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?”
