Chapter 48 Standing Up in the Deep End
Chapter 48
Standing Up in the Deep End
Brandon
“You don’t have to do this”, Dad says, as he gets mic’d up. “I love you for it,but I can stand by myself up there. You’re my kid. I don’t feel right about putting you in the firing line”.
Lighting in the Senator’s chambers is questionable at the best of times, but I look the part, and oddly enough, I feel the part too. There are lots of different parts of me that are worth embracing. Being a member of my family is one of them.
“I’ll be firing line-adjacent”, I reassure him. His tie is lopsided, and I straighten it. “Besides, the good townspeople have been deprived of my presence for a couple of years now”.
“They’re not so much good townspeople as they are bloodthirsty reporters but sure, make this all about you”. He’s got the same grin as me, I realise, catching sight of it in the mirror. “Don’t count on too many friendly faces out there”.
When my dad had surprised me at Summit, we had gone for a walk and had a long talk. A really long talk. Mostly he had apologised. Over and over. I didn’t let him off the hook, but we did agree to start again.
Plus, he gave me the money to cover the rest of Volchok’s medical bills. Dmitry and I are never going to be friends, but I’ll sleep better with my conscience off the hook. Hopefully he will too.
“Parker will be there”.
“Did he say he was coming?”
“Nope”, I toss him a grin, “He doesn’t have to”.
“I’m happy for you, kiddo”, he pulls me into a bear hug. When we break apart, there’s a look of apprehension etched over his face. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell you. Before it breaks online. It’s about your mother and I”.
Oh God. One thing that my dad and I haven’t yet discussed is my relationship with my mother. I’m in no rush to open that door. “We’re getting divorced”.
There’s a whooshing noise in my ear. My dad’s been hopelessly in love with my mom since they were teenagers. No matter how badly she treated him. “Are you okay?” he peers at me anxiously, “I didn’t mean to drop it on you. I just don’t know what they’re going to say out there”.
“When”, I find myself asking, “Did you find out?”
“Oh, it was me who filed, actually”. When I don’t respond, he continues. “I know your relationship with your mother is complicated. Are you upset?”
I shake my head, and he presses his forehead to mine, just like when I was a little kid. “Really?”
“I’m kind of proud. I think it’s best for both of you. For all of us, actually”. His face breaks in relief, before a brief knock on his office door gives way to an aide poking his head around. “They’re ready for you, Senator”.
* * * *
“With a heart filled with gratitude, I hereby confirm that I will not be seeking re-election to the United States Senate”. My dad pauses as cameras flash, and I give him an encouraging nod. “I’m happy to take your questions, and who knows, now that I’m leaving, I might even answer one of them without pivoting to my education plan”.
There’s a brief ripple of amusement amongst the press pool, most of whom I’ve known since I was a little kid.
I’m on stage behind the podium, in the position that my mother used to hold. There’s maybe 20 reporters and half a dozen cameras crammed into three rows of hastily assembled seats. I’ve been here what feels like a hundred times before; wedged stoically between my parents with a plastic smile and wave, with my mother’s hand gripping my shoulder.
A familiar wave of anxiety ripples through me. I clear my throat, forcing my feet into the ground within my shoes. Not long to go now, then it’s all over. The reporters begin to call out questions.
“Have you had any thoughts on endorsing a successor?”
My dad handles the questions easily, knocking back standard soundbites that are feverishly scribbled in notepads. In the second row, two people lower their hands, and my heart skips a beat. Richard Crawley sits silently in the back. The whiteness of the camera lights suddenly feels brighter.
“You recently parted ways with your Chief of Staff, Winston Deville. Where does your relationship stand with Winston today?”
“Just good friends, Jen”. A couple of chuckles. My dad pauses. I can tell he wants to say more, but to do so would potentially reveal the real reason for his firing, and that would put me in harm’s way.
Crawley leans forward, tapping his pen thoughtfully against his top lip. His eyes light on me, and I resist the urge to loosen my tie.
Dad wouldn’t tell me what had happened after he’d confronted Winston, but my guess is that it wasn’t good. I don’t think that I’ll ever understand his reasons for trying to keep my dad and I apart. All my dad would say was that power, or proximity to it, changes people. Not for the better.
The only thing Winston admitted to was paying Volchok for the pictures, but he wouldn’t name the reporter. It’s not hard to guess.
It’s the same red-faced blowhard who’s sat smirking fifteen feet away.
A decade’s worth of fear and loathing catches in my throat. Looking at him now, it’s hard to see what caused it. The door to the lobby opens quietly, and a familiar figure in a black zip up hoodie slips inside. My breathing starts to return to normal.
“Any reason why your wife isn’t with you?”
“None that I’d share with you, Jamie”. More laughter. I zone out as my dad launches into an answer about healthcare affordability.
“One for Brandon?” My stomach flips. I catch eyes with Parker, who lowers his hood.
“My son’s not here to take questions”.
Normally I’d agree. Normally I’d run for the hills. Except it’s not just any journalist. It’s Crawley. The stony look on Parker’s face tells me that he recognises him too. There’s silence in the room. It’s been over ten years.
The monster under the bed now wants to talk.
Before I know it, I’ve stepped forward.
“It’s okay, Dad”. I take his place at the podium, “Mr. Crawley. It’s been a long time”.
