by J D Wade
Then the screen went black. There was no fade out and music like his usual videos. Just a blunt sign off. I would have stared at the screen and got lost in my thoughts about what the fuck had happened to make a fairly reasonable—though smart-mouthed person—create such a video to send out to their millions of followers. It was obviously the rantings of a damaged person who didn’t care if they were committing career suicide. Of course, there was also the wine to blame—not just his mental state at the time. YouTube started to load the next video in the series, so I closed Chrome and slowly lowered the laptop lid. Timothy was still spinning lazily and rubbing his belly, but he was now looking over at me.
“We obviously can’t let people know that you’re the Crisis Manager on my campaign.” I chuckled nervously.
He laughed lazily.
“Why didn’t I know about this?” I asked. “Did Marty?”
“She knew about that.” Timothy jabbed a finger at the laptop. “I think that’s why she hired me. I assume, anyway.”
“Why would she think you’d be a good Crisis Manager if you create them?” I asked. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
“But, again, why?”
“The fallout from that video lasted less than forty-eight hours.” He shrugged and pulled himself up to sit properly in his chair. “People were pissed—rightfully so, I guess. I lost a tenth of my followers, and—”
“Only a tenth?”
“—and I was all the rage on Twitter for a day. I trended at number one. Beat that, Nathan.”
I chuckled.
“Do you want to see the video that fixed it?” He asked. “I can tell you the episode number.”
“It’s not sixty-eight?”
“Sixty-nine.” He grinned. “Add some humor to your apology if you can. Sixty-eight was a video I took of a raccoon in a trashcan hissing at the garbage men trying to empty it.”
“So, you took a pause?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I gave everything forty-eight hours to settle down.”
“I don’t want to watch episode sixty-nine. Maybe the raccoon video later, but tell me how you apologized and what caused you to make episode sixty-seven to begin with.”
“My boyfriend dumped me because I wouldn’t choose him over Tuniverse. He said I spent too much time working and not enough time making his life as wonderful as he wanted it to be. He depended on me for his happiness. Just like my viewers. They all want more from me than I could ever possibly give. So, I got drunk, then thought about texting my boyfriend. I didn’t want to seem weak to him, so I was rude to my followers. Great choice, right?”
I cringed yet again.
“I’m human. I make mistakes.” He shrugged. “I may be famous in some circles, make decent money, and depend on other humans to like me to make money, but I’m not perfect. I didn’t even believe everything I said in episode sixty-seven. However, I do feel like my followers can be vapid and shallow—because I’m vapid and shallow. But they’re just looking for an escape from the day to day humdrum grind. I lashed out and hurt them because I was hurt. That’s the truth.”
“Okay.”
“In episode sixty-nine, that’s basically what I told them. I confessed what had happened with my boyfriend, how it had hurt me terribly, and that I used them to feel better about myself. I told them that being a Social Media Influencer and YouTuber can be vapid and shallow at times—we aren’t saving the planet or lives—so it can feel hollow. However, I promised them that moving forward, I would still be the fun-loving, exciting, hilarious Timmy they all know. Still, I was going to start injecting some realness into my brand. I closed the video with an apology, told them I appreciated every one of them that followed me, and that I would do better. For myself and for them. That was it.”
“You want me to just tell the truth?” I asked. “About my own mistake?”
“Was it a mistake?”
“No.”
“Who will the truth hurt?”
“Possibly my ex-wife.” I sighed.
“Talk to her.”
“Marty told me not to.”
“Marty Goldman isn’t going to lose a thing if you lose the nomination,” Timothy said. “Except for her pride and track record. She’ll be on a new campaign or working for some other politician the very next day. I know her type. She probably already has five other jobs line up just in case.”
I produced an amused snort.
“You have her number.”
“Marketing.” Timothy tapped an index finger to his temple with a smile. “I know people.”
“Yeah? Why do you think I married a woman?”
“Not sure.” He squinted at me. “But I don’t think you were confused about your sexuality.”
“You do know people then.”
“Why’d you marry a woman?”
“We were high school best friends. Then college best friends. She knew I was gay from almost the moment we met, so I never deceived her, first of all.”
“I believe you,” He said.
“A few years after college, she was working for a company that didn’t have decent insurance, developed breast cancer.” I sighed. “Getting married meant I could immediately put her on my insurance. So, I did. She got better insurance that wouldn’t financially bankrupt her, got treated, became cancer-free, it was a good deal. Then we had the marriage annulled due to fraud. This was all less than a year’s worth of our lives. We told the judge she had promised to carry a child for me so I could be a father—but she had decided against it. It was the only way to get an annulment instead of a divorce. It’s not even a scandal. It wouldn’t have been anything if I had just disclosed it. Of course, I would have had to come up with a story about why I married a woman if I am gay, but that would have been easier than looking like I was trying to deceive the American people.”
“I see. And why do you want to be president?”
