The Politics of Love Read online

  The Politics of Love

  Synopsis

  Is it possible to love across the political divide?

  Shelley Whitmore is a successful attorney, working on behalf of her Evangelical parents’ faith-based organization, championing conservative values of individual liberty and limited government. Everything’s totally fine, except that it really isn’t. Shelley manages depression and crippling anxiety because of the secret she can never reveal: she’s gay.

  Rand Thomas is a psychotherapist, transgender rights activist, and political liberal. Widowed and struggling with her wife's toxic parents, Rand isn’t going to allow herself to love again.

  When Shelley and Rand meet in Manhattan, neither one expects to find that the other is exactly who they need.

  The Politics of Love

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  The Politics of Love

  © 2020 By Jen Jensen. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-694-0

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: July 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Jeanine Henning

  eBook Design By Toni Whitaker

  By the Author

  Jamis Bachman, Ghost Hunter

  The Politics of Love

  Acknowledgments

  I’m a Democrat, before anyone wonders. But I’ve spent a lot of time since 2016 trying to understand and humanize those folks with whom I don’t agree. I like to think this book is a result of that effort.

  I live in Arizona, a Red state turning Purple, more Libertarian than anything. It was easy to seek out Republicans like Shelley to talk with about these things. They supported gay marriage and didn’t really care about people using the bathroom. They just wanted to preserve their freedom and personal liberty, without overbearing government systems getting in their way. They also wanted to keep their property taxes low and empower small businesses. They believed the market was the best way to equalize society. Their concerns seemed reasonable, and some of the animosity I felt, as a gay person, of Republican and conservative ideals, fell away. There are moderate, LGBTQ+ friendly Republicans out there. I found them. They’re real and are not my adversary.

  It’s my hope that we can find a healthy way to debate the role of government in our lives, while we evolve as a species. Many thanks to everyone whose perspectives helped me evolve the last few years.

  Dedication

  For Sarah, my Democratic Socialist. I totally used each new chapter in this book to woo you. I’m glad it worked.

  Chapter One

  The cabs pressed through the intersection at Seventh Avenue in Manhattan, spots of yellow against dark cement and asphalt. Water from the rainstorm earlier in the day sprayed from beneath their tires, and the sounds of horns carried up to the open eatery. Shelley watched them through the window of Whole Foods.

  She cut a piece of tofu with her fork and moved it to her lips. She focused on swallowing, folded her hands in her lap, and pressed her fingertips together. A bus stopped in the middle of the intersection, a police officer at the open door, likely telling the driver to move out of the notorious box, which should not be blocked but always was.

  Shelley evened her breathing as the drama unfolded below and beat back the relentless waves of anxiety that plagued her every moment. She relaxed her hands and took a bite. The cop in the street below waved frantically at cars ahead of the bus to pull forward. They inched forward, one by one, as the light changed from red to green, again and again.

  The situation was as stuck as she was.

  The television on the wall was tuned to MSNBC. Andrea Mitchell discussed the ties between Trump and Russia. Her family celebrated Trump’s election, but she had a queasy sensation in her stomach at the thought of him, as if America had sunk to the lowest common denominator in its reaction to change.

  Being conservative was fine, as she was, but Trump was something entirely different. Populism meets subconscious racism and xenophobia, wrapped in MAGA, touted as nationalism. Shelley thought it was all a severe reaction to globalization, social media, and the previously unprecedented clash of human tribes.

  She finished her food and tossed the container into the recycle bin. A table of adults, close to her age, pointed at her. She acknowledged them, uncertain of the attention she was about to receive, if not resigned to it. At the end of the table, a man said, “How does it feel to be such a bigot?”

  Shelley ignored him, head down, pace a bit quicker. A woman next to him asked, “Closet case. Maybe you wouldn’t hate gays so much if you got your pipes cleaned.”

  The rest of the words faded as the elevator doors closed. Her face burned. This direct engagement had begun after Trump was elected. For years, she’d toiled quietly behind the scenes of the Republican Party, operating on behalf of her father’s organization, the American Religious Freedom Council. She consulted for the Republican National Party, CPEC, and every major conservative group in Washington, DC.

  But the Left had never been as confrontational, and it was difficult to travel anywhere in Blue metropolitan areas without such an incident.

  The stainless steel of the elevator doors reflected her image back, distorted by the imperfections of the metal and the scratches from the doors opening and closing. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and held her bag with both arms against her torso. Her high heels looked like blobs of black, and she felt hundreds of pounds overweight rather than forty. She tore her gaze away, uncomfortable. Shelley never paused to really look at herself. The lights on the elevator panel blinked as it moved down three floors.

  The elevator lurched as it hit the ground floor, and she startled. She was so sensitive, the world’s natural sensory outputs consumed her. The doors opened. She tucked her feelings of overwhelm inside, like a folder handkerchief, and marched forward as though she had all of herself, and the world, completely in control.