“Is it true that you were instrumental in the decision to fire Winston Deville?” A gasp goes up. Parker sits up straighter in his seat. “As of a result of his involvement in a plot to reveal personal information about you to the electorate to win your father votes?”
I can’t move. I had nothing to do with it. But it doesn’t matter. This is how it’s done. Even before he’s finishing speaking, cogs start whirling in the other journalist’s heads. What secret information? Does Brandon have a drug problem? Did he get someone pregnant? Right then, the twelve-year-old version of myself pushes himself to the forefront of my mind.
Do not , he demands, let him do this to you again .
I lean into the mic, “The fact that I’m gay isn’t a secret, sir”.
That took the wind out of his sails. The world turns inside out, then back again.
By the time it does, Crawley’s back on the attack. “I think your father’s constituents would disagree. As would most of the press who’ve been covering your family for the last several years. I think they’d probably feel like you’ve been lying to them”.
“Why would I lie to a bunch of reporters, of all people?” I see Parker chuckle, and he’s not the only one. Crawley snorts in annoyance.
“I think it’s only right that people know the full truth about their politicians”.
Something unsheathes inside me. “You think it’s important that my dad’s constituents knows whether his kid is a member of the LGBT community or not?”
“Your father’s constituents deserve the full story, Brandon”.
“And what about the person telling that story?” My eyes narrow. “Does the public have a right to know about the morals of the person they’re trusting to deliver the news?”
“I’m not the story here. No journalist is”, Crawley gestures to his colleagues, most of whom avoid making eye contact. “And I think you’re a smart enough kid to realise that, aren’t you, Brandon?”
My dad takes a step forward, but I cut in quickly, “It’s funny, you keep saying Brandon in such a way that implies we’re friends. Do you remember when we first met?”
“I’d imagine it was at one of your family’s press events”.
“How old would you say that I was?”
“Seventeen, perhaps”.
“Fourteen”.
“Okay, fourteen”, Crawley shrugs. “I don’t see how it matters”.
“And do you remember how old I was when you got me alone?” There’s a stunned silence. A few people lean in. “Because I remember”.
“What? I didn’t—this is outrageous!” Crawley spits, “I’ve never been involved in anything like that”.
“Like what?” I ask, injecting just the right tone of bewilderment into my voice.
“Like being alone with a minor!”
“I didn’t say it was sexual. Your mind went there, not mine”. I take a deep breath. “But I was a minor when you found me after school, surrounded me, and asked intrusive and invasive questions about my parent’s marriage”.
He colours. “I don’t remember that”.
“I was a little boy. In my school, where I should have been safe. And you found me. And you waited for me. And you shoved your camera in my face. And I told you to stop, and you kept doing it”.
“It was national news”.
“It was when you ran it under an exclusive the following day”. I suck in air sharply. “What the hell kind of person does that?”
“Brandon, I don’t think you understand…”
“No, you don’t understand”. I cut him off cleanly, “You’ve had a target on me for years. You've followed me. Told lies about me. Published crappy supposed tell-all books that read like they’re written by a sixth grader, apologies to your ghost writer— about my family. You've paid for pictures of me. All just to get my attention. Congratulations”. I gesture to the cameras, and he blinks, as if noticing them for the first time. “You now have it. What are you going to do with it?”
“You’re obviously upset”, Crawley holds his hands up, “This is a difficult day for you”.
“No, it’s a difficult day for you . And once this airs, it’ll probably get worse”, I raise my voice a little, just to make sure everyone can hear me. “You’re a journalist. You have every right to hold public figures accountable. But you also have a responsibility to your readers. To set a standard. And as much as you have levelled accusations at my mother, my father, and me, for the last decade, you’re just as bad, if not worse”.
“Why don’t we talk about this privately?”
“I’ve waited ten years to say this to you. Stay the hell away from me, my family, and the people I care about”. I pause, letting my voice resound firmly. Parker gives me a ‘killing it’ fist pump. “Or I’ll do to you to what you’ve done to me. You understand?”
He nods, red and chastened.
“Call off the dogs”. I lean forward and fix him with a hard stare. “Hunting season on my family is officially over”.
Crawley turns a funny shade of purple, before gathering his papers and storming out. His assistant pulls at his sleeve, but he waves her off. A moment later, he is gone, the door slamming decisively behind him.
I lean forward on the podium. “I hope you guys got all got that. A few break out into smiles. “Great. It’s been a blast”, I wave, “See you around”.
“One final question, Brandon?” It’s Corey Bellinger, a reporter in his late twenties. He’s got a hungry look in his eye. My heart sinks. I guess I had this coming. I opened the door. Now I’m going to get the Brad Fleming treatment. “If you think you can top that, Corey, go right ahead”.
“I’ll try my best. Everyone wants to know”, Corey pauses. There’s an expectant hush in the room. “Are you heading back to the Wolves next semester, and if so, how do you rate your chances in the league?”
I wait for the ripples of laughter, but it never comes. A couple of people have leant forward. Everyone’s waiting for my response. A question about soccer. I just came out, and they want to ask me about soccer.
Huh. Who knew. It won’t always be this easy. I know that. But maybe it won’t be as hard as I thought either.
“Brandon”. My dad smiles gently, “They’re waiting for your answer”.
I look across the room and clear my throat. “You bet I am”, I direct my response straight at the cameras. “And we’re going to win”.