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“So he’ll live, then.”
“Right.”
“Mark!” Eleanna scolds me, having no idea that we’re having an entire conversation in code. “I’m so sorry Rob, that’s terrible.”
“Very unfortunate, yes.” He pushes his glasses up his nose like the geeky sidekick in every movie ever made. “I’ve got to find a restroom, please excuse me.”
“Oh, the bathroom trailer is right there,” Eleanna points.
“I prefer to go inside.” He looks at me. “Inside and upstairs.” He gives a weird bow to Eleanna. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” she says back to him, looking confused and concerned. I move us along to other people. I don’t want her asking me about him, or observing us together any further. As soon as Robbie disappears, the face I’ve been searching for shows up in my line of sight. My heart stops. I spot another. They head toward the house.
“Alright,” I turn to Eleanna who is talking with my great aunt like they’re a couple of gal pals. I shake my head. “Please excuse us, Aunt Lorraine.” I pull Eleanna to the side by her unbelievably soft elbow. “In a bit, my parents will welcome everyone and say some words before the fireworks. That’s showtime for us. So meet me back there, if you want to, you know, go freshen up for all the photos.”
I gesture at her like she looks disgusting. She doesn’t. But I need her occupied so I can get inside. She nods and makes her way toward the double-wide trailers that my parents rented. Inside, they have a powder room and toilet stalls nicer than some people’s homes.
Once she’s a few paces away, I vanish into the shadows and make my escape.
CHAPTER 11
Eleanna
I’m right. I know it. There is a lot more to Mark White. He’s not as cold or detached as he claimed. He melted with his mother. He didn’t flinch when he kissed her cheek or when she touched his face.
And Robbie.
He loves that guy.
I don’t think he even realized he lit up like a sparkler all these kids here are running around with. He even reached out and grabbed him hard on the shoulder. Robbie grimaced like Mark’s grip was hurting him. His words were cold as they were talking but his intensity was like the surface of the sun.
There’s something else.
He’s literally the only man here in long sleeves and long pants. He’s drenched in sweat. The quick-dry fabric of his shirt has yet to get dry. The fabric clings to defined, bulging muscle. While I like being able to count his abs as I pretend to listen to some lobbyist, he must be miserable. I know men don’t care about sweat, but after I watched him scratch his arms and back a few times it hit me, I’ve never seen his arms. In all those millions of photos, even out running or rowing, he’s in long sleeves.
My mind bounces around the possibilities. Eczema, psoriasis, acne, scarring. I did take a closer look at his neck and hands and wrists, I saw nothing. One last very unlikely thought, tattoos? Could he be covered like a Made man under there? If so, why would he get full sleeves of tattoos knowing he’d have to cover them the rest of his political career? I doubt that one.
The skin problems could also line up with my theory that he hasn’t actually had a lot of sex. He stopped dead in his tracks at my red hair and he also glared at my back so severely I have almost-permanent goose bumps.
So, not asexual. But less experienced than I thought. Totally uncomfortable in his skin. Self-conscious about something. I have no idea how I’ll figure him out. I’ll just have to be patient.
I make my way to one of the fancy bathroom trailers. I choose one farther away because there wasn’t a line. The quiet is nice. And the air conditioning. As I’m finishing up my business,two women burst in.
“Did you see him?”
“Fucking hot as ever!”
“En español,cabrona, por si acaso.” In Spanish, bitch, just in case.
They continue in Spanish, probably assuming I’m a little old blue-haired senator’s wife. In tonight’s crowd, it’s a good guess. Plus, it’s amazing how many people in the US still don’t speak Spanish, so I can’t fault them for their idea. Intrigued, I wait in my stall and listen as they gush like school girls.
“He is always hot in his suits, but in that thin tee material? I am dead.”
“Deceased.”
“Didn’t he wear a full-on tux at that thing he took you to?
“The damn prairie dog lunch? No.”
