Goodnight, My Angel - Georgeotown Book IV - 4. GMA IV

“I’m dizzy. It’s either the booze or Ozzie’s blazer and CJ’s tie.” Carson Sawyer, the Delaware student CJ helped move into the dorms their initial year at Georgetown University, became the key to an active campus life even though CJ was a commuter. During their sophomore year, the curly-haired McCourt School of Public Policy student became involved with a small group of students who hosted the annual Harvest Ball.

Gina appraised the men, tilted her head a smidgen, and grinned. “I don’t know, Carson. I kinda dig their look.” Owen wore a jacket made from the Liston family tartan, and CJ had a necktie of the same fabric.

The event, held in a ballroom in Copley Hall, dated to the 1970s; admission was by invitation. The host committee underwrote the evening, with each member allotted a limited number of the sought after admissions. Proper attire was required. Coats and ties for the men, while dresses were not mandated but were encouraged for the women. The music ranged from Sinatra, to The Beach Boys, Motown, and Bublé. No hard rock or hip-hop made it to the playlist; the event was a throwback to an earlier period. Even though no alcohol was provided, it seemed everyone carried a flask. A couple of hours into the evening, the crowd’s high spirits suggested more than adequate consumption.

“Son, you dissing my husband’s family’s colors?” CJ’s aggrieved look made his other half chuckle. “See if you ever get another drop of Liston wine.”

Although CJ avoided the limelight after his involvement with the Clinton campaign in 2016, the publicity his adventure in Charlottesville garnered, and the New Yorker article Trip penned about him in 2017, earned him a fresh modicum of recognition on campus. He became a member of the Harvest Ball Host Committee his junior year.

“Hey, Carson, wanna go for a walk around the building? CJ and I want to get a little fresh air.” Owen’s invitation halfway through the evening made Carson grin.

“Only if we plan on polluting said air. Is it okay if I invite my roomie to join us?”

Gina waved her hand in dismissal. “That’s my cue to leave you potheads. Have fun, boys.” She walked away shaking her head.

“Bye, Gina. Sure thing, mate. We like Bentley.” Bentley Riff was a classmate of Carson’s in the McCourt School and active in the university’s student government. “Go get him and meet us outside.”

The four men strolled around the building sharing a doobie and ended up standing on the edge of the small on-campus cemetery. “Damn, I’m going to miss getting high.” CJ complained but did so with a smile on his face.

“How come?” The crisp autumn evening became redolent with the aroma of cannabis as they stood still. “You gonna stop smoking?” Bentley passed the joint, and stuck his hands in his scarlet corduroy slacks.

“I’m applying to the State Department and pot smoking’s still a no-no with them. Ozzie and I agreed our last hurrah, for now, will be the end of 2018.”

“Too bad, man. You always seem to have good stuff.” Bentley had benefitted from CJ’s generosity more than once.

“You can thank his best friend for that.” Owen declined the roach Carson proffered. “Harley’s grandfather grows it on his farm in Wisconsin and we reap the reward.”

Bentley remained quiet for a moment, staring at the white tombstones before raising his eyes. “This may not be the best time to ask you, CJ, but it’s not like I see you on campus all that much. You know I’m involved in student government. I’m thinking of running for president next year. Would you be interested in the second spot on the ballot? I think you’d make a great VP. And you have enough name recognition it might just put us over the top.”

“Hi, guys.” CJ and Owen stood at the bar, waiting for the four martinis they had ordered. César and Brett were still talking to the friends who stopped them as soon as the three couples walked into the Washington Convention Center. Ritchie and Lucy had taken their sodas and strolled over to the display area to check out what was in the silent auction this year.

“Gina! Aileen! You look splendid.” CJ kissed both women on the cheek and Owen repeated the affectionate greeting. “Can we get you ladies a cocktail?”

“I’m certain it won’t be as good as what you guys serve at your place, but I’d love a glass of red wine.” Gina Nichols was the one female who hung around the couple most. She glanced around for a moment, and lowered her voice. “Wanted to make sure your parents weren’t around. I may as well enjoy my alcohol as long as I can.”

