Chapter 13
Hank’s phone had become an instrument of torture.
He checked it compulsively—in the elevator, at his desk, during a subcommittee hearing on agricultural subsidies that he couldn’t have summarized if his life depended on it. Every vibration sent his heart lurching, and every time it wasn’t Chad, the disappointment carved a little deeper.
Five days. Five days of calls that went to voicemail, texts that showed as delivered but never read, a silence so complete it felt like erasure.
The morning routine continued. Google Home played Chopin. NPR murmured about trade negotiations. Coffee dripped into the pot. But the hope that had colored these rituals just weeks ago was gone. He moved through the motions without feeling them.
He kept seeing Chad’s face when the photograph loaded on his phone. That whispered Oh God. The way the warmth drained out of the room in an instant. They’d been tangled together on the couch, the concert still humming in his blood, and then—
Nothing. Chad had left the next morning, and Hank hadn’t heard from him since.
The walk to work felt different now. Hank still took his usual route—past the coffee shop on the corner, across the park, up Constitution Avenue—but he moved through it like a ghost. The October air had turned crisp, leaves scattering across the sidewalks in shades of amber and rust. He barely noticed.
He passed Clyde’s usual spot near the Hart Building. The older man was there, huddled in his army jacket, a cardboard cup of coffee steaming in his hands.
“Morning, Mr. Senator.”
Hank managed a smile. “How are you holding up, Clyde?”
“Can’t complain. That meeting you set up with Mr. Bathum—went real well. He says there might be something with the Park Service. Custodial work on the Mall.” Clyde’s eyes brightened. “Interview’s next week.”
“That’s wonderful news.” And it was—a genuine bright spot in a week that had felt relentlessly dark. “You’ll do great.”
“I appreciate you believing in me, sir.” Clyde paused, studying Hank’s face. “You doing okay? You look like you’re carrying something heavy.”
“Just a busy week,” Hank said. “I’m fine.”
Clyde nodded slowly, unconvinced but too polite to push. “Well. You take care of yourself, Mr. Senator.”
Hank pressed a ten-dollar bill into his hand and continued toward the Hart Building.
By Wednesday, the news cycle had found fresher targets, but Capitol Hill had a longer memory. The photograph wasn’t trending anymore. It didn’t have to be. It lived in the sidelong glances, the conversations that stopped when he entered a room, the colleagues who suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes.
This should have been a relief. Instead, it just meant people had stopped talking about it publicly.
Cathy was at her desk when Hank arrived, fingers flying over her keyboard. She glanced up as he passed.
“Senator Holloway called. Twice. She says it’s about lunch, but her tone suggests otherwise.”
“It always does.”
Hank retreated into his office and closed the door. The room felt too quiet. He sank into his chair and stared at the phone that refused to bring him the one message he wanted.
He’d drafted a dozen texts to Chad over the past few days, deleting many before sending. I’m not angry. I just want to talk. Too desperate. Please let me know you’re okay. Too needy. I love you. Too much.
In the end, he’d settled for simple: I miss you. Call me when you’re ready.
Chad hadn’t called.
A knock at the door.
“Senator—” Cathy’s voice was careful. “I brought you the Post. There’s a follow-up piece. Page three.”
“I’ve seen enough of the Post to last a lifetime.”
She set the paper on his desk anyway, then didn’t leave.
“Was there something else?”
Cathy stood there for a moment. Then she straightened her shoulders.
“My brother’s gay,” she said. “He’s been with his husband for twenty-two years. They have a house in Annapolis, two dogs.” She met his eyes. “This doesn’t change who you are, Senator. It just means everyone else knows now, too.”
Hank’s throat tightened.
“Cathy—”
“I’ll hold your calls until lunch. Senator Holloway is expecting you at noon.”
She turned and walked out before he could respond.
Twenty-two years. A house in Annapolis.
He’d worked with Cathy for nearly six years. She knew his schedule better than he did, anticipated his needs before he voiced them. And he’d never really seen her at all.
He picked up his phone and tried Chad one more time.
Voicemail.
The walk to Frannie’s hideaway took seven minutes—down the corridor, through the rotunda, down a narrow staircase most people didn’t know existed. Hank had made this journey dozens of times.
Today felt different.
Frannie was already there when he arrived, seated at the small table with a spread of sandwiches and a bottle of sparkling water. She looked up as he entered.
“You look like hell,” she said.
“Thank you. That’s very helpful.”
“I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to feed you and tell you uncomfortable truths.” She gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit. Eat.”
Hank sat. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew better than to argue with Frannie about food. He picked up half a sandwich and took a bite without tasting it.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“The polling? You were up eight before the photo. You’re at two now.” Frannie poured him a glass of water. “That’s survivable, but you can’t afford another week like this one.”
Hank nodded. He’d known the numbers would be bad.
“Barney Frank survived worse,” Frannie continued. “Outed in the eighties. Served another twenty-five years.”
“Barney Frank was a Democrat.”
“The world is moving, Hank. We’re due for an openly gay Republican.” She studied him over the rim of her glass. “This isn’t really about the polling, is it?”
Hank set down his sandwich. “Chad won’t talk to me.”
“How long?”
“Five days.”
“He’s scared. His face is all over the news because of who he’s dating. He probably thinks he’s ruined your career.”
“He hasn’t ruined anything.” Heat climbed through him. “If anyone ruined anything, it’s whoever took that photograph. Someone was following us, Frannie. I saw them—at the Botanic Garden, outside the CVS, again at the Kennedy Center. I thought I was being paranoid.”
