by Kennedy Ryan
“I don’t want to do this alone, Ezra.” Aiko’s brow crinkles. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes.
“You’re not alone. You have Noah and me.”
“Do I?” She searches my face. “Have you?”
“You have my friendship and my promise to be the best father I can ever be to this baby.”
“And what if Kimba won’t accept it?” I hear the hope in her voice and have to squelch it.
“Even if Kimba won’t have me, that’s still all I can give you, Ko.” I squeeze her hand. “But that’s a lot. It will have to be enough, because it’s all I have.”
Everything else belongs to Kimba, whether she wants it or not. Whether she’ll keep it or not.
Aiko nods, blinks at tears and tries a smile.
I bend to catch her eye. “You know I got you, right? I won’t let you do this alone. It’s my kid, too.”
“Aren’t you the teeniest bit excited, Ezra? You did always want another baby.”
I manage a nod. There is a distant part of me that will at some point find joy that I’ll be a father again because I love children so much. I’m sure once things settle with Kimba, however they go, I’ll get excited for the chance to be someone else’s dad. Today, there’s no room for excitement. Dread and hope have taken up equal residence in my heart, and I have no idea who’ll get to stay.
When I pull up in front of Janetta Allen’s home, I don’t get out of the car right away. I sit in this moment between hope and hell, between the possibility that Kimba can live with this, can stay for this, and the certainty that she won’t. Knowing she’s inside, wanting to see her as much as I’m dreading this conversation, it’s not a place I can stay very long.
She answers the door almost as soon as I ring the bell. We stand there for a few seconds just watching each other, a wary wanting springing between us. One side of her hair is pulled back, exposing the high beveled bones of her face.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her.
She is dressed for what, in her world, constitutes battle. The crisp linen dress is starkly white against the rich copper of her skin, with tiny sleeves fluttering at her shoulders like petals. It’s not the clothes that give that impression of don’t fuck with me—it’s the confidence she wears inside. She’d probably give the same impression no matter how she was dressed. I assume her attire was carefully chosen with Serena Washington in mind.
“Thanks.” She steps back and waves me in. “We can talk in here.”
It’s the front room, similar to the one Mrs. Allen had in their old house. No one sat on that furniture or actually breathed in there. This is an upgrade, a much more opulently outfitted room, but it feels the same—like I can’t breathe.
Or maybe that’s because of the news I have to share.
Kimba sits on one of the cream-colored sofas and gestures to a seat across from her, a queen holding court. So formal. I won’t let her strip this of intimacy, of feeling. This is the most real thing I’ve ever had, and if I lose it, I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. I ignore her suggestion and sit beside her as close as I can. She flicks me a wry look and scoots back until she’s in the corner of the couch.
“You said we needed to talk?” she asks, her words as crisp as her dress.
“Yeah, I…” Is there any way I can say this that makes it sound better, that gives me a chance? “Aiko’s appointment was this morning.”
She nods. “I figured as much. And?”
“Seven weeks along.”
I see the devastation in her eyes before she can mask it, a flash quickly snuffed. “Okay. Thank you for letting me know.”
“Tru, we can still—”
“I can’t, Ezra,” she says on a harsh breath. “Before you ask me, I cannot.”
I reach for her, but she stands, steps out of my reach. I follow. She’s my magnet, and even when I try to resist, I’m drawn to her. This is supposed to be our second chance, and I’m not giving up on it, on us, without fighting for it.
“Can we at least talk about this?” I ask.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She settles on the edge of another cream-colored settee.
“The hell…” I grind the words to dust between my teeth and try to compose myself. I’m used to being in control, but she makes me crazy. She drives me mad like a drug. A hallucinogen that convinces me we belong together, that we could work, that she could love me enough to stay. To fight.
“Don’t do this to us, Tru. Not again.”
She closes her eyes, and tears spill over her cheeks, breaking me inside. I’m hurting her, which kills me, but I can’t stop. I have to try.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask, swallowing a million pleas. “How do I prove to you this could work?”
“You have a family.”
“I want you!” It comes out loud, a declaration blaring through the deserted house. “I want…” My voice breaks, my pain in accord with hers. “I’m only half without you. You have to give me this chance.”
“I can’t.” Her mouth and her hands tremble. “Don’t ask me to watch another woman carry your child when I might never be able to.”
“I don’t care.” I take her face between my shaking hands. “I have Noah and I’ll have this baby and I have my students. I don’t need anything else but you. Do you think I care if you can’t have kids? I don’t.”
“It’s more than that.” She shakes her head, pulling free of my hands. “Having a baby together—it’s intimate. Something you and I may never experience. New feelings for Aiko could develop. Old ones could return. You never know how you’ll feel.”
“I do. I know exactly how I’ll feel. I fell in love with you when I was six years old and that love has only grown. It will only grow.”
A watery laugh cracks into a smile on her lips. “Ezra, don’t you get it? I’m jealous. I’m possessive of you. I’m angry that she gets this with you and I don’t. I can’t live with all of this and do what I need to do. I can’t do my job, can’t pursue my dreams, can’t focus on any of that when I’m so terribly focused on you. On whether you might love her again.”
“I won’t.”
“Or might fuck her.”
“I won’t. I’m moving out. I told you I would.”
She’s quiet at that, and hope starts rising in my chest again. She bites her lip and looks me square in the eye. “I got my period.”
