Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Rayne
My phone buzzes against the coffee table. Lot’s name beside a black cat emoji appears. I swipe the video icon and see her locs falling around her shoulders with Queenie on her lap.
“Hey.”
“Did you hear?” she asks, a rare spot of animation lifting her voice.
“About Lex and Chaz having a baby?” I say, smiling as I finish making a note about the North Pier. “Lexie came by the office today, showing off her baby bump.”
“Already? She’s only three months.”
“Girl, that stomach was flat as a pancake, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her.”
Lot laughs, and I reach for my herbal tea, the steam warming my face. “She was glowing, though. I’m so excited for them.”
“Yeah, it’s wild. C being a dad.”
“Watch out,” I tease. “You might catch that baby fever.”
“Don’t even,” Lot protests with exaggerated side-eye.
“Being a feline parent to this diva is enough.” Queenie lifts her head with a snarl.
“Yeah, girl, I’m talking about you.” She gives the cat an affectionate pat.
“I’m good being the cool auntie. No interest in anything that requires diaper changing and 6:00 a.m. feedings. ”
That’s Lot—guarding her peace and sleep schedule like they’re gold.
“I locked in that decision with Dice before the marriage. So we good. But I’ll be there for you and Ice Baby.”
I smile at the nickname. My eggs are sitting on ice—a frozen insurance policy for my plan to try conceiving at thirty-six. Partner or not. “Five more years,” I say.
“And a possible sperm donor,” Lot adds. “How was the weekend with the Gentle Giant?”
My body flushes from the memory. “Not so gentle. He knew exactly how to work those tittie chains.”
“Yaaass!” She snaps her fingers, startling Queenie off her lap.
“But it’s not just that.” I sigh.
“What?” Her hazel eyes search my expression. “Why the mood dip?”
The weight of our secret has been pressing on me all day. “This past weekend, he was giving ‘my man, my man, my man’ energy to the max. Sweet, sexy, attentive... just there. We both admitted we’re falling in love.”
“Whew. That’s serious, Ray.”
“I know. He works down the street from me, and we can’t even do something as simple as grab lunch. I saw this couple earlier, holding hands on the boardwalk, and I wanted to cry. I told myself I didn’t want a man-distraction during the campaign… and now look at me. I’m a mess.”
“You’re entitled to be. I was a wreck when Dice and I were living eight hundred miles apart. But to be that close and still not be able to be together… girl, that’s on a whole nother level.”
I nod, the movement feeling heavy. “Hiding it from Anika and voters doesn’t make me feel good. But keeping it from my dad has been the worst. I invited him to dinner tomorrow. Softening him up with my coconut loaf before I tell him I’ve been lying in his face.”
“How do you think he’s gonna react to you being with a man who’s plotting your political downfall?”
“Damn,” I mutter, her words hitting like a bucket of cold water down my back. “You really had to put it like that?”
“How else should I put it?”
Classic Lot—straight, no chaser. And she’s not wrong. “Honestly, if I wasn’t in a better place, this whole thing would trigger my every insecurity. Hollis used to tear me down over my activism. I now know that it was really about me spending energy on anything that wasn’t him.”
“He was such a punk-ass.”
“For real.” I tell her about seeing him at the festival. “He tried to get under my skin, but I wasn’t having it. He can take his raggedy self on back to Indiana.”
“I know that’s right. Send that man packing.”
“The contrast between him and DK is glaring. He respects me and my ideals. That’s why I can withstand the hits as just political business.”
“You’ve got stronger restraint than me, girl. ’Cause ain’t no way I could hold myself back from going off every time he took a shot at me.”
“I know who he is. And I know who I am. That’s it.”
She touches the screen in a virtual high five. “Your confidence is radiating. One sec.”
Lot disappears, then returns a moment later wearing a crop top—she’s an artist and T-shirt designer—that reads: VOTE MY COUSIN RAYNE FOR MAYOR! FUCK THE OTHER CANDIDATE.
I howl with laughter, the sound bouncing across my townhouse. If she still lived in Bayside, I know this crazy fool would parade herself around town in that.
“Girl, you’re a mess,” I say, catching my breath as the image of her flaunting that shirt plays in my head.
“Just speaking the truth for the people in the back.” She gives me a half-grin. “Good luck on the trail tomorrow. I’ll check in later this week.”
“K. Love you, boo.”
“Love you back.”
I pack up work soon after, pop a chocolate in my mouth, and finish a crossword before I get ready for bed. I’m under the covers when my phone buzzes at 9:58.
My heart doesn’t skip in hesitation, it thumps with a steady, certain rhythm, as his voice fills the darkened room.
“Mnandi Loo-nah.”
It’s not just a nickname, it’s the way he says it—deep with a promise of both tenderness and heat. I pull the pillow where his head should be to my chest. I hold it tight against me and close my eyes, letting his voice smooth away the distance.
This August sun is no joke. It’s not offering any breaks as I walk the streets of Ward 4.