“Bourbon on the rocks for me.” Aileen Ridder gave Owen a mock punch when he raised his eyebrows at her. “Don’t give me that look, Ozzie. I’m working. I need something strong to get me through the evening. Some of these prima donnas think they give us a little money, and then we have to cater to their every whim.”

Owen smirked and shoulder bumped his husband. “Mate, she’s talking about you.”

Aileen met CJ years before when he volunteered at the Human Rights Campaign headquarters during the efforts to achieve marriage equality for the GLBT community. She wagged a finger in front of the Aussie’s face. “You’re putting words in my mouth I didn’t utter, Mr. Liston. The two of you and your fathers are a pleasure to deal with. Plus, I have CJ to thank for sending Gina our way. After the outstanding job she did this summer, we kept her on. Part-time until she graduates, but we’ve discussed making it permanent after.”

“That’s awesome!” CJ passed the women their cocktails and took a martini in each hand. “So, we get to keep you in Washington?”

Gina shook her head. “Not necessarily. I explained to Aileen that I might have to take a leave for a month or so next year for personal reasons. Afterward, I’d love to return to Alaska, and the HRC may have a position for me there. Of course, it all depends…”

There was an awkward pause for a fraction of a second before Owen spoke. “I think it’s okay if you tell Aileen what we’re up to, Gina.”

“Really? You guys won’t mind?”

“Not at all. We trust her to keep quiet.” CJ switched his attention to the older woman. “Gina’s agreed to do something for us, but we haven’t told anyone yet. Please don’t let it slip in front of my dads. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we better get these drinks to them before United States Marine Corps Captain Brett Davenport”—CJ infused his father’s title and name with mock solemnity—“starts yelling at us. Damn Marine gets cranky real quick if he doesn’t get his daddy juice.”

Aileen whispered to Gina for a moment. After the young woman walked away, she returned her attention to CJ. “I’ll invite myself along. I’d love to say hello to your parents. And okay, I have an ulterior motive. I sent Gina to go find Ben Gibbs from our Greater Washington, D.C. Steering Committee. Our local chapter you might say. Have you met him?”

CJ was doubtful he had. “Not sure… Maybe I’ll recognize him if I see him.”

“He’s a good man. I think you’ll like him. I often sit in on their meetings as an observer and liaison. We work well together. There are a couple of open spots on their board. I brought up your name as a possible candidate, and he wants to talk to you. We’d like you to take one of those seats and become a director.”

“We’re ready for you, Mr. Houston.” The polite young woman pointed toward the front of the room.

Politics and Prose lacked the vellichor CJ loved in older bookstores, but it was still a place he visited often. Rummaging through shelves full of bestsellers and old classics was a favorite way to spend a couple of hours on a rainy or cold afternoon. His visit to the shop on the last Saturday in October was, however, different from previous ones. The shop GQ magazine once called "liberal Washington's most sacred space" was well regarded for its knowledgeable staff and the author events it hosted. He had attended a few of those readings and chats in the past but never imagined he would be headlining one.

“Let’s get this show on the road, CJ.” Charles Beauregard Houston III placed a hand on the college student’s shoulder before they walked through the chairs filling most of the room. The journalist planted the seed for the collaboration on Bullies Beware while writing the article chronicling CJ’s involvement in the 2016 presidential campaign. This appearance was part of the promotional effort for the book. “How’re you feeling?”

“Ummm, a little nervous right now. I’ll be okay once we start. Let’s do this.” The article’s publication in The New Yorker the previous year earned him renewed interest and countless new followers on social media. In time, he had made peace with being a public figure, embraced the notoriety with reluctance, and agreed to the joint project.

The book, published at the beginning of the month with a foreword penned by Ben Cohen, drew a smattering of positive reviews. It climbed the non-fiction best-seller list of The New York Times, The Washington Post, and Amazon; it was now in the top ten on all three. CJ agreed to make limited personal appearances on weekends and during the upcoming break from school for the end-of-year holidays. This was the first one, and he was glad it was on familiar ground.