“You weren’t.”
“No.” His hands had curled into fists. He made himself unclench them. “Someone hired a photographer. Someone who knew where I’d be and when.”
“The photograph was taken the evening of October 11th,” Frannie said. “National Coming Out Day. That’s probably not a coincidence.”
They looked at each other.
“Clancy,” Hank said.
“Clancy.”
“He has a brownstone in Dupont Circle. He mentioned it—very private, very discreet.”
“And he’s been circling you for months.” Frannie’s voice went flat. “What was it you told me said, about bachelors sticking together? He wanted you, Hank. And you wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
Hank’s stomach turned. “You think this is about—”
“I think he’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants.
Escorts, favors, discretion—he buys what he needs.
But you wouldn’t play.” Frannie leaned forward.
“And then he sees you happy. Actually happy. With someone you chose. Someone you care about.” She shook her head.
“Men like Clancy can’t stand that. If he can’t have it, nobody can. ”
Hank thought about Clancy’s moist handshake, his insinuating smile. He thought about Chad’s face in that photograph, half-turned, caught in a moment that should have been private.
“If I see him in the hallway,” Hank said, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Then avoid the hallway.”
“I’m serious, Frannie.”
“So am I.” Her eyes were sharp. “You losing your temper is exactly what he wants. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
Hank didn’t answer. The anger was still there, coiled tight in his chest.
“Let me do some digging,” Frannie said. “Quietly. Clancy’s been playing this game a long time. He’s bound to have made enemies. If there’s something there, I’ll find it.”
“And then what?”
“Then we’ll see.” She picked up her sandwich. “Right now, you need to focus on the campaign. And on sorting things out with Chad.”
“I told you. He won’t talk to me.”
“Then give him time.”
“Five days, Frannie.”
She set her sandwich down. Looked at him with the expression she usually reserved for colleagues who’d said something stupid on C-SPAN.
“Hank. He’s twenty-three. He’s not punishing you. He doesn’t know what to do yet.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Twenty-three. He kept forgetting that. He kept treating Chad like someone who’d had decades to practice navigating crisis—because Chad was so sharp, so self-possessed, so much himself that it was easy to forget he was twenty-three years old and his face was in the Washington Post because he’d held someone’s hand.
“He’s a kid,” Frannie said, more gently. “A smart kid. But still a kid. And his whole world just flipped in a direction he didn’t choose.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because right now you’re sitting here looking like a man who thinks he’s been abandoned, and I’m telling you that’s not what this is.”
Hank picked up his sandwich. Set it down. Picked it up again.
“Eat it or toss it, but stop fidgeting with it,” Frannie said.
He took a bite.
The afternoon passed in a blur of meetings and briefings that Hank endured on autopilot. His mind kept drifting—to Frannie’s words, to Cathy’s quiet revelation, to the silence on his phone.
He was still turning it all over when Shelby called that evening.
“Hey, Shel.”
“Don’t you hey, Shel me, Henry Fortner. I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Things have been—”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’m sure it’s been a nightmare.”
Hank leaned back on his couch. Through the window, the city lights blurred. “I’ve been better. The polling’s rough. And we figured out who was behind the photograph—someone from work. Frannie’s looking into it.”
“Good. Let her handle that part.” Shelby’s voice softened. “What about Chad?”
“He won’t talk to me.”
“Oh, honey.”
“I’ve tried everything. Calls, texts, voicemails. He just—disappeared.” Hank rubbed his eyes. “I know where he lives. I know where he works. If he’s not going to answer me, I’m thinking maybe I should just go there.”
Silence.
“Hank.” Shelby’s voice had an edge underneath. “And what exactly do you think that’s going to accomplish besides scaring the hell out of him?”
“I don’t—”
“You show up at his apartment uninvited? His workplace? That’s not fighting for him. That’s cornering him.”
Hank closed his eyes. She was right.
“I don’t know how to just wait,” he said. “I don’t know how to do nothing.”
“Nobody’s asking you to do nothing. I’m asking you to give him space to breathe. Let him know you’re there. Then let him come to you.”
“What if he doesn’t come?”
“Then you’ll deal with that when it happens. But right now, you’re asking for trouble.” A pause. “He’s scared, Hank. Give him time to figure out that he hasn’t ruined your life.”
“I hate waiting.”
“I know you do. You’ve never been patient about anything.” Her voice warmed slightly. “Remember when we were dating, and you proposed after four months?”
“That was different.”
“It was impulsive and slightly insane. But this isn’t that. This is a kid whose world just got turned upside down. He needs to find his footing. You pushing won’t help.”
They talked for a while longer—about Owen, about Lowell, about nothing important. Just connection. Just Shelby reminding him he wasn’t alone.
After they hung up, Hank sat in the quiet of his apartment.
First Kiss hung on the wall across from him, catching the lamplight. He’d looked at it every day since Chad gave it to him.
Now it felt like a question he didn’t know how to answer.
He made himself get up. Made himself eat something—leftover takeout that tasted like cardboard. Made himself not check his phone for a full hour, which felt like a victory even though it shouldn’t have.
He went to bed early. The city hummed outside his window. Somewhere across that sprawl of lights, Chad was painting, or sleeping, or staring at his own phone.
Give him time.
Let him come to you.
Hank lay in the dark, not sleeping, not checking his phone.
And hating every second of it.