Page 9 of Incisive

Because, guess what? In our great state of Nebraska, to run for the Unicameral—our state’s legislative body—you only have to be at least twenty-one years of age and it’s nonpartisan.

Your party affiliation isn’t listed on the ballot.

That means everyone assumes I’m still GOP. I run on platform planks important to my constituents: farm and agricultural issues, trade, jobs, infrastructure, health care, climate concerns, and education. We’re a small community and I rely totally on grassroots donations without hitching my cart to the state Democratic party organization.

My economics degree gives me a big-picture view of how Nebraska fits into the national and global economy. Being a wounded and decorated vet provides me a certain gravitas I’m not comfortable exploiting but which my campaign manager shamelessly waves like a flag at every opportunity.

Because people in our area know me and my family, I easily win my race by nearly thirty points over the incumbent, a Republican in his seventies who’d moved to Nebraska from New York only ten years prior, was a VP for a credit card company, and who is now in the process of being dragged into a banking loan scandal.

I feel equal parts thrilled and terrified when I win, especially since it seems to shock not only the regional press but officials in both state party orgs, too.

When word finally gets out that I’m a registered Democrat, most of the people I ran to represent and who voted for me don’t care I’m blue instead of red. All they care about is Iknowthem, I speak their language, and I genuinely want to better their lives, our community, and our state, not fill my own pockets. They don’t see me as some rich and snooty coastal elite liberal Democrat who looks down their nose at them—Iamone of them. They see Elliot the wounded war vet, the son of their friends and fellow farmers.

Although my sister blows a gasket and reads me the riot act when she finds out about my party change, as if me registering as a Democrat is somehow a negative reflection upon her.

Even for Stella that’s a really weird reaction.

What I don’t know at the time is that she’s already started networking with conservative political groups via Grace Martin’s father’s enormously influential pull.

Ironically, even Dad doesn’t seem to care that much about my party affiliation as long as I stick to my word and do my best to fulfill my campaign promises.

I didn’t plan to run for the US House of Representatives so early in my political career. I intended to run for a second term in the Unicameral, which would also be my last due to term limits. I was still mulling my options over what I’d do after that. Maybe run for the county commission, or a school board seat, while I built a career for myself in Omaha with one of the larger financial companies there. I’d already received several standing offers via contacts I made while in office. Then I could build out my network of contacts and influence to ease my way into higher elected offices and have plenty of endorsements and corporate support to get there.

Except when our congressional district’s representative to the US House is dogged by persistent reports of campaign finance improprieties, accepting gifts and in-kind donations from Big Pharma and corporate farm lobbyists, accumulates a voting record that goes against the interests of farmers and residents in our state, and commits other various acts of malfeasance, the governor himself calls me and asks me to consider running for the seat despite the fact that I am a Democrat and he—and the seat’s incumbent—are both Republicans.

The governor knows I’m solid on agriculture and trade and have an economics background. He also knows I have secure anchors in the region because of my family’s farm. He’s seen my performance in the Unicameral and how vocally and tirelessly I fight for my constituents, making me popular with them. How I’ve been able to work across the aisle both with my colleagues and with voters. My poll numbers are by any standards through the roof.

Plus, he says I have a “face for office.”

All these points and more the governor cites when he asks me to consider running and unseating the incumbent.

I’ve already agreed to do it and filed the paperwork when I learn Grace Martin’s father put a bug in the governor’s ear to nudge me into running. That nearly makes me withdraw from the race before I’ve barely raised any money but did I mention I’m a chickenshit? There’s no way in hell I’d be able to explain to anyone why I gave up before I even tried without pissing off a lot of people.

Meaning I might never receive what I seek from my father.

This development also accelerates my professional timeline. I revise my plan with an eye to running for the US Senate sooner than I’d intended, and hopefully serving at least two terms there. Only then would I think about making my first run for POTUS, which would likely fail.

Which is okay. Most initial attempts to reach that political heightdofail. The first and sometimes second runs are more to get your name out in front of voters on a national level and try to court donors than to actually win. It would get people watching me.

Maybe even my father.

What I never count on while serving my first term as a member of the US House of Representatives is meeting one Leo Davidson Cruz.

* * *

The next partof my tale begins on a Friday evening fifteen years ago in a quiet DC bar. That’s when I first cross paths with Leo and he forever claims my heart.

Not only am I still deep in the closet on that fateful evening but I’m woefully lacking in romantic experience with guys. Until that point my only sexual encounter with a man was one drunken night in college years earlier, when another guy whose name I can’t even remember and I blew each other.

But I’m looking for more than just sex.

Ineedmore.

Fantasies have filled my head ever since I was old enough to have a libido. While I rationally know what I want isn’t “bad,” try telling that to my brain after thirty-one years of living a certain way and attempting to uphold a particular set of stubbornly entrenched standards.

Of being a “good” son. Of trying to exceed impossible, unknown, stratospheric expectations.

Of struggling—and failing—to earn my father’s respect and recognition.