Trip, as friends called him, met CJ soon after the young man moved to Washington. A freelance reporter then, he was involved in a loose, open relationship with Danno. Both were members of CJ’s fathers’ group of friends. The Elite had welcomed the teen and provided him support during the trying times following CJ’s expulsion from his Miami home. Trip, in and out of recovery facilities during his twenties, had remained sober in recent years. He played an integral role when CJ confronted Brad about his drinking.

“Crap, I can’t believe he’s here.” Trip whispered so only CJ could hear. They had each read an excerpt from the book and answered questions from those in attendance on the content and the collaboration process. The authors were now ensconced behind a table, autographing copies for their fans.

“Who?” CJ finished signing the book in front of them and returned it to the woman with a smile and a final word of thanks.

“My boss at the Post.” CJ’s co-author took the book the man next in line handed him and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Bezos. I’m surprised you’re here.”

The wealthiest man in the world chuckled. “You shouldn’t be, Mr. Houston. Have you forgotten Amazon started out as a bookseller? And don’t I have a reputation as a micromanager? If one of my newspaper’s star reporters co-authors a book on the best seller list of the Post and Amazon with an up-and-coming young man, I want to meet them both.” Bezos fixed his gaze on CJ and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Jeff.”

“CJ Abelló, Mr. Bezos. It’s an honor to meet you.” He attempted discretion; looking the man over he scrambled to find a suitable inscription for the book the business tycoon handed him. The founder, chairman, and chief executive officer of Amazon was not physically impressive. A fringe of cropped hair surrounded his nearly-bald head; he stood half-a-foot shorter than CJ, and wore a rumpled dark sweater over a white shirt. He resembled a happy-go-lucky uncle more than a titan of business.

“The honor’s mutual, young man. Would you mind if I sat with you for a bit? You can keep signing books while we chat.” A bookstore employee standing to the side found another chair and positioned it by the table. “I did a little digging on you, CJ. You and I have a lot in common. Did you know I graduated from Palmetto Senior High School?”

“In Miami?” CJ had heard the man speak at a banquet the previous year, and read a couple of articles about him. His attendance of one of Miami’s top-rated public schools came as a surprise. “Really? I had no idea you were from Florida.”

“I was born in Texas, but lived in South Florida for a few years. I read with interest how highly you speak of your adoptive father. It’s something else we have in common. Although the man I call dad and always looked up to is Cuban and a civilian. Unlike the Marine who adopted you.”

“Wow! You live in Washington now, don’t you? I remember reading you bought an old museum and turned it into a home.”

“The old Textile Museum in Kalorama. We’ll have you over sometime soon so you can check it out. I understand you’re a junior at Georgetown?”

“Yes, sir. At the School of Foreign Service.”

“I’ll assume you want to join the diplomatic corps. Applying to the Department of State?”

“I am. I’m starting the process right now. If you don’t mind me asking, how come you know so much about me?” CJ was somewhat suspicious the man had dug into his life.

The man laughed and waited until CJ exchanged pleasantries with the person holding the book he had inscribed. “Nothing nefarious, I swear. More like neighborhood gossip. At the beginning of summer, we had some nearby residents over for dinner. Michelle Obama told us of a wedding she and President Obama attended on the grounds of the Jefferson Memorial. They both raved about the men getting married, one of them in particular. Someone who impressed them as a volunteer on Hillary Clinton’s ill-fated run for the White House. They told me a little about you.

“Imagine my surprise when I saw your name pop up as the co-author of a book with one of my reporters. I decided I wanted to know more about you. In the book, you wrote about taking the long view. Of becoming aware things get better. I loved your comment about sacrificing short-term satisfaction and preparing for the future. You encourage those being abused to learn self-defense, and to apply themselves to their studies. Physical and intellectual growth go hand in hand in your approach. I happen to agree with you.”