  The checkout lines were busy. She negotiated her way to the front door through a sea of people. Outside, the damp fall air settled heavily on her shoulders. She pulled her slender, feminine bag closer and felt it hit her leg, a soft thud, repetitive and calming. She counted each connection, focused her breathing and thoughts on only that, and felt her heart rate slow, her hands loosen.

  Shelley had done this since she was a child. For three years as an adolescent, she counted every step she took, and wrote the summation of them in her diary every night. “Wednesday, April 21,1993 = 11,498 steps. Sunday, June 9,1996 = 13,500 steps.” She employed pedometer methodology ahead of her time to self-correct crippling anxiety. Her therapist told her it was her earliest self-soothing tool.

  Shelley couldn’t remember when she stopped counting her steps, but thought it was sometime in high school when she became involved in student government and began to date Tony. Shelley counted, falling into the familiar rhythm of the activity. She’d not thought about Tony for yea
rs, but there he was, fully formed in her mind’s eye, as she walked up Seventh Avenue in Manhattan, on her way to MSNBC. She knew Tony lived in Manhattan because he’d tried to keep in touch with her after he left. She wanted to remain in contact with him but found it too difficult because her voice was caught somewhere under her throat and the space inside her chest cavity near her heartbeat.

  When they were seniors, he told her he couldn’t date her anymore because he was gay, and he thought maybe she was too. She’d never shared that secret with anyone, never dared, but recently, it had begun to bother her, a recurring thought wrestled back into place, only to greet her again and again. Shelley thought about finding Tony on Facebook and then felt her optimism recoil. It was something she did often. After thinking about extending herself, considering that someone might want contact with her, Shelley pulled the extraverted feeling back inside, tucked it away, and closed the lid on it.

  She stopped at a crosswalk, pressed between thirty or more people, no idea where she was walking. The wind blew through the buildings, and the air was neither hot nor cold, just an uncomfortable wet in between. She shook out of her suit jacket and tucked it over her arm.

  She searched MSNBC in Google Maps from her current location and opted to flag a cab. It was a mystery how she’d ended up where she was. She’d simply left her hotel room at nine and began to walk, enjoying the freedom of Manhattan streets. Skyscrapers. Cement. Hidden gardens and window flower boxes. Cops, pedestrians, crammed shopping centers, and Duane Reed pharmacies stuck under apartments in brick buildings, completely out of place. Scaffolding everywhere, the city under constant repair.

  She slipped her jacket back on, stuck between hot and cold. The weather in Manhattan in late May was a confusing mix of warm and cool, wet and windy.

  Shelley pushed through pedestrians and waved her arm at a passing cab. Tires squealed when he hit his brakes. She opened the back door, slid in, and said, “Thirty Rock please. Fastest route.” The cab driver yanked the car into oncoming traffic. Shelley gripped the handle above the back window with one hand as the car lurched and rolled down the window with the other. The air smacked her face, wet and heavy. But it was better than the stuffy smell of the cab. She couldn’t imagine the microorganisms on the seat and door handle. She took antibacterial sanitizer from her bag and rubbed her hands together when it seemed safe to let go.

  How many thuds had she counted? She wasn’t sure now, though she used to remember. The last number would sit behind the space between her eyes for ongoing review. Shelley read the driver’s name on the taxi tag. She couldn’t pronounce it so wouldn’t try. Sometimes, she liked to thank people by their names, but wouldn’t do it this time.

  Charles Whitmore, her formidable, brilliant, Evangelical father, taught her to use people’s names. He did it often, at church, charity events, grocery shopping, or standing in line at the bank. Shelley remembered riding to pick up Saturday night dinner from the pizza shop, watching him shake everyone’s hands, use their names. He pulled her up to the side of him, hand on her shoulder. “Say hello to Sam, Shelley. He works hard at the lumber mill.” He would continue, one after another, as people gathered around the lawyer turned pastor with a flock of thirty thousand people. He smiled at everyone he met, a trait she inherited, even if her smile was slower to emerge. She also inherited his large brown eyes, fastidiousness, and mind.

  The cab driver jammed on the brakes, and Shelley rocked violently in the back seat and smacked against the seat. He made eye contact with her and yelled, “Sorry, sit back.” She scooted to the back of the seat. These trips to the city excited her. She marked the days between visits on her iPhone calendar. The energy of the city was so different from anything she’d known before, it jolted her, like the pleasant but disconcerting shock of seeing someone she knew in a distant airport.

  The cab jerked. Thirty Rock was visible. Shelley waved at the driver.

  “Here is fine,” she said. He slammed the brakes and hit the button to end the fare. Shelley handed him thirty dollars and waved for him to keep the balance. He took the money, obviously unimpressed with the tip. She held her bag in her arms. The wind was strong against her steps, like it wanted to keep her from MSNBC.

