people to where they need to go."

"Thank you," the moderator says. "Mr. Santangelo?"

"My opponent wants to take away your cars," Santangelo begins, and I seethe. Because no, I fucking don't want to take away anyone's car. But this is politics. Take what a person says and twist it to rile people up. Aim for the jugular.

I can't help it. I roll my eyes. I know I'm not supposed to react to his pettiness, but I can't let the audience think I agree with what he's saying.

I glance at Johnny, who gives me a supportive thumbs-up.

More questions are asked, and I answer them as best as I can. Santangelo takes a few potshots, including pointing out that my "adult entertainer" husband is here.

It's time for me to publicly stick up for Johnny. "My husband is well-versed in the issues affecting the citizens of this state, and he brings common-sense support to my life. I couldn't ask for a better partner."

Johnny beams, and that unreserved smile makes this entire circus worth it.

While Santangelo gets in more digs wherever he can, it feels like the audience is actually listening to me when I speak. Or maybe they're simply being polite, I don't know. At any rate, I make it through each question without needing to change my shorts, and I figure that's a win.

"What is your number one goal should you be elected—or reelected?" the moderator asks.

"I will continue my efforts on the Energy and National Resources Committee to ensure Californians have access to affordable fuel to power their vehicles. I will also work with my colleagues across the aisle to rein in the excesses of extremists within our parties," Santangelo says with a pointed look at me, and I almost roll my eyes again. Because that's just code for supporting oil companies and opposing progress on civil rights. As he blathers on, it's hard for me to believe we're in the same political party.

When it's my turn, I say, "I have a three-part plan to ensure that every American has the rights that are basic to society and won't get hit in the pocketbook." I talk briefly about ensuring basic rights, enhancing access to health care, and improving education. It's a miracle, but I manage to get out all my talking points within the allotted time.

After the moderator wraps things up, I hurry to the green room, and Johnny's there. He opens his arms and enfolds me in a hug. "Great job, darlin'. You sounded so confident, and you made a lot of points that will resonate with the voters."

"I hope so," I say.

When we get home, though, I've seen the exit polls, and I'm grumpy.

"Why the fuck don't people want to protect civil rights?" I grouse, kicking off my shoes and yanking at my tie. Lady whines from her crate, and I smile at her. "We'll let you out in a second, girl." Then I turn back to Johnny. "Why do they buy into all that traditional bullshit? It's just doublespeak for oppressing minorities and fucking over the poor."

"People do a lot of things because they're scared or sad," Johnny says. "They don't think through the issues the way you have. And we don't all value the same things. All I know is you did good up there." He sets his beat-up boots by the front door next to my shiny shoes, which sums us up perfectly.

"I should've prepared more. Wowed them. Attacked him. Made it so everyone watching knew that I was the only possible candidate. That they'd be fools to vote for anyone other than me."

Johnny pulls me to him by the waist and kisses me so deep it takes my breath away. I relax into him immediately, loving the taste of him, the warm, wet intimacy of his tongue in my mouth. "I was really proud of you, precious," he whispers when we break apart.

"Thank you. I just wish things were different. I want to make them different. Better." He holds me as I go back to bitching at him about American voters and the political process.

When I wind down, he grins at me, raising an eyebrow. "You done?"

I nod.

"Darlin', you need to remember that you gotta take people for who they are, not who they ought to be," my brilliant husband says, then kisses me again.

I sigh. "I know. It's hard, when I want so badly to improve things. I'm sorry I'm being a grouch to you. You don't deserve it."

"You can be a sourpuss. I can take it."

"Thanks." I want to crawl into him. He's just so comforting—this solid guy. His mental state has been fragile, but physically, he's a powerhouse. I can lean on him. "You act like I'm something special," I blurt.

"I should hope so, because you are. Don't you feel it when we're together?"

I do, but I still have lingering doubts, because I've seen how he is on camera. And I'm cranky, so my fears come spilling out. "Am I? Because it seems like you're like this with everyone." I wave my hand and huff. "You call them all darlin' or precious or baby."

Johnny shakes his head. "Darlin', yes. Baby, maybe. But you're the only person I've ever called precious."

My knees give way, and he catches me. "I am?"

"You are." He kisses me again. "Don't you realize …" He steps back and scrubs a hand down his face. "I wish I had better words to tell you how much you've done for me."

"It's my parents' money?—"

"I don't mean the money. Or rather, that's part of it, sure—and I'll pay you back?—"

"I don't want you to?—"

"Stop. This is getting all messed up." His eyes drill into me, intent. "What I'm saying is that you had the strength and presence of mind to save me from myself, even when you knew I'd be ornery about it."

"You weren't that ornery."

"Dammit, Kurt, let me talk. You saved me—and my mama, and maybe my baby sister, too—but that's not why you're precious to me. You're precious because of your big ol' heart. You're precious because you have this inner goodness. Because you're burrowing in here." He puts his hand over his chest. "It has nothing to do with your money or how goddamn handsome you are and all to do with who you are inside."

"Who is that?" I whisper.

"Someone incredible."

I try to let that sink in for a minute. Try to believe it the way I want him to believe he's important and worthwhile and, yes, precious. "Is there some way I can get you to stop trying to pay me back?" I ask, because talking about all the compliments he just gave me is more than I can handle. "Any way at all?"

"If there's a way you can understand how much you mean to me." He pauses. "Also, stop worrying about the election. Whether you wanna quit tonight or take it all the way, no matter what, I'll support you. If you win, good. If you don't, fine. We'll find you another meaningful job."

"Thanks." I grin at him. "Now I know what you mean about words being inadequate."

He nods and kisses me again. "Let me take Lady out for a walk. Then I'll show you how hot you were when you were advocating up on that stage."

He does as he promises, devouring me in our bed, and I love every minute.