By eleven, the linen of my sky-blue suit looks a little more lived-in than crisp, and the fashionable flats I thought were so cute in the mirror at eight have officially done me dirty.
I can already feel the blisters forming at my heels like penance for my vanity.
Still, it’s a minor inconvenience when I’m out here doing what I love—connecting with voters.
“Mrs. Henderson!” I call, stopping at the edge of her lawn where she’s watering her hydrangeas. “Those blue petals are giving my suit a run for its money.”
She cuts off the hose and squints in my direction. “Rayne! Goodness gracious. I remember when you were this high.” She lowers her hand toward the grass. “Cute as you wanted to be, protecting those plover nests.” She smiles. “Now look at you, running for the big office.”
“I am,” I say, leaning against the maple tree, grateful for the shade and the excuse to take the pressure off my heels. “How’s Mr. Henderson? Still baking the best chocolate chip cookies this side of Illinois?”
“Every Sunday. He’s at the hardware store. He’ll surely be sorry he missed you.”
“I’ll come back around,” I say, then shift gears. “I’m out today listening to concerns. I want to hear how I can help.”
Her smile fades. “All this talk about development worries me. Gabe Diablo’s plan to demolish the North Pier just breaks my heart. He calls the repairs a tax drain, but I can’t imagine the lighthouse not being there anymore.”
“I’m with you,” I say, remembering all the times Lot and I climbed that tower as kids just to reach the lookout point.
“After reviewing the city’s own maintenance projections, it actually costs taxpayers more in the long run to demolish the pier and build a new seawall than it does to structurally reinforce what we already have.
That pier isn’t just wood and stone—it’s part of our natural storm surge protection.
If we tear it down, we increase the flood risk for homes in this ward. ”
She frowns, her eyes sharpening.
“I’m looking at the long game,” I continue.
“If we restore the pier, we turn it into a heritage asset—a place that brings in tourism revenue and helps fund our local schools and childcare. I’m not against development.
We need growth for our economic survival.
But it doesn’t have to be either-or. It can be both.
Growing Bayside without gutting the heart of our town. ”
“You think you can do that?”
“Didn’t I save those nests?” I grin.
She laughs. “You sure did.”
“I always do what I say I’m going to do.” I let that sit for a beat before the real ask. “Can I count on your vote?”
“You’re tenacious, and you’ve always cared about this town. I voted for Gabe because I believed in him, but his priority seems to be what’s new and shiny. You’ll bring the balance.” She steps forward. “You have my vote.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson.”
I climb the lawn to shake her hand, but she pulls me into a hug instead.
“You win it, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
By the time I reach the end of the fourteen-hundred block, the sun is relentless, and the blisters have officially crossed over into life lesson territory.
My phone buzzes.
Anika: Great turnout at the rec center. How are you holding up?
Me: Hot, blistered, and energized.
Anika: Lol. Sounds like a campaign slogan. Check this out.
A photo comes through. I’d do a happy dance if my feet would let me.
Me: Our line’s longer than Diablo’s!
Anika: All morning. Woot woot.
I know DK had planned to be there. I want to ask what he’s doing, what he’s wearing, to get a clear picture in my head. But that would be like waving a red flag in front of Anika.
Me: Finishing this block, then heading to the café on 15th. I need to give these feet a rest.
Anika: Meet you at 1?
Me: See you then.
The next house has a couple in their mid-sixties posted in white plastic chairs on the porch, lemonade in hand. I approach, pushing through the sting of each step.
“Good afternoon. I’m Rayne Webber, running for mayor. Mind if I join you for a few minutes and hear your concerns?”
They give me, and my Make It Rayne button, a slow, skeptical once-over.
“I recognize you,” the man says. “You’re the girl from the interview.”
I swallow the correction, keep my head high, and pick my battles. Now isn’t the time to school him.
“I’m committed to Bayside’s future, and I believe I can serve it well as mayor.”
He leans back. “Gabe’s got at least ten years on you. Family man. Banker. Good head for business.” He takes a sip of lemonade. “I’ll keep trusting this town in his hands.”
“I respect that,” I say. “I was speaking to some neighbors earlier about concerns over development. Have you looked at the cost to repair the North Pier versus replacing it?”
“I don’t need to. If Gabe says it’s cheaper this way, I believe him.”
“Cheaper now doesn’t always mean cheaper later. There could be long-term costs by weakening the shoreline structure.”
“Like flooding?” the woman asks, placing her hand on her husband’s knee. “Roy, we get water in the furnace room every time there’s a storm that raises the water level.”
He shoots her a look. “Gabe assured us the new wall will fix it.”
“Reinforcement is the more secure, cost-effective option,” I say, not pushing too hard. Instead, I place my brochure on the porch ledge. “I’ll leave this with you, in case you’d like to see what I have to offer. Thank you for your time.”
You don’t win everyone over in the first round.
I arrive at the café ten minutes early, ready to collapse into the closest chair. I reach for the door and nearly collide with the man coming out.