The Open Secret

4

Jesse is the first person he sees when he steps inside the Kamer the following Tuesday.

He doesn't set out to look for him at first, not really, but his eyes find him automatically like heat-seeking missiles. The chatter of their colleagues fades at the drop of a hat when he lays eyes on him, becoming little more than a muffled drone in the background. He is clad in a checkered grey suit and black tie, standing near his seat and chatting with another member of GreenLeft. They're laughing about something, and he has one hand tucked in his pocket, as effortlessly confident in himself as anyone he has ever seen.

He knew he would be here, of course, but he comes to a stop in the aisle near the top row like a deer in headlights, before another MP brushes past him to get to his seat and gives him a strange look.

Sigrid's words echo in his ears. Whatever it is distracting you, you need to do something about it.

Oh, yes. He intends to.

Rob makes his way over to his seat and watches as the last few stragglers mill around the front of the chamber. Just as the speaker calls them to order, he is startled by a familiar voice in the aisle beside him.

"Welcome back," Jesse greets, giving him the look he knows too well, which now seems like it has a thousand more hidden meanings than it did before. He had made his way over without him noticing, and by some miracle, Rob is able to school his features into a look of nonchalance. "Still on for our five o'clock?"

They both know what their five o'clock is, though it would sound perfectly innocent to anyone else. It makes his pulse quicken hearing it mentioned aloud. They're fools to tempt fate like this, he thinks. This is a dangerous game.

His heart is lodged so firmly in his throat that all he can do is nod. He doesn't trust his voice to be steady.

Jesse disappears back to his seat without another word as question time commences and the noise in the chamber dies down. They are set to ask questions of the State Secretary for Justice and Security about the influx of asylum seekers into the Netherlands, and it's an interesting topic, one he cares about deeply, but it takes most of his brainpower to fight the urge not to glance over at Jesse as the minutes drag on interminably. Five o'clock. Only three hours. He can wait.

Patience is a virtue, but then again, he isn't virtuous.

Geert Wilders stands and approaches the microphone in the front, espousing some xenophobic nonsense about migrants that makes half the Kamer cringe, and it's then that he notices his phone light up before him on the table with Jesse's name. He tries to make himself recall Sigrid's words again, and when that fails, he tries to picture her upbraiding him for being distracted. When that fails, too, he finally gives in and unlocks it.

Does Wilders remind you of a deranged seagull? It's something about the eyebrows and hair.

He stifles a laugh and taps out a reply. I've always thought strung-out Oompa Loompa, but I see it.

Rob assumes that will be the end of it, but then, another message appears.

I miss sitting next to you.

That is too gentle, too close to something they've expressly forbidden themselves. With that in mind, he parries.

It's better that they separated us. If we were still there, we'd never get anything done.

I don't get much done as it is.

He swallows as heat rises to his cheeks. Me either. It's a problem.