Over the next month, CJ and Trip made several additional appearances in support of Bullies Beware. Saturday visits to Richmond, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, where they could leave Washington in the morning and return later in the day, or weekday evening readings and signings in several DC metro area locations. At Bezos suggestion, the Amazon bookstore on M Street hosted separate appearances to help increase attention to the book.

The one journey he made involving an overnight stay during this period was to Blacksburg, Virginia—home of Virginia Polytechnic Institute and University—the weekend before the Thanksgiving holiday. The town, some 250 miles southwest of Washington, had a population around fifty thousand, about half of it students at the university.

Conceived as nothing more than playtime with friends, CJ and Chipper—not sober at the time—came up with the idea at a bar in New York City the previous year during the latter’s birthday weekend. Watching the University of Miami defeat Notre Dame, they thought a football game road trip would be fun. Their plans solidified as soon as the 2018 schedules were released, showing the Miami Hurricanes playing the Virginia Tech Hokies in Blacksburg. At the time, CJ reserved a small house two blocks away from campus on Airbnb.

“We get the master bedroom.” Owen reached for the switch beside the door, and they all squinted when the lights came on.

“Mr. Houston gets the other one. He’s old.” CJ stumbled when Trip shoved him and sputtered the remaining words while laughing. “The rest of you can have the couches and air mattresses.”

“I’ll show you old…” Overnight bag slung over a shoulder, the man went in search of his room. “I’m gonna make sure whatever bar we end up at knows it’s just Owen who’s over twenty-one. You may as well forget alcohol this weekend.”

They had borrowed César’s Cadillac, left Washington in the afternoon after classes, and arrived in Blacksburg early enough to collect Chipper and his two companions at the airport. They had traveled on the flight chartered by the UM Alumni Association for fans attending the game. Owen did most of the driving while CJ and Trip read about the university, and planned the next day’s presentation.

“Who said you get to hang out with us, old man?” CJ’s retort earned him a loud “Fuck you, twerp.”

“Are they always like this?” Michael Quintana stared at Chipper with a big grin. He and his boyfriend, Blaine Emerson, were staying at the house as CJ’s guests. “It’s like a comedy routine.”

“Dude, you have no idea. It’s like that with CJ and with one of his dads too. He and Brett have the same twisted sense of humor. Some of the banter over the years has been epic.”

Blaine dropped his bag on an armchair and headed back to the car. “It’s like an old comedy routine by Abbott and Costello. Just makes you want to chuckle. Be right back, I’ll go help Ozzie bring the rest of the stuff in.”

“Thanks, Blaine.” CJ toed the door open and tossed his and Owen’s backpacks on the bed without entering the room. “Hey, Trip. We don’t even have to go out if we want to drink. The extra backpack we brought has a bottle of dark rum and three bottles of wine.”

“Liston?” The reporter sounded interested.

“One. We’re running low on whites, so we brought a bottle of the 2013 Cabernet/Shiraz. Stuff’s real good, and Ozzie thought the guys would like to try something from our winery.”

“Our winery?” Chipper’s hand connected with his forehead. “Jesus Fucking Christ! They get married and CJ can’t wait to lay claim to his husband’s family business.”

“Asshole!”

The contract signed with the publishing company led to several meetings between César and his son. The modest advance and potential future royalties meant CJ would have income from something other than investments—with a few million free and clear or in trust, the book revenues would be insignificant. Still, there was no need to pay any more taxes than legally required. They created an entity to funnel publishing proceeds through, and CJ began tracking certain expenditures. A portion of the Blacksburg’s foray costs could qualify as a tax-deductible business expense if he could arrange a book event while there.

CJ and Trip were at the campus bookstore minutes after it opened, while the others dawdled back at the house. A half hour later, they went into their usual dog-and-pony show, and when Owen came to stand next to them, they were already signing books.

“Hey, Oz. Where’s the rest of the guys?”