“Okay. What does that mean?”
“I’ve been taking homeopathic remedies the last month or so to see if I could get my period back. It came back today.”
“You have a window, right?” The muscle in my jaw spasms. “Are you thinking of…of letting someone else…of trying to get pregnant?”
Without me?
“I don’t want to be pregnant right now,” she says, shaking her head. “I need to give Congressman Ruiz my focus and attention. We’re going to make history. I want to be at my best, and pregnant at thirty-seven and fighting menopause, I’m not sure I’ll feel my best. I might, but it’s not what I want to do. Not right now. I don’t want to turn my life upside down because my body decided to flip some reproductive hourglass.”
“I get that.”
“I want this on my terms.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll consult with my doctor to see if my eggs are any good. If they are, I’ll freeze as many as I can and they’ll be my safety net. So if at the end of this campaign I decide I want to have a baby, I’ll have options.”
“And me? Us?”
“If you still want—”
“If I still…what the hell does that mean? I love you. Of course I’ll want you, want to do this with you.”
“We’ll see.” She bites her lip, swallows. “But I think at least until the baby is born, we go our separate ways.”
“No.” My denial is a glass hurled into the wall, shattering. “You think you’re jealous, possessive. The thought of you meeting someone out on the trail, fucking someone, falling for another man, someone less complicated, easier, with l
ess baggage… I can’t live with that. I can’t go back.”
“Maybe we don’t go back and we don’t move forward.” Her laugh is hollow. “Daddy used to say sometimes the most powerful move you can make is to be still. I’ve learned that in the last few weeks.”
“How so?”
“Running from my family name, from expectations, running from my grief over Daddy. All this time I thought my candidates were running, but maybe I was the one running all along. Maybe we just…hold.”
“What does that mean? Are you saying we’ll be together?”
“For now,” she says, looking at me with tears in her eyes. “No. I can’t.”
“And will you be with someone else?” I’m holding my breath, holding my heart out to her, offering her the chance to break it.
“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.
I poke a fork at the food room service delivered and wrinkle my nose. It’s not great, but there’s an echo in my empty stomach and a throbbing in my head.
I’ve taken four mediocre bites when my phone lights up with a message.
Mateo: Down another four points in the polls. When are you coming back?
Can this day get worse?
Me: Don’t worry about the polls. They’re preliminary. We haven’t even really started. The election’s a long way off. I’m back tomorrow. I’ll be at headquarters by noon.
I hope he doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t. We knew this would be a tough race and that our odds are long, but the reality of this uphill climb gets to us all sometimes. I took valuable time away from the campaign to come to Alabama and fight this shitty voter suppression legislation.
And lost.
Now we’re down in the polls and Mateo’s side-eyeing me, probably second guessing his decision to hire our team. Wishing he’d gone with his first instinct, bet on the good ol’ boy Anthony.
Okay. I’m spiraling.
Lennix could get me out of my head, but she’s so close to delivering and has a lot on her plate. I hate to bother her. I could call Viv or Kayla. Even Mama, but I already know there’s only one voice I actually want to hear. And tonight I’m just weak enough to call.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Kimba?”
Ezra’s voice is dark liquid poured over my nerve endings, making me shiver, soothing me in the space of one hot breath.
“Hey, Ez.”
The rush of air on the other end sounds like relief, disbelief. Joy.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “We haven’t spoken and I—”
“I know. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
A beat of silence fills up with all the things we could have said to one another over the last four months.
“You’ve been busy,” he says. “I understand.”
“So have you.” My smile belies the ache in my heart. “You turned in the book?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s all behind the scenes, preparation stuff right now.”
“How’s Noah?”
“He’s good.” A smile enters his voice, the one reserved for his son. “Same Noah. Looking for new and inventive ways to rule the world.”
I
laugh, force myself to ask the next question. “And, um…Aiko? How’s the pregnancy coming along?”
Another beat of silence, filled with all the things keeping us apart.
“She’s great. The baby’s growing. Healthy.”
I want to ask if the baby has kicked yet. If he was there for that, if he felt it. If it’s a boy or a girl. If Aiko has that famous glow. If this is bringing them closer…again, reminding them why they spent the last decade together.
Making him love her?
But I don’t ask any of those questions in case I can’t live with the answers.
“You sure you’re okay?” Ezra asks. “Do you need me? I can come—”
“Yes, I need you, but no, you can’t come.”
“Tru,” he groans, my name torture on his lips. “Baby, where are you? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Just a crap day,” I say, my words going watery. “I’m in this poo butt town fighting bullshit legislation that would promote voter suppression. And we lost. People who really needed this win don’t get it, and I feel… I feel like I let people down, you know?”
“You didn’t. I know you did all you could do.”
Right, and the worst part is when it’s not enough. So many times it’s not enough. Tears prick my eyes and it feels good to cry for someone other than myself; to step out of my own problems long enough to consider all the people and communities who’ll be affected when they purge those voter rolls.
“Shit,” I say, my voice wobbling. “Why are people so… God, I hate this.”
Tears run into the corners of my mouth as I think of the poor, elderly women on that committee I’m addressing tomorrow; the ones who have experienced the worst of discrimination. I sniff, appreciating the silence he allows me. He told me once I could take off my armor with him, and even though he can’t see me, I’m naked, vulnerable in a way no one ever sees me. I hope it’s all the hormones I’m taking and not my actual emotions.