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.