“Because I love my country. But right now, it’s a shithole due to our current administration. I want to make it better. I believe in America, and I believe in the American people.”
“Then maybe you should give them a chance to believe in you.”
“Give me a break.” I flopped back in my chair, exasperated. “I can’t get on a debate stage and tell that story when a moderator or Ledbetter lays into me. Though, who knows who will get to it first.”
“Why not?”
“What we did was unethical!”
“But it’s not illegal. That’s gray area ethics at best,” Timothy said. “Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll find you a thousand people in this country who have done the same thing.”
“But—”
“Let a woman die, or marry her so that she can legally obtain insurance? Do something that is both legal and within the rules set by a country that doesn’t have universal healthcare? I don’t know, Nate. Sounds like what you did was above board, ethics-wise.”
“Don’t call me Nate.”
“Only other choice was to let her bankrupt herself and live, or bankrupt herself and quite possibly die.” Timothy ignored me. “Where are the ethics in that?”
“I get your point, but—”
“You’re paying me money—not enough, but it’s still money—”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars, apparently,” I grumbled. “And that’s a lot of money to almost everyone in this country.”
“—and I suggest you tell the truth. Otherwise, you really will have an ethical issue.”
“What?” I sighed. “Just release a statement outlining my relationship with my ex-wife, how we met, why we got married, why it was annulled? All of it?”
“Yup,” He said. “All of it. You might even pick up some new voters. People absolutely loathe insurance companies. They abhor cancer—I mean, everyone knows someone who has had it and/or died from it. They hate that our government doesn’t look out for the poorest and sickest. You might even be branded a hero.”
I laughed, though my gut was flip-flopping
.
“You want me to confess to playing the system? I mean, I’m running for president. I don’t want people to think that I’ll just play by my own rules, Timothy.”
“You played by the system’s rules,” Timothy said. “And you won. People love that shit. And you did it for the chance to save a friend’s life. No one is going to hate you unless they already did.”
He’s making a lot of sense.
Marty will hate the hell out of this.
“Okay,” I said.
“Good.” Timothy stood from his chair and turned towards the door. “Glad that’s all settled.”
“Wait.” I rose from my chair as well. “You’re leaving?”
“Just to my room for some sleep,” He said over his shoulder as he walked away. “Besides, you’ll need some privacy to call your ex-wife, right?”
“Annulled wife?” I joked.
“Sure.”
“Wait.” I rounded the table to stop him at the doors. “You’re not going to stay and help me with this?”
“Do you need my help talking to your annulled wife?” He asked. “Aren’t you still friends?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“You got this, Nate.”
“Why is episode sixty-seven still on Tuniverse? I mean, why haven’t you deleted your rant since it caused a scandal?”
“Because,” He said, “I did that. It’s the truth. Deleting it would be hiding the fact that I fucked up. It would be hiding the truth.”
I grumbled as he headed for the doors once again.
“Wait.”
“Good gods, what?”
“Do you think I did the right thing?” I asked though I wasn’t sure why I cared.
Timothy turned just enough so that he could look into my eyes as an odd smile crept to his lips. Those chocolatey brown eyes met mine, and my stomach was flip-flopping again, but for a different reason.
Oh, no.
“You’ve known me for just about twenty-four hours, Nathan.” The corner of his mouth turned upwards. “That’s a bad habit.”
“What?” I sputtered.
“Caring so much what strangers think.”
“If I’m president one day, I’ll have to care what nearly three-hundred and fifty-million people think. Most of them I won’t know.” I countered.
“You’ll have to care about what they think of your policies and leadership. Not what they think about you as a person.” He quipped. “But don’t worry, I believe in you.”
Then he was gone. I hadn’t thought of anything quickly enough to stop him. As I turned back to the meeting table, I could see the sky lightening up through the windows as my eyes scanned the room, finally landing on my cell phone.
Just call Justine.
Chapter 8
Timothy
A Little Fun Never Hurt Anyone
A few hours of sleep after ingesting massive amounts of fast food is always good for the soul, though never good for the gut. Of course, my gut wasn’t just upset because of all of the greasy fast food. It had been flip-flopping since before I had left the hotel to go to McDonald’s.
Fucking Nathan Reed.
Who knew?
Running into Nathan in the middle of the night at the vending machine, discreetly observed by Secret Service agents, I realized that I didn’t actually hate him. I didn’t even know him. His dark brown eyes and constant thoughtful expression, the gray peeking out at his temples, the way he could banter when prodded—he was intriguing. Bantering with him at the vending machine, getting to peek just a little bit at how he thought and who he was made him adorable. The fact that he liked to eat crap food when he couldn’t sleep at night, just like me, made him even more attractive. When I’d found out the nonissue—at least to me—behind his overblown scandal, I decided I actually liked the guy. Liking a guy who’s easy on the eyes is never good. At least, it’s not good when he is your boss. It’s especially not good when he’s your boss, and he’s in a crisis, and he’s running for President of the United States of America.
How many times have you been in that position, though, Timmy?
