“Hey, Livy.”
“Hi. I… I got your message.”
My heart cracks in half as I admit, “Well, I promised I’d be the first call, and I’m a man of my word.” What I really want to tell her is that I’ve wanted to call her each and every day since we broke up. Not a single hour has passed that I haven’t thought of her, but sharing that is selfish.
“You did. Thank you. I hope you don’t mind me calling your cell. You didn’t leave a return number, but it showed up on the caller ID for my team.”
“Not at all. Just maybe ask that they don’t share it.”
“I promise,” she chuckles.
Silence stretches between us as I make my way to the kitchen. For all of the times I planned what I would say to her over the years, no words are worthy of this moment. “Are you home? Or out celebrating?” I finally ask, my mind swimming with a million other things I’d rather tell or ask her.
“I received the call from Martin Smith—the Republican candidate—conceding. So, I’m on my way to a victory party.”
Hearing her voice, there’s a lightness in my chest I haven’t felt in years. “I’m so damn proud of you, Livy. You were meant to lead.”
“You know I was meant to serve.”
A memory dances across my mind of her surprising me on my bed after midterms, only wearing my shirt. Her pleasure was always my first priority, but that night, it was like she gave me every piece of her. There was always so much on her shoulders. I shake away the thought of her mouth wrapped around my cock with a devilish smile that met her eyes.
Livy quickly corrects, “I really thought I was going to lose. But I had a strong team to help me. It helps that I had President Taylor’s endorsement.”
“I may be all the way in Ontario, but you have me too.” My admission tumbles from me without thought, and I clarify, “I mean you have my full support.” When she doesn’t say anything, I panic. “Did I lose you?”
“No,” she replies softly. “I’m sorry. I think I should’ve had someone on my staff call your office for me.”
“Why?”
“Because this hurts too much.”
“I know,” I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. A confession threatens to slip past my lips—I still love her, and doubt I’ll ever stop. How the fuck is the universe so damn cruel that I have to live the rest of my life without her?
“I should go.”
“Of course, I understand. Enjoy your big night, Governor-elect.”
While I meant it to be playful, her tone immediately shifts from the soft Olivia I love to the woman who destroyed me in our final debate of International Politics in college. “I will, thank you, Prime Minister. Have a good rest of your evening.”
She hangs up, and it’s for the best. I can now add calling her to my list of biggest mistakes I’ve ever made. Hearing her voice after all this time was like having my heart ripped out of my chest a second time. Or, if I’m being honest, a third.
To distract myself, I get ready for bed and review an official press release for my assistant to send in the morning congratulating Jaclyn Taylor and Ileah Vasileiou on their reelection. I’ve had a great working relationship with both women over the past two years since I became Prime Minister, and am grateful the next four will be smooth sailing.
Just like the night after my first date with Olivia, I can’t sleep and spend the majority of the night checking the clock. I finally pass out around 4 a.m., and when my alarm blares at 6:30, Igroan as I turn it off. To say today is going to be a struggle is putting it mildly.
Once I’m in my office, the morning is filled with appointments and meetings, and as I’m finally sitting down for lunch around 2 p.m., a news alert draws my attention to my phone:
Governor-elect Olivia Harris Discusses Food Insecurity and Homelessness at San Francisco Women’s Shelter
I click on it, and there’s a video of Olivia with no makeup, in a navy hoodie with a small logo of our alma mater. She’s practically swimming in it and also wearing a San Francisco Sea Lions ballcap. Her late-husband was a defenseman for them, but since he passed away five or so years ago, I’ve never seen her in the news wearing anything with their logo. What catches my eye is the sweater looks exactly like one I used to have in college that she borrowed and never returned. I’m sure I’m just projecting—or it’s just wishful thinking.
But what if it’s the same one from years ago?
“Ms. Harris, the campaign is over. Is this publicity to kick off a policy you intend to enact as Governor?” a reporter asks, chasing after Olivia and shoving the microphone in her face.
Livy spins to face them. “No, this isn’t a publicity stunt,” she snaps. I’ve missed that fire she reserves only for assholes. “I’ve been volunteering here for the past decade, every Wednesday and Friday morning. The only times I didn’t make it was when I was campaigning. You can check with the organizers here to confirm, but you arenotbringing those cameras inside. Thesewomen deserve dignity and respect. If you wish to speak to me in an official capacity, you can wait until I’m finished.”
Without another word, she rushes inside, and someone who appears to be on her security team stops the reporter, shaking their head. The video then splices to Olivia exiting the shelter, where there are several more reporters present.
