Chapter Eighteen
I wake up the next morning to my phone ringing.
The sun is peeking through the curtains, but Benito’s still asleep next to me.
He looks so peaceful, the worry lines on his face smoothed out without the stress of the waking world pestering him.
I could get used to this. No plans, no stress, just lazy mornings with Benito after a long, good night.
Marisol is FaceTiming me, so I take my phone into the hallway and shut the door to the bedroom behind me. “Hey,” I answer, keeping my voice quiet so I don’t wake Benito.
Marisol raises her eyebrows when she sees me pop up onscreen. “What’s with the whispering?” She leans in to get a closer look. “And why is your hair so messy?” I raise my eyebrows. Marisol grins. “Good for you, Izzy.”
She spins in her chair, and I can tell from the turquoise tile detail on the wall that she’s in her district congressional office in Tucson. My stomach drops, though I don’t know why. Suddenly, my skin’s itchy. “You’re working late,” I say, my voice breaking over the newly formed lump in my throat.
“Yeah, whatever. What else is new. I’m not done talking about your thing.” She props her elbows on her desk and leans her head against her hand. “How’s it going?”
I fixate on the degree hung up behind her.
An honorary doctorate from the University of Arizona, where she attended undergrad, given to her last May when she was the commencement speaker.
Mari won her re-election in a landslide, her opponent conceding a mere 15 minutes after polls closed.
“It’s going good,” I say, leaning back against the wall because I’m a little lightheaded.
“Uh-oh,” Marisol says, picking up on my trepidation. “Is his penis weird? Does he call himself ‘daddy’?”
“He’s asleep in the other room, Mari. It’s not a good time for an info dump,” I say, an edge to my voice.
Marisol surveys my expression like she’s questioning if she should interrogate further. “Ok. . .”
I do my best to shake off the weird feeling that’s crept over me. “It’s good, though. I’m happy. I’m back on track to fade away into the Italian countryside. It’s good.”
“Only you would turn relaxation into a goal,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Shut up. You would too.”
“No, I would never make that a goal.” She flips through a multipage document on her desk. “Relaxation is for the retired and people with office jobs who think they’re burned out.”
I try to read the text of the document as she scans through.
I remember late nights like the one Marisol’s currently having.
Reading, marking up documents, late-night phone calls trying to make a deal.
It was a rush. I loved mining the chaos of a hundred different possibilities to find the best path toward ratification.
Marisol puts the document aside and puts her attention back on me.
“As much as I love a good morning-after debrief, that’s not why I called,” she says.
“No?” I ask. “What’s up?”
Marisol rubs her lips together. “Ok, don’t like freak out, but I’m running for Senate.”
A pit opens up in my stomach, like I’ve just been hurtled down the tallest peak of a roller coaster. “What?” I squeak out.
“I know,” Marisol says. “I didn’t expect it to happen this soon, but Franklin is retiring next year and he’s announcing and endorsing me.
He like, loves me for whatever reason and thinks I’d be a perfect person to bridge the deepening gap between the right and the left in Arizona.
” Marisol rolls her eyes. She’s as progressive as they come, but her family’s long history as beloved owners of a Tucson restaurant makes her pseudo-royalty in Southern Arizona, and it’s reasonable to assume with Franklin’s endorsement, she could easily win over the whole state with her staunchly pro-middle-class agenda.
“I probably won’t win,” she says. “But I mean, I have to do it, right?”
Marisol and I bonded over many things, but our mutual goal of finally putting a woman in the White House was one of them.
And Marisol is about to be one step closer to making sure that woman is her.
I’m thrilled for her. This is great news.
But I also have an overwhelming urge to throw my phone across the hallway.
The door creaks open and Benito comes out. He’s pulled on his clothes from the day before and his blue button-down is uncharacteristically wrinkled, his hair as messy as mine. “Sorry, did I wake you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I heard voices and figured, considering what happened yesterday, I should make sure they were friendly ones.”
“What happened yesterday?” Marisol asks from the other end of the phone. “And who am I speaking with?”
Benito sits down on the couch next to me and waves. “Benito. Piacere.”
