“Senator, what was that? Please repeat yourself.”
“Yea,” he announced, in front of God and Texas.
“Ahhhhh,” Dakota screamed, leaping out of her chair.“We won!”
The office exploded into mayhem, employees everywhere, jumping and shouting.
Wendy pulled me out of my chair and threw her arms around me in our first-ever hug. Potentially her first hug of all time, judging by the viselike way she squeezed me. I was so busy being shell-shocked I almost missed the lieutenant governor’s next words.
“Thank you, Senator McBuck. SB 3 has achieved the necessary votes and is now enrolled. It will be sent to the governor’s desk to sign.”
With those words, it was official. We’d just made history. Texas was a world leader in responding to the climate crisis. We’d done the thing no one thought we could do. I felt almost overwhelmed by the weight of it.
But my colleagues left me no time to wrestle with my feelings. They crowded around, popping champagne bottles, spraying fizzy liquid all over my clothes. I resisted the urge to lick myself.
Dakota raised my hand in the air like I was a champion boxer at the end of a winning fight. “Lee Stone did it! She wrote the bill and campaigned it and swooped in to save it when it was on its deathbed. Lee Stone just changed the world!”
“Three cheers for Lee!” Dakota’s assistant called, and everyone raised their champagne glasses.
“You’re Lee Stone?” A deliveryman pushed through the staff, holding an enormous bouquet of yellow roses. “Sign here, please.”
I signed and accepted the roses, tearing open the card. But it was only the governor.
Dear Lee,
The florist tells me yellow is the color to say you’re sorry. Well, I’m sorry for doing my level best to muck up your bill. Congratulations on getting it passed anyway. (Yes, I had a different card prepped in case we lost—glad I didn’t have to use it.) I hope we can still be friends.
Yours,
Grover
My heart dropped. Everyone was acting like the Green Machine was fully mine, like I’d gotten it over the finish line all by myself. But every step of the way—from editing the bill language to developing the strategy to the day-to-day hustle up and down the state of Texas—Ben had been by my side. This was his win, too, and the fact that he wasn’t here and that no one was saying his name made it feel like he’d never existed. Like these last few months had been a fever dream, and he’d actually never left California to move back to Texas in the first place. Like if I drove across state lines, I’d find him right back in Palo Alto, wondering why the hell his frenzied ex-girlfriend was pounding on his door.
I felt nearly sick with anxiety and longing, all tangled together. I thrust my roses at Dakota. “Will you hold these? They’re from the governor.”
Wendy swooped in. “Um, why don’t I hold them? Just so no one gets any ideas.”
I broke away from the party and power walked back to my office, shutting the door and leaning against it. I dialed and brought the phone to my ear. Hoping against hope.
And after a few rings, it went to voice mail, like all the times before. Before I could stop them, tears crept into the corners of my eyes as his familiar recorded voice said,You’ve reached Ben Laderman. Leave me a message.
“Hi, Ben,” I said at the beep. “It’s me again. The bill just passed. McBuck said yea. Which means we did it. Captain Planet, the Renaissance fair, the rodeo, Willie Nelson, seducing Alice—all of it was worth it.”
I wiped my eyes. “I’m going to confess that it feels really weird to pass the bill without you. I don’t even know which one of us won in the end. I offered to put the Herschel factory in McBuck’s district, but you commissioned the polling and made sure it went out to everyone. I wouldn’t have thought to do that, and it changed everything. So, I’m not sure if you’re my assistant now, or if I’m yours.”
I laughed a little desperately. “Unless you just want to take the L and become my assistant. My submissive. If you’re into that sort of thing, which some people are, you know.” I cleared my throat. “But, remembering you and your entire personality and how much you like to win, I realize now that’s probably not going to happen.
“So. How about this? You have to actually send some sign you’re alive to claim the win. You can call me, text me, show up on my doorstep. All perfectly acceptable options. You could even send a carrier pigeon. Skywriting. Just some clue to where you are and what you’re up to and whether you’re ever planning on talking to me again. Which I really hope you are. Because when I think about having to lose you all over—when I think about not getting you in my life—well, I’d rather lose anything else. This is what I should have said five years ago, but I’m saying it now. Ben, I love you. Please come back. I’ve been walking around with a Ben-shaped hole in my heart, and it’s basically the size of my entire heart. I tried to fill it with anything and everything I could think of, but nothing worked. I didn’t feel right until the day I saw you again. So I won’t go anywhere. I’ll wait for you—”
“You have exceeded your time limit with this voice mail,” a robotic voice interrupted. “Thank you. Goodbye.”
The line dropped. I stared at the phone—then flew to my texts and typed a hurried message:Please delete that voice mail immediately.To my surprise, three little dots appeared on the screen—Ben was typing. I waited with bated breath. And then they disappeared. I waited some more. Nothing.
Well. I guess you could say that was one kind of sign.
31
Policy Change and Chill