  Her father supported her visits to the news show. The format allowed for discussion and debate, and she was typically paired with a liberal to provide a counterpoint perspective, given the polarization of American news. The MSNBC producer who hired her said they found her the least offensive of southern conservatives. She’d not relayed that to her father.

  She traveled to Manhattan twice a month for a day, but in the last four months she extended her time by a day on either side. She’d taken the time to read, write, and explore, free of the weight and burden of her birthright. The guards recognized her as a regular and waved her ahead of the line. The metal detectors were silent as she stepped through them. She thanked them politely and moved toward the elevators. She rushed into one just as the doors began to close, and stumbled into another female.

  “Whoa there,” she said with a smile. “You about took both of us out.” She adjusted a backpack held loosely over one shoulder.

  “I think my heel got caught in the groove there.” Shelley straightened her posture, felt flustered, and held out her hand. “Shelley Whitmore. Thank you for catching me.”

  The woman looked at her outstretched hand, then met her eyes. “I know who you are.” She held her eye contact and lifted her hand. “Rand Thomas.” Shelley registered who stood before her and felt a grating sensation gnaw at her center. The feeling emerged during different times in her life, in different cycles, but it always left her slightly off balance. In recent years, it made her feel a sense of vertigo, and sometimes the world spun, as it did in the elevator holding Rand’s hand.

  Rand withdrew against the railing where it angled at the back of the elevator. Shelley drew a tight breath and looked down at her feet. It was her reaction to meeting new people, and particularly, people who might see through her. Shelley retreated, and a deep shame she wasn’t able to articulate rose to hold her words hostage.

  Rand spoke to break the awkward silence. “I won’t bite.” The elevator chimed as they passed a floor.

  Shelley met Rand’s kind eyes, noted their gray-green color, the sharp angle of her jaw, her short, messy hair, and the perfect proportion of her nose between two manicured eyebrows. Shelley’s face burned again. “I didn’t think you would.”

  “But you don’t want to talk anymore?”

  “It’s not that. I was just waiting, I think,” Shelley said.

  Rand inclined her strong jaw up, urging her to continue. When Shelley didn’t, Rand said, “Waiting for what?”

  Shelley jerked her eyes up from the tile of the elevator, noting sixteen separate tiles, and three cracks which spread across seven. “Your derision. Judgment.”

  “Should I feel sorry for you? Or the twelve-year-old who hears what your father has to say and would rather kill themselves than live openly and well as a queer person?” The doors chimed open, grating, and there were tears behind Shelley’s eyes she wouldn’t let fall, mistress of the stymied emotion. “See you on the show.” Rand stepped from the elevator first, and Shelley watched her walk away and almost missed getting off the elevator before the doors closed.

  Shelley’s heel slipped into the crack again, but she steadied herself. Rand had said her father, not her, and she yanked hold of herself, somewhere deep inside, near her center, and regained composure. She and her father were separate people, and this thought lingered in the front of her consciousness.

  She moved the same direction Rand did. Her hair and makeup needed attention before she went on the air.

  Chapter Two

  “We’re here with Rand Thomas, therapist, writer, activist and Shelley Whitmore, attorney, political consultant, and writer.” Greg Jackson, afternoon host of the daily news, turned to face them. “We appreciate you both being here today.” Both smiled politely, waiting. “We’re
here to talk about transgender bathroom access in schools, universities, and public spaces.”

  The camera swung wide to capture all three of them in view. Shelley’s back was straight, hands folded, hair pulled tight in a bun, tapered at the base of her head. She looked reserved and educated, almost a caricature of a conservative lawyer. Rand sat with an arm casually on the table, at an angle so she could see Greg, Shelley, and the camera. She wore a gray button-down shirt with dark jeans and casual shoes. Greg wore a three-piece suit with a tie and continued.

  “We’ve seen a huge uptake in these transgender bills, only allowing people to access them based on their biological sex. The left claims this is transphobic and prohibitive. The right claims it is necessary to protect women from predatory men. We don’t need to go into a ton of detail about all the different bills, in multiple red states, or the counter-bills in blue states, but if our viewers want to review it, they can visit our blog today. We’ve posted in-depth analysis of all of them. Generally, what we want to do with Rand and Shelley is talk about this conceptually and philosophically. Rand, do you want to begin?”

  “Thanks, Greg. I’m not sure this is really a philosophical issue. I think people just have to pee.” Greg laughed, but Shelley was impassive and watched Rand as she spoke. “What shocks me about these bills is that they’re not really about transgender people. They’re about dangerous, predatory men. Think about it like this—if you were to use the bathroom next to a real, live transgender person you probably wouldn’t know. That’s what really gets to people, I think. With surgery and hormones, transgender people can amend their outer selves to align with their inner vision of themselves and no one knows any different. What scares people is this fear that creepy, predatory men who prey on women and children will take advantage of bathroom access. I think this calls for America to examine their perception of men.”