“This is Marisol,” I say, racking my brain to remember if I’ve ever mentioned her to Benito before, but I don’t think I have. I’ve avoided talking about my old life with him unless absolutely necessary. “She was my best friend in Congress.”
“Nice to meet you and all that. What happened yesterday?” Her eyebrows perk up, knowing there’s a story.
I take a deep breath. “Another successful run-in with one of my fans.”
She lets out a one-syllable laugh. “Those are always fun. You’re ok, though, I take it?”
I try to brush it off. “Fine.”
Benito leans in so he can see Marisol clearly. “It’s happened to you too?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, leaning back in her chair, “Izzy got the worst of it, though. I’m a Latina lesbian, so they’d already written me off. Izzy is cute and straight and quote, unquote, ‘radical’ to them—mostly in that they know she’d never fuck them. That’s what bothers them the most.”
“I thought we decided it was more that I look like I should be their demure, obedient housewife but am anything but that?”
“Same diff.”
Benito watches the conversation back and forth like we’re playing a game of tennis where the ball is on fire. “That’s horrible.”
“You should’ve seen Izzy take one of those old geezers in Congress down, Benito. It was beautiful.” Marisol does a chef’s kiss gesture. “I’m able to pick up the slack now, of course, but it’s not as fun.”
“I’ve seen a preview of it, so I can only imagine,” Benito says, smiling, but there’s a glint of sadness in his eyes.
“Hashtag women eat,” I say.
Marisol throws her fist in the air. “Women eat, Benito!”
We hang up and Benito pulls me close to him. A heavy sigh escapes out of me. “What’s wrong?” Benito asks.
“Nothing,” I say, though there’s a growing sense of an unnamable feeling in my gut. It’s a feeling like homesickness mixed with sadness mixed with loneliness mixed with guilt. It happens every once in a while, like I’m suddenly grieving the fact that I’m alive and this is it, this is who I am.
“That sigh was not nothing,” Benito says. He kisses me on top of my head. “You can tell me.”
I look up at him. His eyes are bright in the reflection of the morning sun cascading through the hall window. “Marisol is going to run for Senate.”
“Wow,” he says. “That’s great, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. I look down at the ground.
I am happy for my friend. This is good for everyone.
Marisol is amazing. She’ll be great. She should be president someday, because she’d be a great one.
Why can’t I shake the gnawing feeling that it should be me instead?
I stand up. “I should get dressed,” I say. “I’m having coffee with the ladies.”
Eventually I have to find a job and my own place, but Anita doesn’t seem in any rush to kick me out. For now, this is my life. Benito, leisurely coffee dates, long lunches, cocktails, dinner, wine, a stroll at dusk, the wind in my hair—this can be my life.
“Hey.” Benito grabs at my hand before I can walk back into my bedroom. “You sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m great.” Benito looks at me with worry in his eyes, but I don’t have the energy to assuage him.
He smiles softly, a glint of gloss on his eyes. “Ok, then. Have fun.”
“To Izzy!” Mia raises an Aperol Spritz and the other ladies and I cheers with matching bright orange cocktails.
It’s a perfect sunny day. The kind you see on the travel reels of a blond, hot influencer.
We’re on the patio at Osteria Bettina because coffee turned into lunch which turned into after-lunch drinks.
We’re toasting me, for not the first time, because my outing made La Musa trend, and I’m the one who convinced the mayor to turn against the development deal.
Benito more or less came to that revelation on his own, but whatever, I’ll take an accolade.
Besides, Benito’s meeting with Raffaello to firmly decline his company’s renovation proposals today.
By nightfall, all the drama will be in the past.
I glance at my phone and a headline about Senator Franklin catches my eye.
The news is out and soon Marisol’s candidacy, and his endorsement, will be too.
Senate was always the most logical next step for me.
California’s senators are young, but maybe in 10 years or 20 I could make a run.
And in another four or five years toss my hat in the ring for president.
Maybe I wouldn’t get the nomination on my first try, but I would the next time.
I made sure my reputation in Washington was the right mix of spitfire and squeaky clean.
A fighter, a warrior for her constituents, for what would make the world a better place, but without even a speck of corruption or scandal.
I had good relationships with my colleagues who fought for the same things I did and garnered just the right amount of animosity from those on the other side.