Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“No,” she laughs and swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “I don’t want anyone else. Only you.”
I want to be your last.
“I think we…hold and see what happens,” she says. “Just hold while I elect Georgia’s first Hispanic governor and you support Aiko the way she needs and be there for Noah the way he needs. And we haven’t even discussed how your book will change everything. Once it’s published, you’ll be in demand in a way you’ve never been before. Mark my words, it will change your life.”
“And once the governor is elected and the baby is born and I’ve taken the book world by storm?”
She smiles. Not a wide smile that makes any promises, but one that says what she intends. “Then we’ll see.”
I hate this plan, but at least she’s not giving up on me, and most women would. I reach for her, and this time she doesn’t pull away. She huddles into my chest, wrapping her arm around my waist. I cup her face, splaying my hand over her jaw and lowering my head for a kiss. Between our lips, I taste tears, hers and mine. I taste our dreams, our hopes, our fears. We kiss until we’re both breathless and gasping. She grips my shirt for dear life, like she might fall if she lets go. I swallow more pain at the thought of being separated from her again even if it ultimately proves to be temporary.
“I love you, Tru.”
In synagogue, we’d whisper the Baruch Shem because it’s part of a prayer reserved for angels considered pure, a blessing we’re not worthy to offer to God. That’s how I tell Kimba I love her because I don’t deserve her—don’t have any right to ask her to wade into this morass of my life, but I’m begging her to.
“I love you, too,” she whispers back, tears running unchecked down her face and her voice hiccupping on a broken breath. “I don’t know what will happen, but I know you are the love of my life, Ezra Stern, and I’ll never feel this way again.”
“Promise?” I ask, brushing my thumb across her lips.
Her smile is sad, but I’ll settle for it for now, like all the other things I have to settle for…for now. “I’ll do better than a promise.”
She hooks our pinky fingers together. “Pact.”
I chuckle through the lump in my throat. “Pact.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Kimba
We lost.
I read the text message a second time. A third, letting the words toll in my head like a church bell.
Felita: Should I call? You want the details of the vote?
I glance around the depressing hotel room with the dated décor in the Alabama town where I’m sleeping tonight. I have a meeting with a local voting rights organization tomorrow morning. How am I supposed to inspire, encourage them when the very legislation that could destroy their efforts just passed?
Me: No. I’ll call you in an hour. I need to eat.
The overcooked chicken and underseasoned vegetables, already unappetizing, hold even less appeal now, but I’ve only eaten a bagel today. The better I eat— whole grains, fresh vegetables, avoiding processed foods—the better my chances of freezing quality eggs and maybe having a baby when I’m ready. I glare at the little bag that holds my syringe and medication for the injection I have to give myself. I’m good at a lot of things. Apparently giving myself a hormone shot isn’t one of them.
It’s so easy, the nurse said.
Anyone can do it, she said.
But I hate needles and sticking one in my hip is the last thing I want to do.
I strip off my dress and toss on yoga pants. I’m sifting through my overnight bag, looking for a top to wear, when Ezra’s scent hits me. A corner of red cotton peeks out from beneath my toiletries.
His YLA T-shirt.
I found it in my overnight bag after our trip to the lake house. It must have gotten mixed in with my things. I’ve made no attempt to send it back to him and find myself packing it every time I go on the road. I’m keeping at least this for myself. I toss my bra across the room and pull Ezra’s shirt over my head. The well-worn cotton instantly transports me to a different time and place. Not a dingy hotel room, but to his bed, where he could make love to me all night and hold me until the sun rose.
I pull the collar to my nose and inhale.
A ring of fire squeezes my heart, burning, aching, forcing tears from the corners of my eyes.
I miss you.
On a day like today, when I lose, even worse, when the people I’m supposed to be fighting for lose, I want to go to him. Abandon this self-imposed separation and let him hold me. My phone, screen darkened, beside the rubbery food, silently dares me to call. I ignore it and reach instead for the little pouch. I can’t bear the thought of sinking the needle through my flesh right now. It shouldn’t be hard, I know. I’m a badass, I get it, but I’m a badass who hates needles and having to inject myself with one is my worst nightmare. It’ll be the last thing I do before I go to sleep.