The Open Secret

7

The trees around the estate in Hilversum are barren the second time around, but Rob steps out of the car with his overnight bag in hand, a spring in his step, and a distinct lack of dread for the upcoming weekend regardless.

Nothing will be much different about this round of formation talks. They'll still be mired in the same disagreements and cramped together in old dusty rooms for hours on end, mainlining caffeine until their brains bleed - but when he swings the car door shut behind him, he finds himself staring at the person who'll make all the difference this time.

Jesse.

He is standing in the gravel driveway near a gaggle of press giving an interview in a casual blazer and jeans, which is more formal than most people here will bother with, he thinks. A few reporters peel off and pounce on Rob when they notice him approaching. Jesse's eyes follow them when they do, and Rob gives him a nod as he takes his place next to him. It feels good to be able to say that, to know that they're finally on the same side in this. The grittiest part of the formation is still ahead, and he's sure by the end of this weekend, multiple profanity-laced rants will have been spewed by almost every negotiator here, but for, at least, the air is replete with promise, the energy electric and hopeful.

"Mr. Jetten," one of the reporters begins as they elbow their way to the front and stick a microphone in his face, "is D66 excited to finally be in serious talks with GreenLeft and Labour?"

He catches Jesse's eye briefly and winks, even though behind his mask of nonchalance, he can hardly breathe.

"Absolutely. I think we'll be able to do great things together. I couldn't be more thrilled for this weekend," he tells them, the lie by omission rolling easily off his tongue.

He can't tell them what he's truly thrilled about, but he meets Jesse's eye again, a look passing between them, and Rob knows he knows perfectly well.

-

Although the negotiations sometimes feel as constructive as repeatedly ramming his head into a wall, somehow, Rob doesn't find them unbearable like before. He's always distracted by Jesse to some extent, but he manages to hone his focus and drill down on the issues with a mental clarity he's lacked since they started. By the end of the day, he's satisfied for once with the progress they've made, and he can tell Sigrid is, too, even though they've had to drag their right-wing coalition partners along for the ride kicking and screaming. In the photos they take around the negotiating table, Rutte looks like a sullen child someone has coerced into a family portrait, and he figures he doesn't really blame him.

Still, he can't deny there's an anticipation in his bones, the feeling that's been simmering for days in the run-up to this weekend; the thought of what the night will hold once the house goes quiet, the staff depart, and the others retreat to their respective bedrooms. Even as the hour grows later and the daylight fades, he doesn't let himself think about it, knowing that if he gets started, he'll probably never stop.

Determined not to let his mind wander, he skips dinner to organize his notes and finalize a list of issues to revisit tomorrow, a decision he regrets later on when everyone begins heading off to their rooms for the night, and he's missed out on his one opportunity for food. He always lets everything fall to the wayside when he's fixated on something, even his basic human needs.

Sometimes, he wishes he really were a robot. It would probably be more convenient from a productivity standpoint.

He settles on raiding the fridge in the estate's commercial kitchen sometime around one in the morning, which yields a disappointing selection of wilted salad and leftover desserts from dinner. Still, it's better than nothing, and he's just about to reach in when he hears someone clear their throat behind him.