“They’ll be here soon. We walked through campus and got a lot of attention because of the obnoxious orange and green outfits those three are wearing. When I left them, they were drinking beer with a bunch of Virginia Tech frat boys, explaining that green overalls and orange sweatshirts were winning colors. Or some crap to that effect.”

The smell of alcohol wafted in his direction when Michael stood in front of him holding out a copy of Bullies Beware. “This is so cool. First time ever I get a book signed by the author. I can tell my kids one day that I hung out with you for a whole weekend.”

CJ shook his head in disbelief. “One, you smell like a brewery. I thought we had plenty last night and would wait ’til after lunch to start again. Two, you shouldn’t have spent money buying the book. I would’ve sent you one of the promotional copies we have at home. And three, you better tell your kids something different. I sure as hell hope we get to spend more time together in the future than just this weekend.”

Michael’s grin overtook his entire face. “Thanks, CJ. I hope so too. Tell you what. Why don’t you and Trip sign this one for Blaine? You can send one for me later. That way we both get to have our own copy.”

A few hours later, the Miami Hurricanes football team ran onto the field to cheers and jeers. The rivalry between the two teams dated to their time in the Big East Conference; it did not diminish when both schools jumped to the Atlantic Coast Conference. Lane Stadium was packed, and the small section reserved for the visiting team was a sea of green and orange. Even CJ and Owen donned knit caps with those colors after leaving the bookstore.

Their eyes were riveted to the giant screen as the Hokies made their entrance and the crowd’s roar exploded. Owen leaned into CJ so his question could be heard. “What are their players doing?” He pointed at the Virginia Tech team members who reached upwards and touched something above the opening of the tunnel leading to the playing field.

CJ was glad he had read up on the school. “They’re touching a block of Hokie Stone. Superstitious tradition. They think it’ll bring them luck.”

“Hokie stone?”

“Yeah. It’s a type of limestone used on most buildings around here. The school owns the quarry it comes from, and it’s the only one allowed to buy it. I want to make a stop tomorrow before we leave, and you’ll see more of it.”

Sometime during the second quarter, CJ handed the binoculars to his husband while retrieving his phone. “Hold this, Oz.”

Glancing at the opposite side of the field, he pointed somewhere right of center at the Virginia Tech bench. “Take a look at the two guys standing shoulder to shoulder. One’s blond and the other one’s wearing a black bandana. They have my gaydar pinging.”

“Bloody hell, what do you mean it’s pinging? Long distance? Since when did your reception get so good?”

Chuckles accompanied CJ’s response. “I was watching when they came off the field. After a moment talking to a coach, the two have been standing next to each other the whole time.”

“And that makes you think they’re gay?” Owen sounded skeptical. “Two footie players talking to each other during a match seems normal to me.”

“It’s not that. It’s the way they’re standing. And how they keep bumping into each other while doing so. And I’m not sure, but I think they almost held hands for a—here’s the first one: Efrain Garza.”

CJ had googled the Hokies team roster and showed Owen the picture of a dark-haired, Hispanic looking guy. A few swipes with a finger and the screen displayed the image of a smiling straw-haired man. “Cory Card from Texas. If those two aren’t fucking, I’ll eat my hat.”

The following morning, before departing for home, CJ insisted Owen accompany him on a short expedition. Chipper tagged along. Back in April 2007, within hours of the horrendous shooting on Virginia Tech’s grounds, grief-stricken students assembled on the Drillfield—an oval-shaped, grassy stretch of land bordered by trees that served as a central point for campus activities. They placed thirty-two pieces of Hokie stone liberated from construction sites on campus in an arc, creating an impromptu memorial to those murdered by the shooter.

“Columbine, Sandy Hook, Orlando, Las Vegas, Parkland, Santa Fe, Pittsburgh—”

“What are you mumbling, mate?”

The university formalized the display by engraving the names of each victim on the polished top face of rock chunks over which CJ stood reciting a litany of names. “Trying to remember all the places where there have been massacres like here since I was born.

