Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
Rayne
Election night.
Family. Friends. Volunteers. Supporters. The chair of Women Rising—the biggest surprise of all.
Here for me.
I’m dressed down in jeans and a campaign T-shirt, my suit hanging behind my office door, waiting for whatever speech I’ll be making after the night is over.
Members of the press linger near the back, cameras ready to capture the moment.
DK is across town at the community center with a much larger crowd.
Diablo in his element. Me in mine. Smaller, more intimate.
I drift through the room, thanking volunteers who spent their Saturdays knocking on doors and retirees who stuffed envelopes until their fingers cramped.
I take selfies with college students who should probably be somewhere more exciting on a Friday night, but my Gen Z base doesn’t play about showing out.
Anika hasn’t sat down once. Her gaze paces between the TVs and her tablet, refreshing polling data every thirty seconds like she can will the results into existence.
Lot is losing her mind in New York, but thankfully, she’s funneling her anxiety through her mom instead of me.
DK and I agreed we’d see each other after the election was over—however it turns out.
A few days ago, a reporter had asked if I was rooting for my man.
“Absolutely not,” I’d said. “I intend to win.”
The clip went viral, and someone turned it into a meme featuring a photo of me and DK holding hands during one of our boardwalk dates.
Dating
Supporting each other
Letting him win
#Relationshipgoals
DK and I had a laugh over it. He joked that my competitiveness was my love language. It just felt good to have people finally start talking about us like a couple instead of a headline.
Dad appears at my side and presses a paper cup into my hand. It looks like water, but smells like turpentine.
“Is this contraband?” I whisper.
“Just a little something to take the edge off.”
I take a small sip and immediately regret it, coughing into my elbow. “That’s awful.”
“It’s Miss Sandie’s moonshine.”
“Miss Sandie?” I glance over at the sweet grandmother figure across the room, with her halo of tight-rolled silver curls. She looks completely at odds with the liquid fire currently burning a hole through my stomach. I can’t help but laugh.
Dad grins. Then his expression softens. “How’s my baby girl holding up?”
“Hanging in there. Barely. But I’d rather be anxious than unconscious.” I hand him back the cup and glance toward the television in front of us. On the screen, the anchor is interviewing a political analyst. He repeats what I’ve heard all week, just wrapped in different packaging.
Tight race. A divided electorate. Expansion versus sustainability. An incumbent with a proven record versus a challenger promising a new direction.
The controversy comes up too. Always in this setting. Questions about my judgment. The secret relationship. The photos.
At 8:00, the election logo spins across the screen before the anchor reappears. “Good evening, Bayside. We have our first early results.”
My heart jumps into my throat.
“Thirty-five percent reporting. Webber: 50.4%. Diablo: 49.6%.”
Cheers bounce off the walls. Someone whistles, fists pump in the air, even though we all know it means nothing this early. Still, it’s a promising start.
Dad squeezes my arm and I lick my dry lips. He gets me actual water this time.
The next update takes almost an hour. I wring my hands. Conversations fade. Phones lower. People drift closer to the televisions. Even Anika stops pacing.
“Sixty percent reporting. Diablo: 50.3 %. Webber: 49.7%.”
The room groans. It’s not defeat. It’s the kind of margin that keeps you on the edge of your seat and your stomach in knots.
For the next two hours, the lead bounces back and forth like a tennis match. He scores. I score. Then he scores again. As the volley continues, the cheers grow shorter, quieter. Every update yanks that knot tighter.
Months of blood, sweat, and tears are distilled into numbers flashing across a screen.
The margins stay stubbornly close.
Close enough to hope.
Close enough to worry.
By the time ninety-percent of the vote is in, Dad and Anika have taken positions beside me. Dad holds my left hand and Anika grips my right. I think about DK across town watching the exact numbers.
I glance at Anika. She looks like she’s aged ten years tonight.
“You were amazing,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I couldn’t have asked for a better campaign manager or friend to do this with.”
Emotion slides across her austere face. “It was my honor.” Then a grin actually pushes past her nerves. “Even when you were being messy.”
I laugh. So does she. Earned through twenty years of friendship and fighting this battle together.
The anchor presses a finger to her earpiece. The room goes quiet. Behind her, the graphics update. “Ninety-eight percent reporting. Diablo: 50.2%. Webber: 49.8%.”
A hush falls across the room. No one says anything yet. But we can all do the math.
“Channel 10 is now prepared to project the winner.”
I force myself to breathe.
“Incumbent Gabriel Diablo will retain his seat as Mayor of Bayside.”
The room deflates. I hear some people cursing, others crying.
Anika and Dad still have their hands in mine.
Before I face my supporters, before I step out to comfort the people crushed by the news, I close my eyes and let myself feel it.
The raw disappointment. The immense letdown. The piercing stab of defeat.
“Ray,” Anika says quietly, facing me. “We can ask for a recount. It’s less than a percentage point. Less than two hundred votes.”
I shake my head. “Diablo won.” Saying those words hurts. God, they hurt. But delaying won’t change the outcome. “I’ll concede.”
She nods and pulls out her phone, switching into post-election mode and logistics. Moving too fast to process her own emotions. We can do that together later.
My dad pulls me into a smothering hug. “You ran an exceptional campaign,” he whispers into my hair. “I couldn’t be more proud of you.”
“Thanks, Daddy.” I hug him back just as hard.
