Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Rayne
Anika corners me in my office the moment I return. She shuts the door firmly at her back. Her hands aren’t on her hips, but her tone sounds like they are. “Brielle said you had lunch with Dakarai.”
“I had lunch with Ash and Dakarai.”
“You had lunch with Ash and Diablo’s chief strategist,” she corrects. “Who also happens to be your secret lover. Jesus, Ray, are you trying to wave a red flag in front of the press?”
“You’re getting worked up over nothing. There were no reporters. It was twenty minutes in broad daylight with a man I’ve known since I was a kid providing a buffer. It’s not like we were hooking up in the alley behind our offices.”
“Lawrd, please tell me you haven’t done that.”
“We’re always careful.”
“That doesn’t sound like a no.”
“It was a safe, innocent lunch,” I assure her, even as my pulse remembers it differently.
I got to smell his cologne, touch him, breathe the very same air.
For twenty glorious minutes, we sat hip to hip, the crisp sleeve of his shirt sliding against my bare arm every time he lifted his hand for a bite of his sandwich.
Anika snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Stop that.”
“What?”
“Daydreaming about him.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You totally were. Eyes all glazed, smile all stupid.”
“My smile isn’t stupid.”
“Stand on this side of the desk and tell me that.”
“Fine.” I force my lips to stand down and wipe my grin away.
“Humph. We have work to do.”
“I’m ready.”
She drops into a chair across from me, and we spend the next hour hammering out debate prep for Thursday.
It’s a town hall-style format this time.
An interactive audience moderated by Carmen again.
The questions are submitted in advance and randomly selected, with equal numbers on both sides.
Since we won’t know them beforehand, the preparation has to be broad.
Anika grills me with rapid-fire questions until my brain battery is on E.
When we finally take a break, I down a glass of water, roll my shoulders, and grab my phone to text DK about his sudden departure.
“Something’s come up,” he’d said, delivered casually, but I noted the strain corded through his features.
Me: Everything okay?
No response, even after ten minutes pass.
That isn’t like him. While we’re disciplined about not texting often during the workday, the odd time I send him a message, even if he’s in a meeting, he usually shoots back a quick one-liner or emoji to let me know he’s occupied.
Which means whatever pulled him away has him completely tied up.
Before I can dwell on it, Anika walks back into my office. The grin on her face is practically doing summersaults.
“Girl, you are not going to believe who just emailed the campaign account.” She spins her laptop around on my desk. “Femme.”
“Whattt?” I stare at the glowing screen, struggling to process the signature block. “Is this for real?”
“Yep, the same magazine that’s featured Kamala Harris, Serena Williams, and my favorite homegirl, Regina King.”
“Why, though?” I let out a confused laugh because it sounds too impossible to grasp. “Why would a national Black woman’s magazine be interested in me?”
“You’re Rayne Webber.”
“Anika, I’m serious. This makes no sense.”
“Apparently, they’re doing a special edition on women of color leading change within their communities. Not celebrities. Not big names. Just everyday women doing big things right where they live.”
“But how do they even know who I am?”
“I’m sure their researchers have been digging through local news, social media, interviews, all that.
Girl, I don’t know.” Her speech is quick and animated.
“But they said you came to their attention, and they want to schedule a virtual interview next month. They’re even going to hire a local photographer to do a photo shoot. ”
I’m too stunned to speak. This takes my campaign beyond Bayside.
Beyond Illinois. This puts my platform on a national stage.
As I think about the potential of running for governor down the line, this is the kind of pre-stated visibility that could increase my profile.
Inside, I’m screaming. Outside, I’m still trying to catch up.
“We have three dates to choose from,” Anika continues.
“We’re really doing this?” I ask, finally processing that the email isn’t some prank.
“Yes, girl. We are absolutely doing this.”
“Oh my God.” This is crazy. But it’s the best kind of crazy.
We’re both squealing now, jumping up and down in the middle of my office with our arms around each other.
I can’t wait to tell my dad, Lot… and DK.
While Anika responds to the editor and locks in a date, I pick up my phone.
Still nothing from DK. I pause, my brow creasing slightly as I stare at my unanswered message.
But I quickly dismiss the nagging worry.
Political campaigns deal with sudden, urgent fires all the time.
He’s probably stuck in a war room with his team and can’t check his phone.
But I have to tell him. I’m too full of excitement to hold it for later, and I know as soon as he reads it, he’s going to be just as thrilled as I am.
Me: You are not going to believe this, boo. Femme Magazine is doing this grass roots special, and they want to include ME. Your girl’s going national!! Eeeee. Call or text as soon as you can.