“When we went to the demonstration the Parkland students organized, I believed change was coming. Even the idiot in the White House appeared to be on board. But as usual, the NRA squashed any potential restrictions on firearms. I’m so tired of the bullshit, Oz.” CJ wiped away moisture from his eyes. “You know damn well I support gun ownership. But this is stupid. I sure as shit hope we elect someone with the balls and influence to make a change before I die.”

Chipper’s beautiful voice interrupted CJ’s rumination.

“We may not yet have reached our glory
But I will gladly join the fight
And when our children tell their story
They'll tell the story of tonight
They'll tell the story of tonight
Tonight”

Confusion turned into recognition as the man sang a cappella. CJ reached for Owen’s hand and held it while their friend belted out the song Lin-Manuel Miranda and Ben Platt composed for the March for Our Lives initiative. CJ, Owen, and Ritchie had attended the demonstration led by students of Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School; the three of them and the dads had contributed money to support the event.

A smattering of applause surprised the three friends. The small gathering behind them had gone unnoticed while Chipper’s eyes were closed, and CJ and Owen stared at their friend and the stones. Talking to a few of the people around them, they discovered most were alumni who visited the memorial whenever they returned to campus. Football rivalries were all but forgotten.

A few weeks after their trip to Blacksburg, CJ sorted through fan mail forwarded by the publisher, when one caught his eye. The writer explained he was a member of the football team and was unable to attend the presentation given at Virginia Tech. He stated both he and his friend and teammate had read the book, and wondered if CJ would be willing to sign their copy if they mailed it. The signer, Cory Card, promised to pay postage both ways. The following day, two complimentary copies of the book were on their way to Blacksburg. One bore a dedication to Cory, the other one to his friend Efrain.

CJ refused to schedule anything over the week of Thanksgiving. Except for Rod and Taisha Abelló who lived in Washington, he had not seen any of the family since the wedding. He wanted to spend time with his relatives.

Wednesday before the holiday, the CBC Family Foundation held its annual board of directors meeting at Forbes Grille. In the evening, the three cousins—CJ, Rod, and Randy—gathered at the Georgetown Theatre apartment with their spouses.

“Very nice. Where’d you get them? And do they make a Chicago one?” Tyler Scott sat on one of the stools at the kitchen peninsula pointing at two round wooden clocks, one with the skyline of Washington cut along the top and the other one with Sydney’s. “I’ll take a wild guess that’s the time in Australia right now.”

A product of Chicago like his husband Randy, Tyler began working for Second Line Restoration after graduating from high school. Over the years, he attended school part-time, obtained his general contractor’s license, and rose to become general foreman for jobs involving historic properties. Half a foot shorter than his husband, the man was nearly as wide as he was tall, with what had to be one of the lowest body-fat percentages amongst all of CJ and Owen’s friends.

“Got it in one, mate. But just the eastern part of the country.” Owen raised a bottle of wine, offering Randy’s husband a refill. “We found them in San Francisco and they had like fifty different cities. I’m sure Chicago’s one of them. I’ll give you the name of the store. They have a website.”

“The black bean hummus is awesome, guys. Where’d you pick it up?” Rod dipped a miniature rice cake into the spread and scooped out a healthy amount.

“CJ made it.”

“Really? Is it hard to make? Can we get the recipe?”

“Mate, I’m not much of a cook, but even I could handle it. Open a couple of cans and throw everything in the food processor. I’ll email you the list of ingredients.”

“So, let me get this straight.” Randy slid his empty glass toward Owen—signaling with a finger for more—while staring at CJ. “You’re not twenty-one for another month, you sit on the board of directors of the family foundation, and you’ve been invited to join the Human Rights Campaign Washington Steering Committee.”

“Yep, and don’t forget I’m also on the board of Heroes Haven in Delaware.”

“That’s the place building micro houses for veterans with PTSD, right?”

“If you, Ty, and Silas come to DC next summer, we should all go for a visit.” Taisha perched on her husband’s knee with his arm around her waist. “CJ and Ozzie took us for a tour after they returned from their honeymoon. It’s a beautiful place and they’re doing great work. They’ve opened up parts of the old grounds. Maybe we could go camping.”