For a little while, I thought I was going to be mayor. I start to replay every decision. Wondering if it was the photos. My relationship with DK. A speech that didn’t hit. A missed opportunity. Those questions are going to circle for days.
But as I look around this room at the people who believed in me. The people who showed up. The people who fought for this alongside me. I’m reminded of what matters.
The local businesses I advocated for. The families who deserved affordable housing and childcare.
The young people who wanted to build something better.
My vitiligo girlies who watched me stand on stages with my patches visible, refusing to hide.
My Black sisters who don’t see nearly enough of us represented in races like this.
That’s more important than the two hundred votes that separated me from the win.
Two years ago, this loss would have destroyed me. Scratch that. Two years ago, I wouldn’t have even had the courage to run. Maybe that’s why the tears don’t come. Because I did it. Not all the way across the finish line. But I got close enough to touch it.
A little heartbroken.
But not broken.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing before the flashing cameras and the supporters who stayed until the bitter end, applauding loud and defiant. I speak from my heart in giving thanks. I congratulate the mayor. And I hold my head high, because a concession isn’t a surrender. It’s just one battle lost.
When the speech and interviews are finally over, the trays are cleared, and the TVs turned off, the staffers head home or to Docks Bar to drown their sorrows. The quiet left behind is a stark contrast to the chaos of the last six hours.
The Women Rising Chair approaches on her way out. “You were brilliant, Rayne. Transparent in a brave way. We would love to continue working with you on your Bayside Digital Safety Initiative.”
“I’d welcome that. Thank you for your endless support. For not giving up on me.”
“You will still do great things for Bayside,” she says with a warm smile. “Maybe even run again.”
“Maybe.”
She shakes my hand, and I watch her leave. Dad offers to walk me home. I give Anika a hug, and we agree to meet tomorrow. Tonight is too fresh to unpack any of it.
I go into my office to grab my purse, shut down my laptop, and just sit in this office for one last time—feeling sad but also proud. When I step back out, the space is empty.
Except for DK.
He stands near the entrance. Still in his suit, tie loosened. Solemn. Subdued. He doesn't look like a man who just won. I’m vaguely aware that my Dad’s gone as I cross the floor toward him. He breaks into long strides to meet me in the middle, and pulls me against his chest.
“Congratulations,” I whisper. “You should be celebrating with your team.”
“I wasn’t feeling celebratory.” His lips brush the crown of my head. “I’m sorry, Luna. You deserved that win.”
“Almost,” I say, pulling back just enough to look up into the face I love. I trace the line of his jaw, my fingers combing through his beard. “That’s the bittersweet part. I went up against the incumbent and his titan of a campaign strategist, and I nearly won.”
“Yeah, you did.” He rubs his hands up my spine, his voice gentling. “No regrets?”
“About outing us?”
He nods, guilt edging beneath the surface.
“No.” I chose to have a secret relationship.
I chose to stop hiding it. If losing is the consequence, I can accept that.
“I told you there’d be no regrets, and I meant it.
I’ll lick my wounds because a loss still feels like shit no matter the reason.
But tomorrow, I’ll wake up Rayne Webber—not mayor. But still me.”
His fingertips touch my cheek. “You’re more than any seat. You’re going to kick ass no matter what you do.”
“I don’t know what that is yet. But I want to keep serving Bayside in some capacity.”
“You have time to figure it out.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“Diablo wants to talk to me about staying on as the Expansion Director. It seems that winning thawed the ice.”
“Do you want that?”
He shakes his head. “He’ll never truly trust me again.
And it’s not what I want to do anyway. It was a safe option at the time.
A way to slow down.” He huffs a laugh. “Of course, I didn’t know then that I would meet this incredible woman who would have my heart and give me a run for my money.
I want to do the work I love, campaign advising. ”
“Oh.” My stomach twists harder than from the loss. “You’re going back to D.C.?”
He makes a face. “And leave you? Hell no.”
The blood returns to my body in the way of a bright smile.
“I’ll have to give up my rental, though,” he says, faking an adorable sad face. “I’ll be without a place to live. Know of anything available in the area?”
I can’t contain my hard cheesing, probably looking ridiculous. “I might have some room at my place.”
“Yeah? You’re willing to share closet space?”
“Ohhh, I hadn’t considered that,” I tease. “Now I have to rethink the whole offer.”
He laughs and pulls me back to him. “I’m going to consult. Reach out to my contacts and offer my political and legal services to campaigns.”
“Ramos Consulting. I love that for you.”
“I think it’ll be good. Set my own pace. Work from home. Travel when necessary. But first, I’m going to take a break and just enjoy being with you.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, lifting my mouth to brush my lips across his. “You can work on meeting your orgasm quota.”
“I am good with numbers.”
“Among other things.”
He smiles and takes my hand. “Ready to go home?”
“Wait. Where did my dad go?”
“He left. I told him, I got you.”
I thread our fingers together, feeling a deep peace settling into my bones. We step out into the quiet night, hand in hand. I look up at him against the backdrop of a starry sky.
I didn’t win at the ballot box.
That still hurts.
But I got my win.
Not a title.
Not a seat at City Hall.
Something better.
I got myself back.
And I found this man.
Someone who showed up right from the very beginning. Who stood beside me through every high and low. Who never asked me to be less than who I am.
Someone I can always count on.
And that right there makes me know that whatever comes next, we’ve got this.