Seeing Nathan at the vending machine, immediately noticing how thoughtful he looked, I knew that he was in his own head about his scandal. Something inside of me decided to try and be nice and at least talk to the man. At the very least, I thought I could talk him down from whatever ledge he was standing on so that he could sleep easier. After the first few minutes of our interaction, I knew that I wanted to help him more if I could. So, I did everything I could to make him realize that I might actually have something to contribute to the management of his crisis.
After leaving Nathan in the meeting room to call his annulled wife, I fell into the king bed in my not suite and konked out for a few hours. After not sleeping through the night and eating so much greasy food, my body needed a few hours to recuperate. When I woke up a few hours later, and still well before lunchtime, I jumped in the shower. As I stood in the small bathroom, towel around my waist, and another running through my hair, I found myself thinking over the previous day. It had only been a day-and-a-half since Marty Goldman had shown up at my apartment. It had been just over a day since I’d first been informally introduced to Nathan Reed.
Now I would bleed to help this man handle his crisis.
Of course, I wasn’t going to lie to myself. Nathan Reed was pretty freaking hot. In an “almost old enough to be my father type of way.” Okay. Maybe he wasn’t that old, but he definitely had a few years on me. Looking into his dark eyes, seeing the earnestness etched across his face was enough to make a guy a little weak. Not just in the knees, either. That was the other thing that made me want to help Nathan. He was so damn earnest. I’m not incredibly smart politically and really can’t outline how one goes from being a normal person to becoming President of the United States, nor do I know how most of the government works. But I know it should work for the people. Nathan Reed at least truly believed that he was meant to serve the people. How could I not get behind a guy like that?
Or under him. Over him. To the side. Doesn’t matter.
I had to shake my head clear of those types of thoughts since I was half-naked and still a bit damp from the shower.
As I moved from the still steamy bathroom into the main part of the hotel room—which was comprised of everything a typical hotel room possessed—I couldn’t keep my thoughts off of Nathan freaking Reed. What was it about him?
Like any other average American from 2016 until present, I knew what was going on in America with our government, and particularly with our president. Trump was a cancer that had slowly begun metastasizing through our land. He represented privilege, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, xenophobia—everything evil a citizen could conjure up in their mind. But he didn’t just bring those cancers to America, he exposed them. He was like the orange-est, douchiest MRI scan that America could produce to show what comprised us. Pockets of the same sickness he possessed started popping up on the radar everywhere. Eventually, after a few years, most Americans began to wonder if maybe Trump wasn’t the real problem. Perhaps it was all of us. Trump was just a symptom. So, trusting anyone who wanted to run for president—or any political position—seemed futile.
Who was to say that the next person we had to vote for didn’t just hide their cancer a little bit better than Trump did?
When I looked into Nathan’s eyes, listened to him speak up close, I knew that he wasn’t just some power-hungry tool who wanted to be in the highest office of the land due to his own ego. I just knew that he truly felt he could do something amazing for the American people. Whether or not he could achieve the things he had in mind was unclear. But I knew that he had the American people in his heart and mind when he made decisions. He was the type of person who wouldn’t run for office unless he felt he could actually do something great with it. I didn’t need to believe he could achieve his goals to support him; I just needed to believe in him.
The fact that he wasn�
�t bad to look at didn’t hurt, either.
“Jesus Christ, Timothy,” I grumbled as I slumped onto my bed and grabbed my phone.
Of course, my Twitter, Instagram, and email notifications were lit up like a Christmas tree, but I knew better than to check most of those. All of those notifications had to do with Tuniverse, and it had only been about two days since I’d uploaded the video saying, “this is a pause on Tuniverse” to YouTube. I wasn’t ready to answer questions from followers or read rude comments from the haters. I just needed to focus on the task at hand. I’d been hired to be a Crisis Manager for Nathan Reed until Super Tuesday, so that was going to have my entire brain’s power—such as it was—for that period of time.
My text messages were full of messages from “friends” asking what was going on with me and why I’d “paused Tuniverse.” However, some were from family and friends, just checking in. Cheri had sent me a few messages that contained pictures of her trying on new clothes, wanting my profession (read: gay male) opinion. I’d been too busy traveling, working with Nathan, or sleeping, to have seen the messages when she sent them. I shot off a quick message to Cheri telling her all the clothes were cute, and would she please use her key to my apartment to feed Larry for a few weeks—no questions. When I went back home, I’d get my ass chewed for ducking out without an explanation, but Cheri would understand. Larry would be alive, also, which was important.
In addition to the messages from “friends,” friends, family, and Cheri—who was a combination of friend and family—I suddenly received a text message from an unknown number. When I opened it, I quickly ascertained that it was from Nathan. Marty must have provided my number to him. Then again, he had Secret Service watching over him, and he was running for president. There were probably a million ways for him to get my number. Before I read it, I quickly saved him to my contacts for future reference. When I got back to the message, it made me smile.
