Page 16 of Keep

“It’ll go great. Just be yourself. Your real self. Not Senator Fortner.”

“I’ll try.”

“And, Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you. For going in.”

The words landed somewhere tender. He cleared his throat. “Love you, Shel.”

“Love you too. Call me tomorrow night. I want a full report.”

“Goodbye, Shelby.”

“I mean it! Full report! Ratings and everything!”

He hung up and sat in the quiet office, the Capitol glowing through his window.

By six, the building was emptying. Hank gathered his things and headed out.

The walk home took him south along New Jersey Avenue, the evening light turning everything golden. The Capitol behind him, the city opening ahead.

At the corner of C Street, Clyde’s spot was empty. His sign remained propped against the wall. HOMELESS VET. ANYTHING HELPS. GOD BLESS.

Hank looked at it for a moment. He made a mental note to follow up with Roy Bathum’s office—Roy had been talking about a rehabilitation-to-employment pilot, the kind of program that sounded good in a briefing and might actually work if someone with enough patience pushed it through.

He looked at the CVS. Looked away. Looked back.

It’s a first date. Nothing is going to happen.

He went in.

The fluorescent light was merciless—the shade of institutional brightness that made everyone look slightly criminal. Hank walked past the greeting cards, past the vitamins, past a rotating display of seasonal candy, and found himself in the family planning aisle with the fixed expression of a man examining missile defense specifications at a Senate briefing.

Condoms. Right. He knew about condoms. He had purchased condoms before—for Shelby, during the marriage—which now struck him as both ironic and deeply sad.

He grabbed a box. Regular. Nothing exotic. Tucked it under his arm like classified material.

Then he turned to the lubricants and froze.

Warming. Cooling. Tingling. Silicone-based. Water-based. Hybrid. With aloe. For sensitive skin. Ultra-glide. Natural feel. Something called Passion Fruit Paradise that Hank was fairly certain no serious person had ever purchased.

You are a United States Senator. You have voted on arms treaties. You have shaken hands with the President. You are standing in a CVS at six-fifteen in the evening, paralyzed by lubricant options.

He grabbed the most normal-looking bottle he could find—water-based, unscented, no adjectives—and walked to the register with the studied casualness of a man who was not, in any way, panicking.

The cashier was a teenager with earbuds in, scrolling on her phone between scans. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at his purchases. Didn’t look at anything except her screen as she scanned, bagged, and announced the total with the magnificent indifference of youth.

Hank paid cash. Because a credit card receipt for condoms and lubricant was exactly the sort of thing that ended up in opposition research files, and the political brain never fully shut off, even when the rest of him was busy being a human disaster.

Outside, he stuffed the bag into his briefcase next to the trade policy brief and walked the remaining blocks home with his shoulders very straight and his face very warm.

Hopeful. The word arrived unbidden. That’s what you’re being. You’re being hopeful.

It was a feeling he barely recognized.

Upstairs, he unlocked his apartment and stepped inside. Keys on the table by the door. Blazer over a chair. The refrigerator offered leftover Chinese takeout, questionable deli meat, and a half-empty carton of orange juice.