“CJ camping? I thought he only stayed at five-star resorts.” Rod’s comment earned him an elbow from his wife.

“Shut up, Rodney. This is an adult evening. None of the usual BS between the three of you allowed.”

Randy bumped fists with his brother behind Taisha’s back. The woman often called him the evil twin, since he was apt to start any shenanigans when the brothers got together with CJ. “Okay, so you sit on three board of directors. You also have that position with the university’s basketball program. That means you do a little tutoring and a lot of schmoozing of potential recruits and wealthy donors. And you’re running for student government next semester.”

He had an inkling where this was going but CJ decided to humor his cousin. Staring at him, he realized the twins did not look as buff as they had a few years back. Randy and Rod had both gained a little weight, and with their considerable amount of body hair, they now looked like cubs. The bears at UPROAR—the Scandals Rugby Club’s bar sponsor—would eat them up. “I’m thinking about it. I told the guy who asked me to run I’d let him know after Christmas break.”

Ignoring CJ’s comment, Randy chattered on. “Then, without telling any of us, you write a book that’s doing real well. You’re making personal appearances, and you meet the owner of Amazon. Of course, he invites you and Ozzie to his mansion here in Washington, and offers you a job when you graduate.”

“Mate, you should have seen the place. It’s so big you could get lost in there.” Owen had carried along two bottles of Liston wine when they went to dinner at the Bezos’ home and charmed both husband and wife. “You should hear Ritchie bitch. He wants to meet Bezos too. Because of the man’s interest in space travel.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… Lives of the rich and famous. Spare me.” Randy waved a hand in dismissal. “If all that wasn’t enough, you won the election for whatever it was you ran for. How’d you find the time to campaign?”

“It’s called the Advisory Neighborhood Committee, cuz. And I didn’t have to campaign all that much. The guy who approached me about running served as the informal campaign manager. He and his cronies organized a series of meetings at different homes. I did a bunch of those where I would talk to people and that was it. It’s an unpaid position. It’ll take some time, but I can handle it.”

Owen reached for the corkscrew intent on opening another bottle. “It was very low key, Randy. I went to a few of them. Someone always introduced CJ, spoke about his internship with Senator Marco Rubio years ago, his involvement with Hilary Clinton’s presidential campaign, and how he was registered as an independent. DC’s a liberal city, but Georgetown’s a wealthy neighborhood and has plenty of old-line conservative Republicans. They were all very nice, though. Well, except for someone who complained about my husband being a ‘spoiled trust-fund baby’ with no business representing anyone.”

“Who the hell said that? Did you beat the shit out of them?”

“Fuck you, Ty. Is that how you think I deal with people? No, I did not beat anyone up. We don’t even know who said it. Someone told us about it at one of those events.”

“Damn, cuz.” Randy shook his head and smiled. “I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed. Student, philanthropist, politician, and author. What’s next?”

“Ummm, not sure. Ozzie and I have something in the planning stages. But we’re not ready to say anything yet. But as soon as we know for sure, the family finds out first.” The couple had discussed telling the relatives about Gina but decided to wait until the process was further along before making an announcement.

“He’s also volunteering with La Casa Latina on campus. Working with minority students, including Dreamers.” Owen sounded proud of his husband. “And we’re both going to spend time at a homeless shelter slash soup kitchen starting in January.”

“Why January? Isn’t the time around Thanksgiving and Christmas the popular time to do that type of stuff?”

“That’s why we’re not doing it now, Randy.” CJ reached for the bottle of wine and topped off his glass. “Everyone’s gung-ho to give a hand this time of year. They forget the need’s there 365 days. Hunger and homelessness don’t disappear after the New Year.”

The involvement overload was in part a result of the tirade Ethan subjected CJ to while in New York. Financial support would still play a large role in the couple’s charitable activities, but they agreed getting their hands dirty now and then while helping others would be good for the soul.